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forlix · 2 months

Text

𝐚𝐜𝐞・h.h.

— volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.

words・15.2k

pairing・volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)

genres・college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!

warnings・mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.

playlist・collision by stray kids・value by ado・waiting for us by stray kids・eternity by bang chan・dreaming by smallpools・fly high!! by burnout syndromes

a/n・writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved ♡

“Not a word out of you,” you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. “I’m serious.”

Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. “When did people stop saying good morning?”

Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Please, angel.”

“No! Leave me alone.”

Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. “Coffee on me for a week.”

At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you.

When you finally humor him and turn around, you’re flinching like you’re in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He could’ve counted your eyelashes if he wasn’t so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.

“What the hell did you do?”

“Tried to cut my own bangs,” you sigh. “It didn’t go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.”

Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. “You’ve seen Naruto?”

You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when he’s staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.

The air between you curdles like sour milk.

Things are awkward between you often, he’s realized recently. What’s more, he didn’t think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailor’s knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh you’ve given him since. Maybe there’s more to it, maybe there isn’t—Hyunjin doesn’t think about it much. He doesn’t like thinking in general.

You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere.

“Of course I’ve seen Naruto,” you quip, and everything is normal again. “Why do you seem surprised?”

“Because you’re so scholarly.”

“I am not scholarly.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.”

“I need to get my steps in somehow.”

“You didn’t know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look up—”

“God, I learned so much about you that day."

“Your favorite social media platform is Quizlet,” he bursts, exasperated. “Quizlet.”

“It is not.” An introspective pause. “Or is it?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. “There is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I don’t buy it.”

“Honestly, I thought you’d have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.”

He does, though. Matter of fact, he’s been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorer’s hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.

But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. He’s reminded that it’s hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at you at the same time, Vector resemblance and all.

He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.

“Watermelon,” he mumbles with a sickening smile.

You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. “You’re getting soft.”

He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.

“I only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,” you say as you’re strolling out the building together, “and I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?”

“Your faith gets me out of bed in the morning,” Hyunjin deadpans. “I’ll handle it, love. Text me your order.”

All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that he’d recognize anywhere.

“Body flicker jutsu,” you whisper, and then you’re scurrying off without another word—but you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quad’s busy thrum.

Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the court’s sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.

“Don’t look at me,” Minho says mid-stretch. “Godspeed.”

“Thanks, cap.” Useless.

Head volleyball coach Christopher Bang’s workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. It’s all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the man’s propensity for violence. He’s packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.

Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. “You can read, right?”

“Yes, coach,” he sighs. Everyone’s expectations for him are subterranean.

From: Park Jinyoung «[email protected]» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «[email protected]» Subject: Not good See email from Hwang’s antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now he’s failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP JP Sent from my iPad

Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. “Wrong email.”

“Yep.”

From: Kim Kyeyoung «[email protected]» To: Park Jinyoung «[email protected]» Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin To Director of Athletics Park, I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kids’ movie instead of his midterm paper. It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him. Regards, Kim Kyeyoung Professor of Anthropology

“That’s bullshit!”

“We’re in agreement there.” Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. “Do you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says?”

“Does anyone?” Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman. “No way you just had that.”

“I had it delivered ten minutes ago,” Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. “All student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.”

Hyunjin stiffens. “What the fuck? I’ve never heard—”

“If any Department of Athletics personnel,” Bang continues, raising his voice, “have reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.”

He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. “Read that name aloud for me.”

Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.

“Hwang Hyunjin,” he says under his breath.

The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.

Then comes the yelling.

“The Trolls movie? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me, Hwang?”

“It was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! How’s that for anthropology?”

“BAD!” Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. “VERY, VERY BAD!”

Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.

“You’ve never had trouble with school before.” He leans over his desk imposingly. “What the hell happened this semester? What changed?”

Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjin’s pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists haven’t discovered yet.

He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.

“Beats me,” he fibs. “Typical junior year stress, maybe.”

“Does any of it have to do with Piazza?”

Hyunjin shudders.

It just might, actually.

Modesty has no place in the career he’s had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Korea’s imminent volleyball revolution. It’s a mouthful, he knows.

It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.

At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the world—and current home to Hyunjin’s personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.

Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didn’t ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.

Piazza replied within the week.

For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the team’s social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazza’s emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.

But that’s the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because he’s laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldn’t care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you can’t contain your excitement. You, you, you.

He cards a hand through his air, regaining focus. “You know how I feel about Piazza.”

“Expect the worst, hope for the best.” Bang’s chair skids backwards as he stands up. “I think it’s a good approach.”

Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.

“But hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,” he says. “Do not let it, Hyunjin. I’m not asking.”

Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin can’t help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.

Bang lets go of him. “I’m not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.”

Hyunjin groans. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.”

A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.

“I thought you said your order was complicated.”

You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.

“Was it not?” You ask.

“It was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure if you could handle that much.” He flips you off as you squint at the cup. “Someone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.”

“What? Really?”

“No.”

He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest; you’re still cackling by the time you’ve straightened up again.

“Why did you get this, anyway?” Hyunjin grumbles. “I thought you had a sweet tooth.”

“I do, but you don’t.”

Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.

“Thanks,” he says at last. “Nice of you.”

“I know, right? Hated it,” you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.

You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjin’s direction. “Yo.”

Hyunjin dabs it up mid-sip. “I fully forgot you were in this class.”

“Well, I’m due for my weekly appearance.” Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hi,” you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.

You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the “I would relinquish all of my rights for you” way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. He’s funny, gorgeous, and talented—a vocal performance major with a student-athlete contract—and you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks it’s hilarious.

You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. You’re met with something far more worrisome.

He’s thinking.

That can’t be good.

Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. “Can this guy do his fucking job?”

“He wouldn’t have to if you didn’t quit,” Seungmin answers. “I’ll never forget you, Manager Hwang.”

“Shut up.” You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. “Our captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League rule—Seung, why do you look morose?”

“I’m mourning.” Seungmin does look morose indeed. “Hyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the season. It was so funny.”

Hyunjin slides down his seat. “It was the worst experience of my life.”

Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the mention of larceny. You choose to digress. “Can I ask why?”

“He had to be responsible,” Seungmin whispers. “For other people.”

The top of Hyunjin’s head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. “Poor thing.”

“Hardass refused to do it again this year, so now we’re recruiting.” Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. “I don’t suppose you have four hours to spare every day.”

Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. “This one? Team manager?”

“I can see it.”

“I can see killing myself, maybe.”

The next time you reach for him is to hit his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall. Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.

“Seems like a great candidate to me,” Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, it’s pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.

Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. “I miss when you didn’t come to class, Seungmin.”

Eighty minutes later, you’ve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.

“Sorry.” He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. “I couldn’t unsee it.”

You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.

Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.

“I didn’t like that at all,” you say.

“I don’t care. I have something to tell you.”

“You have a kid, don’t you?”

“Wha—huh? Who do you think I am?”

“The one-night-stand’s poster child. The champion of the contraception industry.”

“Yeah, contraception industry. It’s right there in the name.”

You can’t argue with that. “What do you have to tell me?”

A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjin’s face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that you’re about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you should’ve saved the secret son bit for another time.

“I’m failing anthro.”

So much for a serious conversation.

“Come again?”

He repeats the mystifying statement.

“You’re joking.” The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair. “You’re failing anthro?”

“I just said that, yes.”

“You’re failing anthropology?”

“Mhm.”

“Just so we’re clear—you’re failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?”

“Yes. I’m glad you’re having fun.”

This is the best day of your life. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“Yeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Hyunjin clears his throat. “Anyways, I was thinking—”

“Wow! Congratulations. That’s a big—oomf—”

Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.

“I was thinking,” he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, “you and I can work out some kind of deal.”

You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. “I think I just ate some athletic tape.”

“Happens. You wanna hear the deal or not?”

“Does it involve ingesting more sports equipment?”

“Do you want it to?”

“Just tell me the deal, boy.”

“Alright.” He takes a deep breath. “If you help me pass this class, I’ll set you up with Seungmin.”

Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: “I’m gonna need you to elaborate.”

“On which part?”

“All of them. Everything.”

Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. “Are you hungry?”

You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think it’s the prime minister you’re about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.

He’s chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they don’t know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that he’s drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager you’ve had better company.

“You like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.” He traces over the wrapper’s left corner. “And I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?”

“Yes, definitely,” you mumble around a mouthful of bread. “Go on.”

“Conclusion one: you should be my tutor.” He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. “You also like my teammate, but he’s neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold of—for most people.”

“Let me guess. Not for you.”

“Ten points to Ravenclaw.” His British accent is nightmarish. “Seung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.”

“To dinner or to practice?”

“To both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusion—”

He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.

“—you should manage our team.”

“I knew it!” You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. “You’re trying to swindle me! You can’t pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?”

“It’s not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didn’t do shit!”

“Yeah? Who was your last manager?”

“Me!”

Oh, right. “But you hated it!”

“I hate everything that isn’t playing volleyball. Try again.”

You fold your arms over your chest. “You said you’d kill yourself if I managed you.”

Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. “It’s true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seung’s—”

“STOP!” A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. “Stop right there. I get it. Stop.”

“It’s a good plan.” He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. “You know it is.”

You’re loath to admit that you do. “When did you even come up with all this?”

He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class. No fucking wonder he’s failing.

“What is this, mock trial?”

The owner of this voice is the third man you’ve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighbor’s cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. There’s a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like he’s enjoying the company of a court jester.

“Slamming tables like fuckin’ tariff lawyers,” the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjin’s direction. “I could see it from all the way inside.”

“Captain!” Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. “Just the man I was hoping to see.”

“Really? I thought you’d be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.”

“I would never.”

“You did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.” He pauses for emphasis. “As fast as possible.”

“Well, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.” Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. “And today, I bring you a new team manager.”

You stiffen. “I haven’t—”

“Is that so!” When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. “Music to my ears. What’s your name, cutie?”

You catch Hyunjin’s eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungmin’s—

Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.

“Y/N,” you grumble. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

He shakes on it heartily. “Likewise. I’m Minho. Welcome to the team.”

“Yes, welcome to the team,” Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.

He’s lucky that his proposal holds so much water. He’s lucky that you don’t plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.

You do kick him under the table, though.

The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You can’t tell which is the bigger endeavor.

“I’m going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,” you tell Changbin.

The team’s libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the university’s sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and you’ve already decided he’s the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.

“You will not,” Changbin answers. “One, because this won’t involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldn’t ask you to help if it did.”

“You’ve misunderstood me,” you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. “I want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.”

“Oh.” He opens the door with a frown. “Oh dear.”

Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.

“I am going to get maimed,” Hyunjin tells Changbin.

“Have some faith, both of you,” Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages you’re looking for and begin poring over them like you’re cramming for an exam. “You’ll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.”

“Studied?” He repeats. “For this?”

“I’m pretty sure Quizlets were made.”

“Three, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. “Now tape me.”

Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. “See? What could go wrong?”

The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly “sprained his ass,” leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.

You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypress—laundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesn’t wear that insufferable cologne to practice.

“Go easy on me, yeah?”

While Hyunjin’s tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.

“I can’t promise anything.”

With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.

A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. It’s the first time you’ve seen his fingers untaped; they’re pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.

Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.

“You’re not nervous, are you?”

“No. Maybe a little.” You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. “Fine, yes. Very.”

“But you made Quizlets. You’re prepared for anything.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that he’s making fun of you. “I hate you.”

“Actually,” he hums, “I think you care about me, love. That’s why you’re nervous.”

“Nonsense—I care about disappointing Changbin. That’s it.”

“And me. And hopping on Seungmin’s dick. All these things don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.

“Have you lost your mind?” You whisper-shout, your face on fire. “Don’t bring that up here. I’ll maim you for real.”

The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you don’t hate when that happens.

“My bad, my bad. It slipped out. I won’t—”

One incremental shift of Hyunjin’s body later, you find that you’re precariously, alarmingly close to one another.

So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath.

Things are awkward between you often, you’ve realized recently. You’re both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later you’ll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.

Since you’ve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. You’re not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesn’t go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as they’re doing now.

Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. “What for?”

He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.

“Caring about me.”

Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.

“Now stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.”

“Okay,” you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. “No need to get violent.”

It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.

As you’re walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. “It’s not too tight, is it?”

“It’s perfect.” He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. “Want another taste?”

You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. “You are truly grotesque.”

The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.

The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.

You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.

Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ball’s tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.

“Oi, this isn’t your backyard! Go pick that up!” Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.

Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. “Crazy bitch. What the fuck was that?”

“Lower and faster. Further from the net too,” Seungmin returns. “How’d it feel?”

The grin on Hyunjin’s face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. “Like we just won everything.”

He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. You’ve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjin—and you can’t move.

It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.

A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you.

“Hello?” He immediately starts laughing. “Where the fuck are you?”

You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. “My face is preoccupied at the moment.”

“Oh, you have to show me. Please.”

You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.

“Motherfucker!”

He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. “I’ll treasure this forever.”

“You’ll be punished, Hwang.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle.

“Aaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.”

The first thing you did as Hyunjin’s tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the “truly piteous timbre” of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.

“You should’ve opened with that.”

“I tried, hello? Someone distracted me!”

“Read. It. Before I change my mind.”

You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.

You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that it’s as if you’re leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.

Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldn’t move for ten minutes.

With that, his attention span has run its course.

“Baby,” he interrupts gently. “Let’s stop here, okay? You seem tired.”

You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.

“I suppose I am. Will you keep working tonight?”

“I think so. I hit my stride.”

“Text me if you have questions, then. I’ll respond when I wake up.”

“Okay.”

Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjin’s face incurably quickly.

“I had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime you’d experienced since preschool.”

“It really is.”

“You also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.”

“I really would.”

“And you once referred to academia as ‘Virgin Village.’”

“Didn’t you come up with that?”

“No, hello? I live in that village.”

He grins. “I know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ah, don’t threaten me with a good—”

“What I’m trying to say is that I didn’t think you would take this seriously, but I’m happy to be proven wrong.”

Hyunjin leans back. “Well, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.”

“Really?”

“No.”

You pretend to punch him through the screen. It’s so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.

“But I do give a fuck about you.”

There’s nothing crazy about the statement. You’re friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didn’t. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a star’s final breath. And Hyunjin’s heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.

He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.

Then he opens his texts.

Hyunjin: We have team bonding tomorrow btw Hyunjin: Don’t forget Y/N: i forgot. Y/N: pick me up at 6:45? Hyunjin: 🫡

He picks you up at 7:53.

You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and he’s walking too close to your lawn.

“His fault,” Hyunjin says before you start yelling.

Minho simpers at you through his open window. “Hey, you! So glad you could join us!”

You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. “Aren’t you the captain? Why are you this late?”

“Whoa, okay. I would’ve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.”

“You did schedule it for earlier,” you say. “You scheduled it for way earlier.”

“Yeah, well, you’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me, Minho.”

“I can too. Tell ‘em, Hwang.”

“I want nothing to do with this.”

When you step through the doors of the arcade, you’re met with a surge of sensory input that you haven’t experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that they’ve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.

“I’ll go pay,” Hyunjin says. “How much time do we want?”

“Infinity,” Minho answers. Hyunjin doesn’t move. “Two hours.”

He flashes him a thumbs-up. “And you?”

“I’m okay, I think.”

“No you’re not,” the two men answer in perfect unison.

You glance between them warily. “I don’t mind watching, seriously. I don’t even know how most of these games work—”

“There’s Tetris,” Hyunjin cuts in.

You purchase an hour.

One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU men’s volleyball team, not to bond them. You’ve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like it’s a shot. It’s a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.

But they’re happy. You’ve picked up on it when they’re on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as they’re eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that you’re glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so special—especially because there’s Tetris.

“Have you ever considered going pro?” Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.

You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. He’s been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.

You don’t respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.

“I already did,” you finally answer.

“Sorry, what? You played professional Tetris?”

“In middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.” You pause. “Then I got bored again and switched to chess.”

“How do you look like this with these hobbies?”

Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. “I think I’m washed.”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “You just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.”

“It’s a small pond,” you say, and an idea occurs to you. “Do you wanna try?”

“I get the feeling I don’t have a choice.”

“Then you’re smarter than you look.”

“Well, you look—”

His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.

“What was that?”

“Ugly. I said you look ugly.” He cracks his knuckles. “Now let’s break some fuckin' blocks.”

When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade.

He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy prince—and he’s with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.

Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.

Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjin’s chair. You can’t watch. You can’t think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.

“Seung!” That’s Jisung, you think. “You made it!”

“Yo, sorry we’re late.” That’s Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. “Dinner took longer than I thought.”

“Min, are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” You don’t know who this voice belongs to and you’re not sure you want to. “I feel like I’m intruding—”

“Hwang,” you say suddenly. “I have to go.”

He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. ”Already?”

“I forgot I had an important call to make.” You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. “Sorry. I’ll see you around.”

You have touched Hyunjin’s hands many times. He’s asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment.

Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when it’s been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.

He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You have never been asked such a thing—you have never asked to be asked such a thing—but, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes.

“Yes, please,” you whisper, and you pull your hand away.

When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting.

Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where you’ve left your phone.

You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.

Hyunjin’s right; the team manager doesn’t have to do much.

Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someone’s waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything your schedule allows.

Last week, you could be found helping Minho put up the volleyball nets before practice, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professor’s distinct “cabbage scent.” Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammates’ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the team’s water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. You spent more time in the gymnasium those ten days than you had your entire college career.

Then came the arcade.

Five days have come and gone. You haven’t attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. You’ve taken the best notes of your life. He doesn’t mention the previous weekend; he doesn’t mention much of anything.

In person, that is.

That Friday afternoon, you’re reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. It’s from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.

Then you listen to it again.

And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.

As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you haven’t the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.

Coach Bang is leaving the building just as you’re approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe it’s the shadowy landscape; more likely it’s the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.

“It’s been a while,” he greets.

“Coach,” you return, lowering your head. “I want to apologize for—”

“Save it,” he says, not unkindly. “There’s nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.”

You manage a grateful smile. “I’ll be back starting next week.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. “I would give him some space, by the way.”

Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.

Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation.

Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when he’s picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where it’s plastered to his neck. He’s alone.

You only catch sight of Hyunjin’s face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.

“I was told to give you space,” you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball he’s holding.

His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that they’ve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.

“Is this enough space?”

More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.

“Don’t make me go further, please. I’m not ready to die.”

Finally, this earns you a smile. It’s not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.

The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You don’t care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.

The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. You’re worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.

There’s a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights.

“How do you see under these things?”

“I don’t,” he returns. “I complained about it to Coach once.”

“And?”

“He made them brighter.” Sounds about right.

Hyunjin spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjin’s way with words.

But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. It’s not that Hyunjin has a way with words; it’s that he’s brave enough to break the silences that you can’t, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you won’t have to.

This cannot be his burden alone.

You inhale. “What’s on your mind?”

Hyunjin doesn’t answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes. The lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.

“I don’t think I know how to put it into words.”

You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. “Don’t think, just talk. I’m here.”

The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.

“Do you remember Ishikawa Yuki?”

His role model.

“He’s currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.” He blows out a deep breath. “I’ve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.”

The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. “Holy shit, Hwang.”

“He emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, he’s excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldn’t wrap my head around anything. I still can’t.

“I am who I am because of that man, and now…I have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why I’m not—not happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he—he would—”

You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.

Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.

You stop thinking after that.

You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.

You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.

“Don’t fight it.” You trace over the hill of his cheek. “Healing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.”

His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.

“You don’t have to continue if you can’t.”

“S’okay.” Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. “I want to.”

You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before; does he do the same?

“I used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feet—I blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.” He smiles at the memory. “But every time I came close to quitting, I’d go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and I’d promise myself it would be me on some other kid’s screen someday.

“That kid would tell everyone who’d listen about how cool I am. That I’m a secret superhero. That I’m living proof humans can fly if they really, really try—just like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.

“The other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proud—even if it meant losing myself.” He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. “That’s what’s on my mind.”

Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.

The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; it’s long overdue.

“Every time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,” you say. “He is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.”

Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.

“Jeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,” you continue, “even for things related to school—which I still find hard to believe, I’m not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.

“I know you think he can’t stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. It’s written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. You’re like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.”

“Then there’s me.” You pause to catch your breath. “When I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didn’t like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone else’s personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.

“But I found a person. Someone who wouldn’t know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearly—your body is not normal, by the way.”

Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like you’re flying.

“Don’t get me wrong,” you say. “Your sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when I’m around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.”

The next time you blink, you discover that he’s not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?

“There’s so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.” You give him a watery smile. “That kid will be spoiled for choice.”

When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: “I knew you cared about me.”

You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.

“How the fuck are you still sweaty?” You choke out, and you think you like his cologne after all.

Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.

A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like you’ve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead.

Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.

“Can you come inside, please? My RA will think I’m doing some freaky shit again.”

You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. “What, exactly, does freaky shit entail?”

He smirks as the door falls shut. “You want me to tell you or show you?”

You turn to Kkami, disgusted. “Your owner’s a bit of a pervert, my dear.”

Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjin’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Traitor.”

Naturally, Hyunjin’s parents chose the eve of his final anthropology exam—and the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his career—to ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration.

“Do you want anything to drink?” He calls from the kitchen area.

You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. “What do you have?”

“Alcohol.” He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. “Americanos.”

He stops speaking.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Wait—and apple juice.”

“You are about to be a professional athlete.”

“What the Italians don’t know won’t hurt them. You want apple juice, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

“Maybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.”

Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.

“Let’s get this over with.”

At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.

At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.

You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then he’s kicking open the door.

Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a month’s worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.

“Hyun—Kkami?” Seungmin swivels. “Yo, what the fuck is—”

Hyunjin is already out the door.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.

“What is this thing?” Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass.

“Kkami gets sad after throwing up,” he sighs. “His blanket makes him feel better.”

Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. “He ate too fast again?”

Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t get it. Nobody’s gonna take his food from him.”

Seungmin laughs. “I didn’t even know he was on campus.”

“I picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for work—they say hi, by the way.”

“I say hi back. I miss your mom’s cooking.”

“Me too,” Hyunjin says, smiling. “She would love to cook for you again—she’s always saying you’re too skinny.”

“She really is.”

A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.

Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of them—a concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjin’s backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjin’s dissuading; half of Hyunjin’s father’s wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.

It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the net’s fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungmin’s hitter—Seungmin, always Hyunjin’s setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.

At least, that’s what Hyunjin used to think.

Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know?

Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he can’t remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not “talked” as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practice—“talked” as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.

Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago.

“Yeonwoo, right?”

He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what he’s trying to do—and forgives him.

“Yeonwoo,” Seungmin affirms. “We’re in the same songwriting intensive this semester.”

“Also a singer?”

He shakes his head. “Piano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so talented.”

“Wow, that’s—hi, old man. You done?”

Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkami’s head as he hydrates.

“You’ve suffered,” he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.

“As I was saying—that’s crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.”

“Thanks. It’s weird. I’m happy.”

“You deserve it. You really do, Kim.” They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. “When are you introducing us?”

“The arcade wasn’t enough?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“Whenever you want, then.”

“Dinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,” Hyunjin recounts. “I’m holding you to it.”

“Bet.”

They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasn’t already reassured by Seungmin’s smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that they’ll be okay.

“What about you?” Seungmin asks. “Are you together yet?”

Hyunjin knew this was coming. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. “Someone you have questions for that you’re too scared to ask. Someone who’s lived in your mind since the day you met. There’s someone like that, isn’t there?”

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek.

Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjin’s been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.

But then he’ll get out of bed, and walk to that café on the east side of campus, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There, he’ll order a vanilla latte with extra sweetener, then turn around to see you standing five feet away, holding an Americano and trying not to laugh. And he’ll just know, with everything in him, that you are where his head goes when he’s not keeping watch.

He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time you’re within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because he’s happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.

It’s impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. He’s already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?

Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. “There is.”

Hyunjin doesn’t know what to say.

“It might’ve been me, at some point,” he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkami’s ears. “But it has always been you, Hyun.”

Four floors above them and inside Hyunjin’s place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkami’s return.

Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all that’s in front of you.

Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what must’ve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns district’s first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of “ace spiker” label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang “Christopher” Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. There’s one—Who is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Korea’s imminent volleyball revolution—beside which he’s written the singular word “mouthful.” You laugh; you agree.

But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.

You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as you’re playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you can’t see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kim’s email. You, you, you.

You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didn’t know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.

It has always been him.

The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes.

It’s not awkward this time.

Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.

He moves his eyes to his best friend’s back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play they’ve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration.

He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.

The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjin’s heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. He’s not scared at all.

He balls his fingers into fists.

“JUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACE—”

An arm seizes Hyunjin’s neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He can’t feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

“—DEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEAR—”

His eyes find Seungmin’s among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungmin’s gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.

He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.

“—YOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!”

Hyunjin’s post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.

The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: “Is there anyone you’d like to thank?”

Hyunjin exhales. “You want the short answer or the long—”

Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.

“Love you,” he yells before hurrying off.

“Love you too, Bin.”

Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.

“The short answer,” she deadpans.

He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his family—his first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys he’s ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.

In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. There’s a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.

Hyunjin thanks you.

You didn’t ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and they’re all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselves—it’s hard to believe you’ve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.

What are you like? What aren’t you like, is the better question. You’re caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sun’s doting radius, and so did he.

You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; you’re wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky, and they’d be right.

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed.

“Why the fuck am I still talking to you?”

“Pardon?” The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.

He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.

He calls out to you.

You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the area’s busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but he’s used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.

You’re beautiful. God, you’re fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like he’s everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will.

Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He could’ve counted your eyelashes—if he didn’t have something far better to do.

“Tell me now if you don’t want me to do this,” he whispers.

A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. “My lips are sealed.”

Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before they’re colliding again.

He kisses you until he’s crying, again, until he’s no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and he’s really won everything, now.

“Hwang, I need you in my office.”

Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.

“I know nothing,” Seungmin says, walking away. “Good luck!”

“Thanks, cap.” Hyunjin swears he’s had this exact exchange before.

Head volleyball coach Christopher Bang’s workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.

Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. “Read.”

From: Nicola Daldello «[email protected]» To: Bang “Christopher” Chan «[email protected]» Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game Christopher, Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza. It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki. Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwang’s travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club. I’m looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all. Yours, Nicola Daldello Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano

“I told you, some opportunities just present themselves,” Bang says, turning his monitor back around. “As for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social ev—Hwang, is that foam coming out of your mo—NOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!”

In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baek’s king with a triumphant yelp.

“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!” She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. “You! Get over here. Your reign is over.”

You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldn’t even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.

“As excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,” you call back.

She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.

Hyunjin: Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris Hyunjin: Same park? Y/N: yes Hyunjin: Who’s our opponent today Y/N: mrs. choi Hyunjin: Not that bitch again Y/N: ?

He’ll be here in eight minutes.

You return to the task at hand. You’ve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all that’s left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely you’ll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.

Instead of hitting the “delete” button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.

You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.

He finds you a sobbing mess.

“Hey, hey, whoa.” He’s on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. “Baby, what’s happening? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you say in a flustered haste. “Yes, I’m okay. I don’t—I don’t really know what’s happening.”

“Did that hag do this to you?” He asks this question so seriously. “I’ll beat up a senior citizen, I don’t give a fuck—”

“No!” You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. “No, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.”

“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.

Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.

“I’ll tell you later,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline.

He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then you’re smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.

You rest your foreheads together. “Have I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?”

He smiles. “Does that make you my flower, then?”

“Because you’re irresistably drawn to me?”

“No, because I wanna put my pollen in—”

You shove him away. “You are grotesque.”

He returns in a flash. “You love me.”

You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.

“Why did Coach hold you back, by the way?” You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “Are you in trouble again?”

“No, no. The opposite, actually.”

Your brow furrows. “The opposite? What—”

“In this lifetime, please,” Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.

“Duty calls, my love.”

“Tell me your thing later too?”

“Of course.”

You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, “now watch me beat up a senior citizen.”

He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.

“Hypocrite.”

Hyunjin: [1 Audio Message]

This is my seventh take and I’m not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I don’t care anymore.

I understand if you don’t wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldn’t, either. I just wanted to say that you don’t have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I won’t be able to fulfill my end of our deal, so…yeah, it wouldn’t be fair to you. You’ve already done so much for us. For me.

As for team manager, you’ll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesn’t sound like a fun conversation, I know—but if that’s what you decide, I’ll have your back. They don’t scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.

You’ve been…distant, this week. I’ve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldn’t care less if you’re my tutor or my team manager or whatever—I just don’t want you to be a stranger. Maybe that’s selfish of me to say, but I’m tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesn’t terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.

I’m gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I would’ve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, and…I’m sorry about everything. You deserve better.

Come back to me whenever you’re ready, okay? I’ll be waiting.

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vilsoo · 8 months

Text

𝐌𝐘 𝐆𝐅 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐁𝐔𝐒! ⌇MICHAEL AFTON

succubus!reader x michael afton || WC: 5,413

𖤐 SYNOPSIS. ever since michael found you as a succubus, he’s never been so in love. you usually feed off humans, but with michael’s sexual energy keeping you alive, you never ate anyone in years. that is, until, halloween night occurs…

𖤐 WARNINGS. established relationship, university au, halloween setting, malewife himbo bf/girlboss demon gf dynamic, revenge, murder, flesh eating, gore, blood mentions, tentacle bondage, msub!michael.

HORRORLAND/KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

[RIDE ANNOUNCER] This is a high speed roller coaster with sudden stops and drops! All riders must store loose items inside of a locker. This ride contains flashing scenes, special effects, and content warnings posted. Please remember to stay seated and keep all arms and legs inside when the vehicle is in motion. Any kind of photography is not allowed during the ride. Thanks for your attention and cooperation. We hope you enjoy.

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Is it possible to fall in love with a woman after they had just murdered someone?

For Michael Afton, the answer is yes.

Months ago during the beginning of the semester, Michael wasn’t always great at making friends. Even though this was university, it felt like high school again, where he remained an outcast and was reluctant to be involved with the student body, college clubs, or majority of big events like football games. He was academically focused; the typical nerdy student majoring in engineering. Always studying by himself in the library and sometimes tutoring other students so he could earn some money on the side. Back then he realized that having friends or even being in a relationship was the least of his priorities.

But it wasn’t until he first laid his eyes on you.

You were so beautiful. Also an inquisitive, scholarly student with good grades, staying on top of your classes, and involved with many extra curriculars. As badly as he wanted to talk to you, he viewed you as way out of his league. Always keeping in touch with your friend groups on campus and focusing on the clubs and committees you joined. There was never a chance for Michael to even be with you. So to avoid rejection and humiliation, he’d rather keep his crush a little secret, admiring and fantasizing about you from afar.

When October came around and a big Halloween party was taking place, Michael was invited by one of the students he was tutoring. He wasn’t the best at social gatherings and has never been to college parties, but the only reason he came was because you were attending as well. And that the first time he ever drank and slightly withdrew from his comfort zone from the alcohol, talking to people from campus and collecting all the courage to talk to you.

That night, however, you were busy with another man. A man that Michael has never seen before. Spending a lot of time together, dancing, drinking, and always leaving the vicinity together… As much as Michael wanted to admit that he was jealous deep down, he forced himself to move on. He’d always believed that there was no way in Hell that he was going to have a chance with you that time.

“…Hey, has anybody seen Y/N?”

A few hours later into the party the question started floating in the air, suddenly capturing Michael’s attention. The thought of you had completely slipped his mind as he started drinking more throughout the night until you were back to being his main focus. Recalling the last time he’s seen you was with that man he assumed doesn’t attend the university. As he lingered in his thoughts, his skin started crawl.

Suspicion. Piercing curiosity. An urge to look for you and make sure you were safe.

A handful of your friends were looking everywhere in the house for you as Michael decided to investigate outside. Even though he was outside of campus and wasn’t that familiar with the outskirts, he didn’t stop searching until he could find you that night. He searched until the path at his feet faded and lead into the dark woods, the verdant greens diminishing to sullen brown, as if he was entering forbidden territory. But it wasn’t until he noticed red.

A blood trail.

That mystifying Halloween night, right in the heart of the forest where danger and terror lurks, is the first time Michael saw a dead man’s body and his guts hideously torn apart, messy spikes of fresh blood splattered everywhere. The whole scene looked impossible for a rabid animal to even do that. But it wasn’t until he found you, on your knees and sitting on your ankles beside the corpse, blood draped all over your face, chin, and then your naked body.

And when your gaze flickered onto Michael, in your eyes he can sense longing, pining, regret, terror… a tumultuous storm surging in your mind, piercing right through him. He could’ve ran. He could’ve screamed that night. He should’ve been horrified by the scene in the first place. But every fiber of his fell frozen like he was in a surrendering state; placating, patient, consoling. Only for you. A rapport had already formed right there and then, right under the luminous moon…

“Help me, Michael…”

And just as you were about to collapse on the ground, he rushed over to hold your body in his arms, not caring about the dead man or the blood all over his hands and clothes. He only cared about you. A wave of relief may have washed over him, but he was taken over by this strange, formidable urgency to protect you. To be there for you. To cherish you with such powerful tenderness, nurturing you in such a delicate, vulnerable state.

That was the night you and Michael finally bonded. That special Halloween night you found each other. Comprehending the fact that you were a newborn succubus— the deadliest, macabre, and wanton creature to ever exist... Knowing that you eat men, feed off their flesh, and reap on them with sexual dreams and nightmares, suddenly lead him to a mind-blowing discovery…

Michael had fallen in love with you.

In just a year later, you two were official. A perfect boyfriend and girlfriend for each other, basking in a healthy, loving, long-term relationship. With Michael knowing what you’re capable of as a succubus, he never held it against you; especially finding out the dark and twisted origin of how you became a succubus… He still loves you, cherishes you, and will forever stay loyal to you. Dating you because you’re you was just what he wanted ever since the beginning of college. And even though there were various things he has to adapt to in this relationship, he never complained. He would sacrifice anything for you, including his time to skip class just so you two can have sex.

But for a very good reason.

During the first few months of his new relationship, he had to deal with your bloodlust. You would tend to be ravenous, feral, murderous, literally barbaric for man blood and flesh, for that was your only appetite as a newborn. Michael knew what he was getting into, knew that him ending up being killed and eaten by you one day would be inevitable just to keep yourself alive and beautiful. As cautious and wary as ever, he’d keep his distance as he was in desperate search for another way to satisfy your hunger besides murdering anyone. Then finally, he came to the conclusion that a succubus like his girlfriend can also thrive and feed off sexual energy. A perfect solution for your diet without anybody getting hurt and keeping you alive.

Having sex with you everyday and night didn’t even feel like a strict routine or sex ritual. Michael had you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Even dessert. Nothing about this felt like a necessity just to keep you around forever; he really wanted to satisfy you deep down as long as you consented. And as the months passed by, perhaps deep down he was also a freaky sex demon that takes pleasure in pleasuring his beautiful girlfriend. A man possessed and bewitched by your ethereal presence, he’d make you feel various levels of pleasure and pain as he explores the regions of your body that you never knew existed— finding your weaknesses, turning them into his strengths, and then seducing you with them...

As goes for you, who trained yourself to only feed off the insatiable, wanton lust you have for Michael. You always find a human man like him weaving into your brain, coursing through your veins like you were downing a drug. Every second you see each other at school, your hearts pound as hard as the bed you shared in your new apartment rattles, feasting upon your lusts as if there were no more morrows. Michael had undying, blooming love for you— and you wallowed in his love like draping a warm blanket over you during cold Winter nights.

Halloween was right around the corner again. It was soon to be your one year anniversary, and though Michael had many, many plans on celebrating with you, one of them was going to this huge Halloween party just thirty minutes away from campus. But it wasn’t just some ordinary house party with spooky Halloween decor lazily thrown around and bowls of fruit punch and alcohol scattered on a kitchen island— this was a hardcore Halloween party with over 300 guests attending. Way more people, way more alcohol, and way more attractions than just music to dance to— there were rumors of a famous live band performing, people hosting escape rooms, haunted houses, and other cool horror-related shit that Michael couldn’t wait to experience with you.

It was an hour before the party. The two of you were at your apartment getting your costumes ready, since Halloween costumes were part of the dress code for this party. If you weren’t dressed, you weren’t allowed in.

“Are you… Jason Voorhees?” you marveled, passing by Michael standing in front of the body mirror putting on the iconic hockey mask.

Michael chuckled. “Yeah. Since we had a Friday the 13th this year... I just found this at Spirit Halloween and decided why not. What are you gonna be, hm?”

“Well, it’s a little basic…” You did some cute poses in front of the mirror in your costume; a cropped white puffer jacket with faux fur on the edges of your hood, a denim skirt, red laced stockings, and then fake blood splattered all over. “It was also last minute, so I just threw on some stuff to look like Jennifer Check from Jennifer’s Body.”

“Basic? You look beautiful,” he complimented as he stared at your reflection in the mirror, turning around to hold your waist. “The costume is also ironic. I love that. You ready to go?”

“Yeah. Let’s go before parking gets full.”

The thirty minute drive at night wasn’t that bad. You and Michael’s adrenaline started to rush in when luminous rays of colorful lights and fog were seen from a far distance behind the shadowy trees. There were so, so many people that Michael couldn’t even recognize. Some weren’t even students that attended the university. You were surfing through the crowd with him never letting go of your hand, everybody around dancing outdoors as the excitement buzzes around in this rave-like party. Spectrums within the bass-boosted music, the sound waves pulsing in your heart. In the air, you could immediately take in strong various drugs and alcohol invading your senses. You could hear the rustle of costumes, glasses clinking, people talking and laughing, and feel the whimsical energy flowing around.

You and Michael decided to drink and dance together, the dizzying lights and alcohol making you fall through space and only take in his face. As the ecstasy flowed in your bloodstream beyond all measure like a storm of electric emotion, your pupils dilating as you were filled with this hazy sweetness-like sensation. Maybe it was the alcohol, but you always felt this way for your own boyfriend; becoming a victim to your own deadly, rapacious desire, enlaved to the rhythm of such unquenchable fire.

Together on the dance floor, Michael kept caressing your waist as you kept moving your body on his. He cupped your face, lips meeting together and something like fire and passion ignited within your ribs, urging each other to deepen the kiss. As if the alcohol couldn’t intoxicate you more, Michael was all that you needed in your hazy, drunken world. You needed him more than ever. You wanted to sneak off and find some place private for the both of you. God, you were feeling so needy for him deep down that Michael already knew…

"…Thank you for having us tonight. It's so good to be here with y'all!" somebody exulted into the microphone on the stage nearby. "I hope y'all enjoy and have a happy fuckin' Halloween!"

The elated crowd cheers again as the drummer counts off with the sticks and the electric guitar riffs take over your ears. For some odd reason, the man’s voice that started singing sounded vaguely familiar to you. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but there’s a part of you that recognizes a voice like that…

With the heated moment between you and Michael now disrupted by the band performing, you both turn your heads towards the stage where the crowd started to increase. Still holding each other’s hands, your eyes weaved through the back of people’s heads and tried to see who was performing. The electronic punk riffs sounded incredibly vibrant, thrilling everybody in the rave. Dark red spotlights, increased fog from the machines, and the clashing of the drums and other electric instruments overpowering your ears… Even the music sounded familiar to you— this was a genre that you used to listen to, after all.

“Do you wanna stay and watch?” you hear Michael yell out, clutching your hand tighter.

Somehow the question flew over your head as if you were distracted and overstimulated at the same time. As if you were drawn into the hypnotizing performance, there was an odd feeling of curiosity weighing down on your shoulders. The set up, the music, the energy, the singer’s voice… was it deja vu? You were slightly emerged, as if you unadjusted from this atmosphere, and the more Michael studied your curiosity, the more he became concerned.

When the silhouettes of tall heads blocking your view parted for a few minutes, you could finally see the singer. And the moment you scrutinized his appearance, it felt as if the world around you slowed down.

His face heightened every nerve of your body, as if you were just electrocuted by the most hazardous downed powerline. You were in utter bewilderment and horror of everything that you took in, numerous daunting flashbacks running in your head. You held your breath as you relived a traumatic memory from last Halloween; the night you were reborn as a succubus… You had no idea if these were your memories— Hell, it felt like a past life regression coursing every fiber of your being. But for the first time in a long time, terror and fright seized you completely.

“That— that singer…” you drawled, eyes widening every second in horror.

Michael furrowed his brows from not being able to hear you, leaning his ear closer to you. “Wait, what?”

You remembered. You remembered everything.

That last night of your perfect life where everything felt so surreal— being noticed by your long admired idol. A diabolical, sinister plan disguised as an innocent groupie love, where you were betrayed, drugged, kidnapped, and murdered.

The fire. The alcohol. The party. The groupie sex.

His words. His threats. His intentions. His greedy thirst for fame.

The night where he cut out your heart and sacrificed you to the devil. The night when you woke up hours later with a repulsive thirst for flesh on your tongue. The night you were reborn as a succubus, killing the first innocent man you ever saw who was just camping alone in the woods…

It was him. It was really him.

With your eyes welling with tears, your mind started to scream at you. You wanted revenge. You wanted to fucking kill him. Your anger and surging vengeance ignited a dangerous flame taking over you like a goddamn baptism. Your mind turns darker than black as every painful memory rips through you. This was the night he will finally die— and you didn’t give a fucking damn about how many witnesses there will be for his death.

“Babe? Are you—“

Letting go of Michael’s hand before he could comprehend it, you were already out of the crowd and lurking in the shadows with your enhanced speed. Part of you wanted to make that man’s death public. But part of you wanted to take things the old fashioned way, luring him backstage and devouring his soul right back into Hell where he belonged.

But your insatiable lust for flesh and blood mixed with your rage had you impatient and ravenous. It’s been so, so long since you’ve ate a man. And for a valid reason, you were hysterical and feverish to finally eat one on Halloween again. Make that man die a slow, painful, agonizing death as you tie him up in the woods and tear apart each and every one of his organs and guts. You were back to your old roots of being a vicious, wild succubus who lacks control of your hunger.

Michael had to weave through the crowd desperately looking everywhere for you, sometimes pushing other people and mistaking some as you by accident because of your costume. When the song was finally over and he could see entire stage clearly, the band was making their way off and the crowd finally became loose again. He still couldn’t find you anywhere. He started panicking, making his way inside the estate to search.

Inside the estate, there was a private dressing room for the band where they kept their instruments and other possessions. You were there, waiting by the locked door, hearing the men laughing and conversing with each other. But the lead singer’s voice reverberating in the room sounded like nails to a chalkboard to you, your blood boiling every time he chuckles and gets all excited about bullshit. That man doesn’t get to laugh. He doesn’t deserve this kind of talent. You kept fantasizing about ripping out his voice box with your own bare hands, clawing at his throat like a goddamn vice.

Blending with the shadows to taunt them, you find your way inside and locked the door. The men were behind a huge curtain where they couldn’t see you, still laughing and drinking together. Such fickle souls, perfect to be tormented alone in a dismal night like this. As much as you wanted the lead singer gone, you couldn’t help but take predatory thrill in agonizing the rest of the men that was soon to face the worse demise. Maybe they weren’t all that innocent, either. They could add in to the main course for the night.

You decided to do this the old fashioned way, stripping off your puffer jacket, crop top, skirt, stockings, and shoes. You wanted to feel their splattering crimson blood all over your bare skin. Wearing nothing but a matching bra and panty set, you stayed behind the curtain and cleared your throat.

“Excuse me? Can you gentlemen help me with something, please?”

All of them suddenly stop talking at the sound of your coaxing, provocative, coy voice behind the curtain. You sauntered your way towards them, all of them holding their breaths in star struck silence, admiring your devilish beauty and stunning body. All doe-eyed, slothful, yearning, making eye contact with all five males. That glimmer in your eyes that makes a man lose his mind like your boyfriend…

“Woah. Didn’t know we got a groupie for tonight,” one of the men chuckled, their disgusting eyes that deserves to be gouged out staring at you from head to toe.

“How can we help you, miss?” said the lead singer, your nose involuntarily flaring in furtive anger at him.

“Well… if you wanna come behind the curtains here, I have something I’d like to show all of you. A gift from your biggest fan.”

The dumb men easily fell into your trap, following you behind the curtain only for them to realize you disappeared. Eyebrows furrowing, some baffled by where the hell you just went. But you were hanging right above on the high ceiling, like a predatory creature on all fours, using your succubus powers to fuck with the lights and make them flicker until they’re in the dark.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“Why’s the door locked? I can’t fucking open it!”

“Goddamnit. We’re stuck in here! Where the hell is that bitch?”

It’s been so long since you’ve utilized your tentacles. With a disturbing screech and growl, your wings that you finally let free transfigured into slimy tentacles that snatched the men and threw them across the room one by one, leaving the lead singer alone on purpose. You grinned widely from hearing them scream, curse, and panic in a room where no one could find them nor hear them. Your tentacles shove right into their mouths, silencing them forever until you were ready to eat them for later. And when you left the singer in prolonged, tense silence, you can feel the rapid, erratic beating of his heart that was soon to be gone…

“I went through Hell and came back… to finally kill you.”

For the past ten minutes, you weren’t answering your phone. Michael searched most of the estate, underestimating how big and maze-like the structure of the place was that he literally got lost. But when he was passing by a group of girls coming from the restroom, he overheard a conversation that immediately caught his attention.

“…yeah, but I was a little shy to go inside the dressing room. Flirt With Death always has groupies in there fucking or something…”

It all finally registered in Michael’s brain. Why you suddenly ran away, why you’re nowhere to be found. He was disappointed in himself for not realizing earlier, not even recognizing the band playing that was right in front of his eyes. He decided to turn into another narrow hallway where there were few people, running through each room with panic as he was still looking for you. When he found a dressing room that was apparently locked, he looked for any objects or furniture nearby that could barge open the door.

Don’t fucking tell me you did it, Y/N…

He grabbed a heavy chair, smashing it several times on the door knob to break it. He knew that he was damaging property, but he did not give a shit. The party was loud enough to block the banging sounds. Nobody was around, there were not even any cameras that he could detect in the ceiling. But he kept jamming and jamming the knob until it finally broke off, hastily shoving the door open. And the moment he noticed the room was dark and quiet, he immediately knew.

“And If I ever find the people that did this to me, I want to kill them...” He recalled your words from a year ago when you told him the truth. “And you can’t stop me, Michael. They deserve to rot in Hell for this...”

You actually fucking did it.

When Michael switched on the lights, the entire dressing room was a wretched mess covered in blood. On the walls, on the floor, some splattered onto the ceiling… It was the scene of a fucking massacre. As if a giant bucket of blood spilled and flooded the entire place. He held his breath and his eyes widened in horror, scanning the corpses with all their guts and organs hideously torn apart and some spilling out, laying in a pool of fresh crimson blood.

His gaze slowly drifted to you in the middle of the room— your wings were spread, your eyes were a different color, and your half-naked body was completely draped in fresh blood. You were feeding on the man that you told him about, the man you’ve been wanting to kill for the longest; plunging to the depths of his rufescent flesh.

“…Babe?” Michael uttered, ever so slowly and cautiously ambling closer to you. You hissed at him and bared your fangs, immediately halting a few feet away from you in underlying fear.

You took a few moments to recognize Michael’s face, trying so hard to fight the urge of accidentally eating him as well. You were slowly coming down from your frenzied, blood lust state, your sharpened eyes scanning the bloody room. The band that became famous from the lead singer selling his soul is now dead. His diabolic soul finally rotting in Hell where he belongs…

Michael inched closer, watching the way your eyes turn back to its normal color and your wings closing. “Come. Let’s go home,” your loving boyfriend insisted, holding out his hand. “I’ll wash you up and then I’ll order us something to eat.”

Holding onto him and letting him cover you up with his jacket and his arm around you, it felt as if the raging and feral tides of your soul were finally at rest. His love for you was like floating in a warm pool of warm honey and velvet; you enthralled in this beautiful rhythm of sensations that fill your energies. Leaning over to give you a gentle, reassuring kiss that was so soft, so plush, a reminder that you belong to each other forever and nothing else in this world matters.

Because when you got home that night, Michael completely forgot about washing you up and instead pressed you against the door just to kiss you. Your lungs filling with wicked lust, bodies melting together like caramel as your needy desires take over. Not even waiting a fraction of a second to settle down at home, he couldn’t fucking wait any longer. And you couldn’t either…

“Mm— Michael,” you sighed out. “I thought you were… we were gonna…”

“Shh, shh. I’m gonna take care of you, I promise. But… after seeing you tonight like that, I— I feel like something awakened in me, or… fuck, I just want you right now…”

You chuckled. “Awakened something in you?”

As much as Michael wanted to admit it, he was ashamed. “Nah, forget it. C’mon, let’s shower together.”

“Uh-uh. I’m not gonna go until you tell me.”

Michael had to mentally prepare before cringing at his own words. Recollecting himself and trying not to make things awkward, he pursed his lips and finally confessed. “Ugh, fine... When I saw your, uh— tentacles… I just thought about, you know— if you could tie me up with them?”

Never in your years of living as a succubus had a filthy, raunchy idea like this ever cross your mind. But were you opposed to it? Deep down, you were turned on by it. Tying Michael to one of your dining chairs, his wrists bound behind him as you straddled on top and teased him with your tentacles. As you kept kissing him and grinding on his thigh, one of your tentacles were wrapped around his hard cock, stroking it simultaneously that his precum was already leaking. Hearing his cute moans and whimpers gradually get louder, struggling to kiss back or try to touch you when he forgot he was tied up… you were so turned on that you kept struggling to kiss back as well.

He will never stop recalling the time when he first saw you in your succubus form, the time when something shifted within him. Not only was he turned on by your hot physical appearance as a maneating demon, but by your feral, wild, vicious behavior of ripping apart men and eating them greedily. He felt inclined to obey you, and only you; like holding him captive and chaining him up tight in the dark, making him quiver and gasp for every unobtainable breath of air. Ruin him, hurt him, mark him, corrupt him, just fucking use him for your pleasure…

As you kept riding him and stroking him, the tip of your noses press against each other in the heat of the moment. His jaw was slackened and his brows were furrowed from the white-hot waves of sensation coursing in his body.

“Fuck, Y/N— you’re so… God, I love you. I fucking love you.”

“I love you, too,” you cooed sweetly in his ear, hearing him respond with a slutty groan when you increased the pace. He involuntarily bucks his hips into the grip of your slimy tentacles, throwing his head back and clenching his fists tighter.

“I’m not gonna last, babe. I’m not gonna last— I need you to ride me, please. Please sit on my dick. I’m begging you, Y/N— God, I need to cum inside you…”

Michael's pleads were so adorable to you, it would be absolutely ruthless to deny his orgasm like that. There was just something so beautiful about a man pleading to you if he could cum inside you; something so irresistible about hearing the urgency with which he begs for permission.

“Aw, look at you. So fucking needy for me,” you teased as the tentacle stroking his aching cock slipped away. “Once you come, I’m not gonna stop riding you... You have to fucking take it.”

After hearing your words, Michael felt like he was gonna fucking explode. He was shattered. His stomach was tied up in knots the moment you planted yourself on his cock with all your weight, throwing his head back in such euphoria. His face flushed red as he watched you ride him, his cock disappearing into your pussy like magic and then reappearing much more wet and slick. He wanted to fucking touch you so bad. He wanted to adjust himself so he could thrust up into you and slap your ass like he’d always do. But with you in complete control over him, he was in a fucking bliss— his orgasm was building up already without a warning.

“Fuck, fuck… I’m so close, Y/N.”

Dizzy with desire, you felt as if you were getting closer as well as you kept riding on his dick. You can feel himself throbbing as he could feel you pulsing around him. Your fingernails were digging onto his skin, drawing your mouth closer to his and kissing him while parting away just to moan pathetically. Your thighs started to twitch, and your body thundered with tension and neediness. Every goddamn thrust and movement of your hips had you seeing stars. It was hard to pinpoint the differences between your bloodlust frenzy and your sexual frenzy— both of them had your hunger consumed and your body ablaze…

“Oh my God… Keep fucking riding me like that. You enjoy bouncing on my cock like a hot little slut, huh?”

“I’m— I’m the one that’s supposed— supposed to tease you like that, fuck,” you whined out, immediately cut off by him kissing you and humming in your mouth.

“At least I can think straight when I’m fucking you. Whenever you come— ah, fuck— you always go so dumb on my cock.”

“Oh? But you love when I do that. Just keep thinking about… the times you fucked me so hard that, I— I lost my mind…”

“You’re gonna come, Y/N. I can already tell. Fuck, I wish I can fuck up into you right now so I can pound that pretty fucking pussy…”

You tried so hard not to give him the satisfaction so quick, but your body had already betrayed you. Your lips clashed with his in urgency as too many sensations hit you all at once. As you kept bouncing your ass on him, the sounds of sticky skin clapping together slowed down as you felt that erratic pounding in your pussy and the feeling of Michael’s cum shooting inside you and pooling down onto the base of his dick. His forehead falls onto yours, shutting his eyes as you both sat there for a few minutes collecting your breaths. You let the tentacles release him so he could finally hold you and run his hands all over you, keep you in place just so you could cockwarm him.

Your softened eyes meet with his, prompting you to smile at how cute he looks. His eyes glittered like he was smitten, madly in love, the same expression he always makes every morning when you wake up. After a couple of ardent kisses, the two of you just didn’t feel like moving yet.

“So. I hope you enjoyed our anniversary so far,” Michael chuckled. “Especially after you finally got your revenge. That was fucking badass.”

You mirrored his chuckle, smirking in amusement as you kept replaying the scenes in your head of murdering the men. “You still haven’t cleaned me up yet, you know.”

“Yeah… but if we were to shower together right now, you know damn well we’re gonna go for round two. Maybe three, four, or five…”

“Then what are we waiting for…?”

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

[RIDE ANNOUNCER] Please remain seated until the ride comes to a complete stop. Then collect your belongings, watch your head, and step carefully out the vehicle. The nearest exit will be on your left. On behalf of all of our crew, thanks for riding with us, and we hope you have a happy and memorable visit here at Horrorland!

obviously inspired by Jennifer’s Body (2009.) if you read my previous fic “ flirt with death “ this is the sequel.

𖤐 TAGS. @aft0nsimp @crysugu @rinshoe @kimekioo @porcelain_clown @willsdollface @zippertwat @strawstfu @maddietries @yourfavoriteobnoxiousomnisexual @nanananamiiii @bookmark-anon @bru1sedclavicle @hehehehesthings @dvafoxxystrashcan @dorkfilmz

#🕸️. 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃 #kinktober 2023 #michael afton fic #michael afton fanfic #michael afton x reader #fnaf x you #fnaf x reader #michael afton x you #michael afton smut #fnaf smut

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pynkgothicka · 18 days

Text

ＫｎｅｅＳｏｃｋｓＫＮＪ

Pairing - Tutor! Dark! Kim Namjoon x AFAB! Reader

Synopsis-Based off Parasite, your korean teacher leaves to go on a work study trip, and leaves you with his best friend to be a replacement teacher. Part 2 of the movies series.

Featuring - Brandon Perea (Angel From Nope)

Word Count - Around 3k

Tags and Warnings - age-gap, manipulation, murder, fingering, tutor/student relationship

Authors Note - As you can probably tell, the stories are majority very loosely based on the stories with me throwing my own twists into it all. Also Joon is a conglomerate of all the Parks (the poor family) into one character! Enjoy:3

A friendly reminder that all my works are dark fanfiction! Please if you do not like that do not read them! These depictions don't pertain to reality. This is your final warning before hitting the keep reading button!!

“So you want me to basically be your substitute?”

Namjoon eyed his friend as he ate from the bowl of ramen in front of him. One of his old high school friends, Brandon, stopped by his apartment out of the blue. And of course, Namjoon was embarrassed, the place looked like a dump.

Which is exactly what it was.

A dump.

“Yeah, listen I know you're smart. And I know you need the pay.” Brandon said taking a bite out of his ramen. He used his chopstick to point at Namjoon. “Also I trust you man.”

Namjoon groaned out leaning back into his couch. “Trust me? With what? Don't tell me you got roped into something fucked up.”Namjoon complained. Brandon had that look in his eyes, Namjoon could tell when he was being shifty.

“So maybe I've kind of got something going with the girl, she's sweet, super sheltered, like the perfect girl,” Brandon says leaning back long with Namjoon. “I plan on asking her out when I'm back okay? I just need you to be so you man. All scholarly and shit.”

Namjoon thought about it for a minute. “How's the pay?”

“Around 500 a session. Trust me her family has the money to blow. They want the best and they trust me to have good recommendations. Also, the mom is a bit of an airhead anyway.”

“Fine, you're lucky I need to make rent.”

📖

You sat in your room bored out of your mind. Your mother told you that Brandon had found someone to continue your studies while he was away. You knew your mom was probably annoying the poor man downstairs. She had a habit of talking too much.

Curiosity got the better of you as you found yourself heading downstairs to your lavish mansion kitchen. You sat on the stairs, peering through the railing.

Your new tutor was handsome, slightly built with a buzz cut. He reminded you of men you see in movies, rich CEOs who would fall for their secretaries. Or even a dangerous boxer who has a soft spot for the ballerina.

Lost in your trance, your mom spotted you. “Oh! Sweetheart come down, Mr. Kim here would like to meet you.” You curse under your breath as you stand up and walk the rest of the way downstairs. Almost tripping as your socks slipped on the hardwood floor. You catch yourself walking over to the side of the island.

Mr. Kim looked at you for a moment before smiling. “Please call me Namjoon, Mr. Kim makes me sound old.” He said extending a hand. You take it and give him a slightly firm handshake.

“She'll call you Mr.Kim, respect always remember sweetheart?” Your mom cooed passing you a bowl of pomegranate seeds. You nod towards her as she smiles. “Okay now go study, Mr. Kim is a very smart man by the sound of it. If you need anything call me upstairs.”

You were already walking upstairs with Namjoon following close behind. You led him into your bedroom and sat down at your desk. You pull out the notebook that you and Brandon used. “Sorry if my mom was annoying you, she's ditzy like that.” You mumbled going to the practice test you were doing before Brandon left last session.

Snap!

You jump at Namjoons snapping right in front of your face. “I want you to focus. From what you're mother is telling me she wants you to pass with Korean as a foreign Language for college next semester correct?” You nod at Namjoon. You focus back in on the practice test.

It was a particular problem you stared at, and it was something you couldn't figure out. You were about to circle A but you were stopped by Namjoon grabbing your wrist. “Are you certain that's the answer?” He asks leaning next to you. You shake your head, no, your breathing rising in speed as his hand holds your own in place. “Then why are you answering it?”

“Because it's the next question?” You say your voice peeking as you finish the statement. It comes out like a question and more so it comes out as you being rude to him. You shake your head looking up at him. “Sorry… I mean… it's true I just didn't want you to take it as me being rude to you.”

“Focus.” He reprimands. “Look at the question and think again.” Namjoon let's go of your wrist and you reconsider the answer. It's D. The answer is D. You circle it and look back at Namjoon expecting a response. You're welcomed with a warm smile. “Very good.”

His hand digs into the bowl of pomegranate seeds and he pops one into your mouth. You blush as you feel the tips of his fingers touch your lips and the action in general. Not even Brandon did something that bold. “T-Thank you Namjoon.”

He gives you a warm smile, showing his dimples, something you just caught. “Good, now continue answering the rest of the questions, you don't want to do bad you're first day with me do you?”

📖

Once Namjoon got his pay and started his trek home he realized something. Brandon was right, you pretty much were the perfect girl. Just from one lesson, he realized he enjoyed teaching you something he's become so familiar with.

While he was lost in thought Brandon called him and Namjoon picked it up. “Hey, how was your first class?” Namjoon didn't want to tell him that he was secretly fond of the girl that Brandon liked and that he felt something for her as well so he chose to be as bland as possible.

“It was good. We just kind of reviewed what you guys already went over before.” Namjoon said crossing the street and walking into his apartment complex. He checked the mail seeing that he had nothing.

No one usually contacted him unless it was some bill.

“That's good, is she ok? I know I kind of left on short notice.” Brandon said into the phone. Namjoon hated that he felt indifferent towards Brandon's concerns. It wasn't really like him to see his friends whining about nothing in particular. “God I must've hurt her so bad.”

“I mean if she's hurt she didn't say anything about it, I mean I guess she was nervous,” Namjoon said entering his apartment. “I mean it's nothing bad for her to not be upset. Maybe she'll ask about you later?” God, he hated giving Brandon hope.

But Brandon took it as is. “Thanks, man, I really appreciate you doing this for me. Call you later.” And before Namjoon could even wish him goodbye the phone hung up in his face.

He let out a sigh before pouring a bowl of cereal. He wished you were there for him. You wouldn't have him eating this, you'd probably want him to eat better. Namjoon caught himself thinking in that way and he caught himself. He knew this would end badly. There is no other way it could go.

📖

Namjoon had taught you for about a month now, and you couldn't stop thinking about him. Even now as he sits next to you while you study what he taught you today, you couldn't help but fantasize about him.

You sat with your head down reading over the pages in your notebook. You poked your lip out, hoping he would notice you. It was fruitless of an attempt but you at least had to try.

“Namjoon, have you ever been in love?”

He looks up at you cocking a brow. “What does this have to do with Korean?” You look away at his question, keeping your eyes glued to the notebook. Namjoon takes his thumb and tilts your eyes to look into his own. “Look up here, Answer the question.”

Your eyes look away. “It was a dumb question, I shouldn't have asked it.”

“But you did. Why?”

You let out a sigh before responding. “Well, I was just wondering if you had, you don't have to answer it, I know it's off-topic.” You blabber on, Namjoon letting your head drop.

“Well, yeah of course. I'm 29, and I of course have had a few relationships. But they always just don't get it you know?” Namjoon rests his head in his hand, elbow resting on your desk. “They didn't want to change for the sake of our relationship. I guess I just have a bad taste in women huh?” He ended with a chuckle.

“Yeah, I mean what do you like in women…? I can probably be a good judge of character for you.” You add playing it off as being nice towards him. Maybe if he told you what he liked, you could change to fit his standards. Namjoon seemed to be a perfect man, and maybe you being almost 20 could be perfect in his eyes if you did.

He turned to look at you. “Well, I like my women of course pretty. Smart, shy, well… I mean that's too much already.” He said throwing his hand up to brush it off coyly. You put a hand on his thigh, looking into his eyes as to encourage him.

“Tell me, I want to know.”

“Well, I don't think it matters really. Unless you think that you're right for me.” Namjoon said leaning down to get closer to you. “Are you baby? Are you the right person for me?”

You nodded getting closer, your lips ghosting over his own. Namjoon does the final push, connecting your lips together. His hand goes to your hair, tangling his hand into it. His tongue brushed over your teeth, pushing into your mouth. You were messy, clunky, and unsure of what you were doing. As he pulled away, his chest rose and fell. “Do you think you love me?” He finally asks. “Is that why you asked me if I had ever been in love?”

“Mhmm, you're just so… amazing and wise… I've looked at you since you showed up in the kitchen…”

“Good, I think that you're amazing, and I want to see where this goes, I think you're the right person… the one I've been looking for,” Namjoon said before connecting your lips again.

📖

From that day on, every time you had a class with Namjoon, it was really spent cuddling and enjoying your time with the older man. Laying in bed, you two would usually talk about life, normally letting Namjoon talk and praise you. Maybe it was due to the fact you usually went along with whatever he wanted to do.

Like now.

You dug your nails into his arm, his hand dug into your panties, fingering you. He quieted your moans with his lips, you sitting in front of him, toes curling as they hang off your bed. “Joon…” You whine into his mouth, trying to be as quiet as possible. “It f-feels so good…”

His fingers curled, blunt nails hitting at your walls. “Yeah? Doesn't it feel good to be loved?” He said placing kisses down your neck, sucking a hickey to join new and faded ones. He usually couldn't keep his hands off of you, no matter what, usually liking for his hands to dig into your thighs, thumbs brushing over the top of your knee-high socks. But now he wanted to give you pleasure, something he called a gift since you two were together.

You nodded as you feel your cunt gush around his thick fingers. “Please let me cum… I need it, sir.” You moan quietly into his mouth. Namjoon only liked to be called sir when messing around. He told you that it made him feel empowered and that you being there made him feel so much better than usual. You saw nothing wrong with that of course, isn't that the role of a lover?

“Do it for me, baby, all over my fingers.” And you do, as soon as he says that, you throw your head back on his shoulder. You collapse onto him, Namjoon adjusting it to where you laid on him in bed. He stuck his fingers into his mouth, sucking off your juices. You couldn't help but blush. “You taste amazing, like always.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Are you still going to be able to make it to my party? I know my parents invited you and stuff.” You ask, hand playing with your boyfriend's cheek. Of course, coming from a rich family meant you'd have large parties for your birthday. It's not like you wanted them but, they also told you they invited your tutor who just so happened to be your boyfriend.

Namjoon swatted at your fingers, chuckling a bit. “Of course, I wouldn't miss it for the world. We just won't pretend to be a thing.” He says. You nod in agreement, knowing your parent's reaction would most likely ruin the party in general.

“Yeah… okay! We should have around 30 minutes left, and I really just want to nap.” You say closing your eyes and laying down your head. Namjoons hand stroked at your head soothing you to fall asleep.

📖

The day had come for your party, and Namjoon couldn't have been more excited. He put on a brand new suit, one he brought with the money he made from his newfound job. As he arrives at the home, he spots that people have already shown up and that it's an outside party at that. Namjoon walked towards the backyard patio, your father setting up a backdrop for pictures.

“Mr, Kim, just the man I wanted to see,” Your father behind raising up to hug the man. “I'm glad you made it, hey can you head inside to grab the champagne buckets? They should be in the cellar in the basement.”

Namjoon nodded. “Yes, of course, I'll be back.” Namjoon makes his way to the back door seeing a table of women who blew kisses at them. He smiled before going inside, taking his phone out to send you a quick text.

Namjoon: Just arrived! Ur dad is already putting me to work lol

Baby🤍: Oh goddd I'll get on him about it.

Baby🤍 Still getting ready though, so just work for him a bit until I finish. Luv uuuu!!!

Namjoon chuckled at your texts as he made his way into the kitchen.

“So when were you going to tell me you started fucking her?” Namjoon put his phone down to look up, seeing no one other than Brandon. He stood at the kitchen island leaning on it, a drink in hand.

“Oh, your back? I thought you'd be gone longer.” Namjoon commented before turning to head to the basement. He wasn't going to deal with Brandon and ruin his girlfriend's day.

That thought was before Brandon shoved Namjoon into a wall. Brandon held Namjoons shirt. “Don't play dumb with me, I went to see her. I was gonna gift her a letter and she said she already had a boyfriend. And I know the only dude she would see constantly was you. How could you? I asked you to do one thing and you couldn't even do that?!” Brandon said, getting in Namjoons face. He whinced, Brandon's forearm resting on Namjoons neck pushing down. There was no way he was going to die this way, not from Brandon's rage.

Namjoon pushed him off, then shoved him down the basement stairs. Namjoon stood there as he watched Brandon fall, head hitting the wood. He waited until the last thud, Namjoon slowly walking downstairs to see what he had just done. Once he reaches the bottom, Namjoon smiles, the sick sight of Brandon writhing on the ground groaning. A puddle of blood formed around him, the impact from hitting the concrete probably giving him a concussion.

The bottom of Namjoons shoes clicked as he made his way to the cellar. He took the metal branding tool used to mark the barrels. The sound of metal shrieked as he dragged it towards Brandon's beat-up corpse. “I'm sorry I have to do this, but you're in my way now. And we can't have that now can we?” Namjoon taunted raising the iron. Brandon's eyes opened slightly as he saw the iron come down on him.

Namjoon felt tears pour down his cheeks as he began to beat Brandon in.He coughed up blood, and Namjoon didn't stop beating Brandon until he was certain he was dead. Once he came to that conclusion he dropped the iron. "Why did you make me do that huh?!" Namjoon yelled at no one. "You ruin everything, god, im happy you're fucking gone."

Namjoon claimed himself wiping his eyes of tears. He got up and grabbed the champagne buckets. He looked back before heading out of the basement, locking the door. He lets out a sigh before leaving, not looking back. He had bigger plans now, and Brandon wasn't in them.

He couldn't be in them.

Namjoons eyes trailed over your form, stopping at your socks as you laughed with your family. Outside the patio, you see Namjoon carrying the ice buckets and wave him over. He smiles at you before signing and returning to his girlfriend who he plans to keep forever.

Let me know through a dm or ask to be included in my official Taglist- @darkuni63 @captainengineer-trixie @chimmisbae @iloverubberduckiez-blog @mageprincess7 @looneybleus @whipwhoops @mayvalentine33 @devilzliaison

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etirabys · 5 months

Text

some years ago I bought Mortimer J Adler's "How to Read a Book" because I was bad at reading books. I read a bit, dropped off, and persisted for years in thinking that I would be better at reading if only I could summon the will to finish the book. Well I finally came back to it and it wasn't very helpful. Thank god. The tracery of neuronal connections that were devoted to feeling bad about it can be repurposed for a new fetish or something. Anyway, it seems important to record what I did get from it, because I am a bad reader and it's good to crystallize the tasks or principles that can move me forward.

the fast first pass

Adler distinguishes between "analytical reading" and "inspectional reading". Analytical reading is complete reading, thorough reading. Inspectional reading is to skim systematically, with the aim of determining what a book or passage is about and how it is structured. Reading the table of contents carefully is part of this, as is skipping to the chapters that seem most load-bearing and looking at the summary statements at the beginning or end to see what the core arguments are. Adler convinced me to always do this with nonfiction – it is good not to be surprised by the structure of something you've decided to commit hours of your life to.

[Readers who did not even read the table of contents] are thus faced with the task of achieving a superficial knowledge of the book at the same time that they are trying to understand it. That compounds the difficulty.

He's also a fan of fast first passes of a difficult book. Don't stop to ponder shit. Don't look up words. It's okay to be superficial. Race through it, and it will prepare you to read it well the second time.

The tremendous pleasure that can come from reading Shakespeare, for instance, was spoiled for generations of high school students who were forced to go through Julius Caesar, As You Like It, or Hamlet, scene by scene, looking up all the strange words in a glossary and studying all the scholarly footnotes. As a result, they never really read a Shakespearean play. By the time they reached the end, they had forgotten the beginning and lost sight of the whole. Instead of being forced to take this pedantic approach, they should have been encouraged to read the play at one sitting and discuss what they got out of that first quick reading. Only then would they have been ready to study the play carefully and closely because then they would have understood enough of it to learn more.

reading speed

The correct reading speed differs per passage even in the same book, and my problem is that I usually know what it is but go faster than it. It's a terrible habit that impedes my understanding and my enjoyment. Adler suggests using your finger across a line of type and following it with your eye. (Actually, he suggests this for the purpose of learning how to read faster – by moving your finger slightly faster than your comfortable reading speed, you will be forced to keep up. But it seems that it should work equally well for slowing down.)

ask yourself questions

To read actively in an analytical reading pass, you should ask yourself questions. (When I hired @eka-mark as tutor a few years ago and talked about how difficult I found it to learn from textbooks, they gave me the same advice – have a question in mind that you're trying to answer as you read – it'll focus your mind.) I frankly don't like Adler's questions*, so for myself I'll say: whatever questions naturally bubble up for me on the first pass, I will try to answer on the second. *what is the book about as a whole, what is being said and how, is the book true, how does it matter to you as a reader)

with fiction specifically

"Read it quickly and with total immersion, if possible in one sitting, so that the unity of the plot does not escape you."

my addition

I believe this but seem to be bad at acting on it:

I can read about 500-2000 books in the years I have remaining of life. Read Kindle samples first and give up aggressively. (If I read more than 30% of the books I sample, I'm probably doing something wrong.) Make the first pass, and don't bother doing the second if the first showed the book to be unexceptional. The complement of reading well is to choose good books to read.

#rambl #eti reads stuff #about

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writingforstraykids · 13 days

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My heart remains with you

Pairing: Minchan

Word Count: 4430

Summary: Prince Minho, the neglected second son of the king finds a dear friend in Chan who later becomes his knight. When war parts them the lines of friendship and love start to blur.

Warnings/Tags: fluff, angst, friends to lovers, knight!chan, prince!min, first kiss, cheesy af

A/N: This has been requested by my dear unnie @skzoologist and I've had so much fun writing this yesterday🤭 I hope you guys enjoy this little Minchan au🖤

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

The Kingdom of Elyria was renowned for its beauty, with landscapes sprawling across temperate forests, serene lakes, and majestic mountains. However, the true splendor lay within the walls of the Lee Castle, a grand structure of ancient stone and sprawling gardens, perched atop a hill that overlooked the capital city. Here resided the royal family, rulers of Elyria for generations.

Minho, the second son of the King, was often overshadowed by his elder brother, the crown prince. Where he was charismatic and warrior-like, fitting the mold of a future king, Minho was introspective and bookish, with a quiet demeanor and a sharp mind that gravitated towards scholarly pursuits. His mother, the Queen, often said that while his brother was born to rule, Minho was born to think.

From a young age, Minho felt the heavy cloak of neglect that often accompanies the life of a second son in a royal dynasty. The court paid him little attention, focusing their ambitions and hopes on his brother. Minho's days were largely spent wandering the vast halls of Lee Castle, exploring its many secrets, from dusty old libraries filled with ancient tomes to forgotten corridors that echoed with the whispers of the past.

His solitude was broken the day Chan entered his life. The son of a lesser noble who had fallen on hard times, Chan was sent to Lee Castle to serve as Minho’s page. He was quiet, observant, and meticulously responsible, qualities that quickly made him indispensable to Minho. What started as a formal relationship, bound by duty and station, soon blossomed into a genuine friendship. Chan was Minho's gateway to the world outside the scholarly nooks he favored. Through Chan's eyes, Minho learned about the people of Elyria, the struggles of the lesser nobility, and the realities of life beyond the castle walls.

Together, they would sneak out of the castle under the guise of night, exploring the city disguised as commoners. These escapades provided Minho with a perspective of his kingdom that books could not offer, and they instilled in him a sense of responsibility towards his people, a trait that his tutors found most peculiar for a royal second son.

As they grew older, their roles within the castle solidified. Minho took on more scholarly duties, often advising his father on matters of law and history, while Chan trained in the arts of warfare and strategy, rising in rank among the knights of Elyria. Despite their increasingly divergent paths, their friendship remained steadfast. Chan was always there, a protective shadow, ensuring Minho’s safety during their covert outings and supporting him in his scholarly debates against dismissive courtiers.

Their favorite haunt was the castle’s oldest garden, an overgrown labyrinth of flowering vines and ancient statues, hidden behind the west wing, rarely visited by others. It was here that they shared their deepest fears and greatest hopes. Minho confessed his anxieties about being forgotten, a relic in the shadow of his brother’s destiny, while Chan spoke of his desire to restore his family's honor.

As they sat beside a crumbling fountain, under the shade of a towering oak, Minho realized that Chan had become more than a friend or a confidant. He was his anchor, holding Minho steady in the turbulent seas of royal life. In return, Minho offered Chan a vision of a future where friendship and loyalty defined a man’s worth, not just birth or title.

This friendship, deepened through shared secrets and dreams under the canopy of stars, laid the foundation for a bond that would, in time, challenge the very traditions of their world. But in those early days, it was simply the prince and his knight, finding solace and understanding in each other’s company, building a friendship that would one day be tested by the trials of war, duty, and the heart.

Under the celestial tapestry of the night sky, the garden was a tranquil sanctuary, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. It was here, amidst the whisper of leaves and the gentle fragrance of night-blooming flowers, that Minho and Chan found themselves, seeking solace from the demands of their lives at court.

Minho, with his head resting comfortably against Chan’s chest, could hear the steady beat of his heart—a reassuring rhythm in the quiet of the night. The sounds of the castle seemed distant here, as if the garden were not part of the kingdom but a separate realm altogether. Chan’s hand was gentle as it stroked Minho’s hair, a touch that spoke of deep affection and understanding.

“Chan,” Minho began, his voice a mere whisper, mingling with the rustling leaves around them. “Do you ever think about what life might be like, years from now? When the responsibilities of the crown are mine to bear?”

Chan paused, considering the weight of the question. Minho's brother had been sick often over the years and it seemed to worsen each time. The possibility was given and widened with each time. “I do,” he admitted softly. “I think about it more often than I probably should. But in every vision of the future, I see myself by your side. Maybe not as a knight, perhaps not even as a noble, but always as your confidant, your protector.”

Minho shifted slightly, turning to look up at Chan, his eyes reflecting the silver light of the moon. “Even if the path I walk takes us far from everything we know? Even if the crown leads me into storms I must weather?”

“Especially then,” Chan replied, his voice firm with conviction. “Every king needs a steady hand to hold in the darkest hours. If the fates allow, I would be that hand for you, Minho.”

The prince smiled, comforted by the sincerity in Chan’s words. “I often dream of a future where our kingdom is at peace, where our days are not dictated by tradition and duty but by what is just and good. I dream of a court where the ideas of every man, noble or not, are heard and valued.”

“And I,” Chan added, “dream of a time when our friendship need not be hidden in the shadows of these gardens, when the world can see the strength of our bond and know it for the force it is.”

They envisioned a kingdom that thrived on innovation and diplomacy, where scholars and warriors alike debated in halls as grand as those reserved for feasts. They saw a court that celebrated the arts, where music and poetry flourished, resonating through the corridors of Lee Castle.

“Perhaps,” Minho mused, his imagination alight with possibility, “we could open the castle's libraries to the people, let knowledge be a bridge between the crown and those it serves.”

Chan nodded, his chest swelling with pride at Minho’s ideas. “And the armies could be reformed too, trained not just in combat, but in the arts of peace. They could be protectors of the realm’s ideals, not just its borders.”

They talked on, each vision they shared weaving a tapestry richer than the last. In their kingdom, justice would be tempered with mercy, power with humility. They saw a future where their own union could become a symbol of the unity they hoped to foster throughout the realm.

As the hours waned, Minho’s voice grew weary, yet his spirit was alight with hope. “Do you think it’s possible, Chan? That we might really see such days?”

Chan’s response was a gentle squeeze, reassuring and strong. “With you as king? I believe the future holds great promise. And I will do everything in my power to see it realized. Together, we could craft a legacy that will outlast us both.”

The night deepened around them, the stars wheeling overhead in their slow dance. In the quiet that followed, filled only with the sounds of the night and the closeness of their breathing, Minho felt a profound gratitude for the man beside him. Here in the garden, with Chan’s warmth enveloping him, the fears and uncertainties of the future seemed distant. For now, it was enough to dream, to plan, and to believe in the potential of their shared visions.

As dawn began to paint the horizon with strokes of pink and gold, Minho and Chan rose from their place among the flowers. They returned to the castle, their steps light with the intimate joy of shared secrets and cherished dreams. The garden remained behind them, a silent witness to their hopes, holding the promise of their return.

Their conversation that night, under the watchful gaze of the stars, would be remembered in the years to come as a declaration of intent—an oath made not just to each other, but to the future they dared to envision. In their hearts, they carried the seeds of change, nurtured by the strength of their unity and the depth of their resolve. As they stepped back into the roles demanded by their birthright, they did so with a newfound purpose, ready to face whatever challenges awaited with the knowledge that they would not face them alone.

As the shadows of dusk fell over Lee Castle, the usual sounds of laughter and clinking glasses from the dining hall were replaced by the clanging of armor and the murmur of tense voices. The atmosphere was charged with a palpable sense of urgency; Elyria was on the brink of war with its long-time rival kingdom to the north, and every soul within the castle walls felt the looming threat of battle.

Minho, usually a pillar of calm and reason, found himself wandering the castle's corridors with a restlessness that mirrored the unease gripping his heart. His days were filled with drawing maps and devising strategies, yet he felt sidelined, his efforts overshadowed by his brother’s bold, commanding presence. Everywhere he looked, the preparations for war were in full swing, yet in this bustling activity, Minho felt an acute sense of isolation.

As night descended, Minho sought refuge in the one place that had always offered him solace—the hidden garden where countless memories of his childhood with Chan lingered in the perfumed air and rustling leaves. It was here, under the canopy of ancient trees and starlight, that he awaited Chan’s arrival, the weight of impending separation heavy on his shoulders.

Chan appeared at the edge of the garden, his silhouette outlined by the moonlight, his armor casting a metallic glow. Seeing Chan in full knight's attire, prepared for battle, struck Minho with a wave of emotion. Chan’s stride was confident, but as he drew closer, Minho could see the gravity of the situation reflected in his eyes.

They sat together beside the old, moss-covered fountain, their spot for heartfelt conversations. The air around them was cool and fragrant, filled with the scent of night jasmine and the distant sound of the castle’s preparations.

“Promise me you’ll return,” Minho whispered, his voice barely above a hush, betraying his fear of losing his closest friend, the one constant in his life.

Chan turned to face him, his expression serious. “I promise,” he replied, his voice steady but his eyes revealing the strain of the commitment he was making. “I will come back to you, Minho. You must believe that.”

Minho nodded, trying to mask his anxiety with a semblance of a smile. “I will hold you to that promise, Chan. You have always been my protector, my confidant. I cannot fathom facing the future without you.”

Chan reached out, taking Minho’s hands in his. “And you are my reason to return. Whatever battles we face, remember that my heart remains with you.” He paused, squeezing Minho’s hands gently. “In my absence, I need you to promise me something too.”

“Anything,” Minho replied, the intensity of the moment drawing him closer to Chan.

“Keep the kingdom steady. Use your intellect, your wisdom. You know the court, the politics, the people. Guide them, Minho. Help them see the path of peace and reason. Your voice can be just as mighty as any sword.”

Minho felt the weight of Chan’s request settle on him, a mantle he was now ready to accept. “I will do my best. I will keep Elyria safe, for you.”.

As dawn broke, coloring the sky in hues of pink and orange, Chan stood, his armor clinking softly. He pulled Minho to his feet, embracing him tightly, a silent promise passing between them. They lingered there, in the embrace, until the first calls of the morning birds signaled the unavoidable arrival of the day.

Minho didn't know what came over him but he cupped Chan's face and pressed a short, soft kiss on his forehead. “To keep you safe, my strong knight,” he whispered and Chan's face softened.

He brought Minho's hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles gently. “Never lose hope, my dear prince,” he told him.

Chan stepped back, armor gleaming in the new light, and with one last reassuring nod, he turned and walked away, his figure gradually swallowed by the mists of the early morning. Minho watched him go, the promise of his safe return a flickering flame against the darkness of his fears. Tears burned in his eyes once he was alone and he hugged himself tightly. Never lose hope.

As the sounds of the castle waking reached his ears, Minho turned back to the empty garden, his resolve hardened. He would rise to the challenge Chan had left him; he would be the voice of reason Elyria needed, awaiting the day he could once again share this secret sanctuary with Chan.

Three years later

The war that had ravaged the lands and darkened the souls of many finally drew to a close after three long years. Minho had spent those years in a state of perpetual worry, each day stretched thin by the fear and hope that war naturally inspires. Chan’s letters were his only solace, rare as they were, each one treasured and read over until the words seemed to echo in the halls of Lee Castle itself.

My dear Minho,

I find myself in a rare moment of peace, and my thoughts turn to you and the sanctuary of our garden. I recall the fragrance of the blooming night jasmine, the way the moonlight filters through the leaves. These memories sustain me in ways rations and rest cannot. I long for the day when I can leave this behind and return to where my heart remains. To you.

Hold fast to our dreams; they are the beacon guiding me back to you.

With all my heart, Chan.

Minho, in the quiet after his official duties, would retreat to their garden, where he penned his replies, each word a thread in the tapestry of hope he wove for both their sakes.

Dearest Chan,

Your letter arrived on a cool, starlit night, much like those we’ve shared. I read your words beneath our oak, where the shadows seem less fearsome with you in mind. The garden grows wild in your absence, each vine and flower straining towards the sun, much as I reach for our promised tomorrow.

Stay safe, my friend, for Elyria, and for me.

Always, Minho.

When the declaration of peace finally reached the castle, Minho could scarcely believe it. The relief was overwhelming, tempered only by the anticipation of Chan’s return. He arranged for the garden to be restored to its former glory, wanting Chan to return not just to Elyria, but to the beauty they had once cultivated together.

As Minho sat under the oak, his gaze fixed on the path that led to the garden, he held a crumpled piece of the last letter Chan had sent him, reading and rereading the words that had offered him solace through the darkest days.

Min, my dear,

Peace is upon us, and I am coming home. The thought of seeing you, of standing in our garden, and shedding this armor weighs on my heart with a sweet ache. I am weary, Minho, changed by the shadows I’ve seen, but I hold onto the light of your friendship, knowing it will guide me back from the brink.

Prepare the garden; I am carrying seeds from across the lands we’ve marched—let’s plant new life together, foster growth from the ashes of destruction.

See you soon, my brave prince.

Chan.

My dearest Channie,

By the time this letter reaches you, I hope to be counting merely hours until your return. The garden is waiting, the foxgloves and lilies have blossomed, and I’ve taken to reading aloud in the afternoons, foolishly pretending it’s to you. The castle has felt emptier without your laughter and your steady presence.

I wait for you, my friend, with a heart full of stories to share and an ear eager to hear yours. Come back to us, to me, soon.

Yours, always and forever,

Minho.

On the day of Chan’s return, Minho waited in the garden, their sanctuary and witness to the depths of their bond. The air was fragrant with the scent of fresh blooms, a soft breeze playing among the leaves, as if nature itself was celebrating Chan’s return.

As Chan stepped into the garden, his armor shed and replaced by the simple garb of a knight at peace, his eyes found Minho’s, and for a moment, it was as if no time had passed at all. They moved towards each other almost instinctively, their embrace a testament to the years of waiting, of hoping, and of holding on.

“Minho,” Chan murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I made it back.”

“You did,” Minho replied, his own voice choked by tears. “Just as you promised.”

They stood there, in the heart of the garden, unable to let go, each touch and breath a reaffirmation of their connection. The war had changed them, undoubtedly. Chan’s eyes held shadows, his smile touched by a melancholy that hadn’t been there before. But here, in the embrace of his closest friend, there was a sense of coming home, of the weight lifting, if only for a moment.

As they finally stepped back, hands still clasped between them, Minho looked up at Chan with a small, hopeful smile. “Let’s walk,” he suggested, guiding them down the familiar paths, their steps slow as they reacquainted themselves not just with the garden, but with each other.

They talked of many things—of the war, of those they had lost, of the future. Chan spoke of the battles, but more of the men and women he fought alongside, of the small acts of bravery and kindness that had illuminated the darkest days. Minho listened, his heart aching for the pain and pride woven through Chan’s words, offering his silent support and understanding.

As the sun set, painting the sky with strokes of gold and crimson, they found themselves by the old fountain, its waters murmuring softly in the background. Minho reached out, tracing a scar on Chan’s arm, a new addition since the war. “It seems we both have scars to bear,” he said softly.

Chan looked at him, a gentle acknowledgment in his gaze. His fingers traced the scar located on Minho's stomach through layers of fabric, still knowing exactly where to find it. “Yes, but we’ll bear them together, won’t we?”

Minho nodded, squeezing Chan’s hand. “Together,” he affirmed.

In the sanctuary of their garden, with the shadows of war slowly fading into the background, Minho and Chan rediscovered the strength of their bond. Here, in the twilight of their reunion, they began to weave new dreams, grounded in the realities they had faced but looking forward to a future they would shape together. In this shared space, they were not just a prince and his knight; they were two souls, scarred but unbroken, bound by a friendship that had endured the greatest of trials.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, Minho and Chan sat together in their secluded garden, enveloped by the serene twilight. The world around them quieted to a soft murmur, allowing the gentle sounds of nature to fill the air—a distant birdcall, the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. It was in these peaceful moments that their conversations often drifted from the mundane to the profound.

Today, however, as Minho watched the sunset cast its golden light on Chan's face, illuminating the lines of strain and the scars of war, he saw him not just as his friend or his protector, but as something more profound, more integral to his very being. Chan's features, etched with the experiences of battle, held a rugged beauty, a testament to his strength and resilience. Minho’s heart swelled with an emotion that was tender and overwhelming, realizing that his feelings had grown beyond the bounds of friendship into something deeper, something akin to love.

“Chan, do you ever think of a different life?” Minho asked, his voice soft but laden with emotion, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope.

Chan turned to him, a gentle smile playing on his lips, his eyes reflecting the fading light. “All the time, but always with you in it.”

The simplicity of the statement, and the sincerity in Chan’s gaze, struck a chord within Minho. He felt a warmth spread through him, a clarity about his feelings that he had never allowed himself to fully acknowledge. Here, beside him, was not just his knight but the person he loved, deeply and irrevocably.

Chan, noticing the change in Minho’s expression, the way his eyes lingered and his cheeks flushed with a subtle hue, felt a stirring of his own heart. He had always seen Minho’s beauty—in his gentle demeanor, in his sharp intellect, and in the kindness that radiated from him like sunlight. But now, under the soft glow of twilight, Chan saw Minho in a new light, realizing how central Minho had become to his every thought of the future, how his days were brighter, his burdens lighter with Minho by his side.

“Minho,” Chan began, his voice low and earnest, “these years, these trials, have shown me so much about strength and resilience. But none of that compares to what I've discovered about myself, about us. You are in every vision of my future because you are the part of my life that brings me peace, joy, and a sense of home.”

Minho turned to face Chan fully, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, moved by Chan’s words. “I've been afraid,” Minho confessed, “afraid of acknowledging how deeply I feel, how much you mean to me. Not just as a friend, but as the one I love, the one I cannot envision my life without.”

Chan reached out, brushing a tear from Minho’s cheek with a tenderness that belied his warrior’s hands. “Then let's not hide from these feelings anymore,” he said softly. “Let’s explore this path together, no matter where it leads.”

As the last light of the day gave way to the stars, Minho and Chan remained in the garden, their hands entwined, their hearts open to the possibilities of a future together. Under the vast expanse of the starlit sky, Minho and Chan found themselves lingering in the garden, unwilling to end the evening that had transformed their relationship forever. The night was quiet, with only the soft whisper of the wind rustling through the leaves and the distant call of a nightingale. The air was cool, carrying the fresh, earthy scent of the garden after dusk.

As they stood beside the old fountain, now just a silhouette against the dark sky, their conversation dwindled into comfortable silence. Both were keenly aware of the new, delicate territory they had ventured into, each heartbeat seeming loud in the quiet of the night.

Minho looked up at Chan, noticing how the moonlight danced across his features, softening the hard lines of battle and time, casting him in a glow that seemed almost otherworldly. Chan’s eyes, usually so strong and assertive, now held a gentle uncertainty that Minho had never seen before but found endearing.

“Chan,” Minho began, his voice barely above a whisper as he stepped closer. “Thank you, for being my strength, for always being here.”

Chan’s response was a soft smile, his eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that words could barely capture. “Minho, there’s no place I would rather be,” he replied, his voice equally low.

In that moment, with the moon witnessing their solitude and the serene night embracing them, Minho felt a pull, a desire to bridge the gap of inches that still lay between them. His heart raced as he reached up, tentatively, to touch Chan’s cheek, his fingers trembling slightly.

Chan’s breath hitched at the contact, a shiver running through him, not from the chill of the night but from the warmth of Minho’s touch. He looked down into Minho’s eyes, seeing the open adoration and the silent question they posed. With a gentle firmness born of years of holding back, Chan lowered his head slowly, giving Minho time to pull away if he wished.

Minho’s response was to close the distance, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned in. Their lips met in a kiss that was tentative at first, a soft brush of warmth that held a question neither had dared to ask aloud until now. When neither pulled away, the kiss deepened, growing in confidence and heat. Chan’s hands moved to cup Minho’s face, his touch sure, and Minho sighed into the kiss, his arms wrapping around Chan’s waist to pull him closer.

The world around them seemed to fade, leaving nothing but the two of them locked in an embrace that sealed their newly acknowledged feelings. The kiss was a mixture of all the emotions they had shared over the years—joy, fear, longing, and above all, love. It was a kiss that spoke of past struggles, present understanding, and a future filled with endless possibilities.

When they finally parted, breathless and hearts pounding, they rested their foreheads together, a smile playing on both their lips.

“We should have done this a long time ago,” Minho murmured, his breath warm against Chan’s lips.

“Yes, we should have,” Chan agreed, his voice thick with emotion. “But we’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

They stayed like that for a while, in the quiet of the garden, surrounded by the peace of the night, letting the significance of their first kiss sink in. It was a perfect moment, one that marked the beginning of a new chapter in their lives, filled with the promise of shared tomorrows.

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

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xomakara · 9 months

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MASTERLIST

I really needed to make a masterlist so I can link all the stories better lol. Anyhow, you'll find any ongoing series/stories/etc here.

Everything in the ML so far are rated MATURE. Anyone under 18, please do not interact. :)

I DO NOT write for Chenle or Jisung. Also not writing for the new NCT Team since they're literal babies.

Series

Miracle Worker | Ongoing | In which Yoo Aimee is in a complicated relationship with Johnny Suh and Jung Jaehyun. She's somehow pregnant even though it's impossible since she was in an accident that rendered her to not have kids. [JohnnyxJaehyunxReader]

The Highlights of Romance | Ongoing | In which you're a bestselling author and become friends with your neighbors. But when your life suddenly becomes the center of attention, will your life be a novel in the works? [MarkxReader]

By Member

Becoming Lady Moon | 5K words | You’ve been summoned back to the capital after a successful campaign, only to get married to Taeil, a scholarly man that the emperor himself has chosen.

Inked By You | 10.1K words | You're best friends with Johnny and have had feelings for him for awhile. You think he's only attracted to you because of your tattoos but it's so much more.

Only One For Me | 11.4K words | Hanging out with your friends at the hottest club in Chicago, you never expect to see Johnny after you had left the idol life, your friends and him after a scandal. Johnny says he misses you and shows you how much he really does miss you.

Body & Soul | 3.4K words | You just want to have sex with Johnny but Doyoung keeps interferring so you and Johnny try to convince Doyoung into having a threesome.

Come On Over | 5.2K words | Haechan doesn’t want to be seen as a cute, little baby boy to you so he asks Johnny for help to seduce you.

Closet Fun | 2.3K words | Taeyong drags you into a closet for some fun quality time.

Private Lesson | 2.7K words | You’re tutoring Yuta in Math but he wants a biology/anatomy lesson instead that leads to sexy time

Blessings | 6.7K words | You find out that you're pregnant and happy that you have Kun and others to help you navigate this journey.

An Office Affair | 2.7K words | Doyoung really needs you when he sees that you're wearing a short skirt at the office meeting.

Body & Soul | 3.4K words | You just want to have sex with Johnny but Doyoung keeps interferring so you and Johnny try to convince Doyoung into having a threesome.

Coming Soon

Warrior of My Heart | 6.4K words | You returned home after a successful journey with your knight Jaehyun. Your brother, the king, wants you to start marrying and you knew there was one person that you wanted.

Desiring You | 6.4k words | When Jaehyun has an inkling that you were touching yourself and thinking of him, he wants to know all your sexual fantasies.

Forever Only | 4k words | Jaehyun comes home to find you getting off on his bed.

Coming Soon

Exploration | 3.6K words | When you stepped into an adult store looking for new toys, you didn’t expect to step out of one with your office crush, Jungwoo.

Crash Landing | 6.4K words | You meet Jungwoo in a space station and you both instantly hit it off.

Waiting For Your Love | 3.6K words | Mark is secretly your boyfriend, takes you to his place and wants to take your relationship to the next level.

Falling For the Cowboy | 5k words | You take over your late grandfather’s old farm, meet your charming neighbors and townspeople, and fall in love with Mark, the handsome cowboy.

No One But You | 6.8K words | One drunken night with Xiaojun gave you the most precious thing in the world, your son. Years later, Xiaojun returns from overseas and finally gets to reunite with you and his son.

Strip Poker | 4.3K words | Hendery has been eyeing you for quite awhile and when your mutual friends decide on a game of strip poker, Hendery is in it to win it. His prize: you.

Talk Dirty to Me | 2.2K words | You’re needy and horny but your boyfriend Renjun is on tour. You both decide on phone sex and you’re begging him to come home to you.

Diving Into You | Series - COMPLETED | In which Lee Jeno really, really craves sex from his girlfriend.

Love Me Now | 4.7K words | Jeno just wants to love you.

Physical Therapy | 2.3K words | Haechan sprained his ankle and is staying at the hospital. Being very horny and needy, he asks his pretty nurse for special treatment…

Physical Therapy (pt. 2) | 2.7K words | Haechan is still in the hospital but you're back to help him with his treatment.

Coming Home | 6.4K words | You and Haechan try to cope with a long distance relationship but when you land the opportunity to write a ballad song, you finally get to reunite with Haechan

Come On Over | 5.2K words | Haechan doesn’t want to be seen as a cute, little baby boy to you so he asks Johnny for help to seduce you.

A Heavenly Night | 4.1K words | Jaemin takes you out on a date. But as friends? Tired of being friendzoned, you confess your feelings. Little did you know that he felt the same way.

Oh, Mommy | 1.9K words | Jaemin watches as you breastfeed the baby and ends up wanting sex afterwards.

Coming Soon

By Unit

It Started With a Kiss | 6.2K words | You always spend your birthdays with DoJaeJung since your birthdays all land in the same month. After being friends and fuckbuddies with them for the longest, you're finally ready to have all three of them as your birthday present.

Perfume | 8.6K words | Doyoung, Jaehyun, and Jungwoo all get a bit too jealous of each other when you have sex with them individually.

Our Love is Infinite | 14.6k words | You’re in a relationship with five guys that are utterly devoted to you.

All About You | 6K words | You and your five boyfriends go on a trip.

#nct #nct stories #nct fanfic #nct imagines #nct 127 #nct dream #wayv #nct dojaejung

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overleftdown · 5 months

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farleigh analysis part 2, because the first post wasn't enough. this is going to cover all scenes set at oxford university that i find significant to my understanding of the character (this ended up including pretty much every scene with farleigh in it). once again... buckle up.

[0:03:48] farleigh: oh, he's got the scarf. hey, cool jacket! and the tie?

starting off with a banger! this is farleigh's first line, his introduction as a character. this is how the viewers are intended to see farleigh, at least for this portion of the movie. this is what i'd consider an outer-circle perspective of farleigh, how the majority of his classmates understand him as a person. catty and casually rude. it's significant how surface-level and mild this introductory piece of dialogue is. farleigh is pointing out how hard oliver is trying to appear mature and scholarly, because farleigh is too nonchalant to try hard to fit in (haha).

[0:07:10] farleigh: i'm so sorry. got completely lost- hi, nice to meet you. so sorry. tutor: you're farleigh start, i take it. nice of you to join us, finally. you're not a, uh relation of frederica start, by any chance? farleigh: uh, shes my mother. tutor: no! i knew her when i was your age, when we were both here! when she was frederica catton, before she went to america. farleigh: no way! oh my god, i'll tell her! she's gunna be thrilled that i'm being tutored by one of her friends.

and again, an outer-circle perspective. here you can see the supposed influence of farleigh's family title. "when she was frederica catton," signifying the beginning of the end of frederica's social rappour. farleigh is a product of his mother's abandonment of everything the catton's stand for; wealth, coldness, heartlessness. however, from this perspective, the one we've been introduced with, farleigh is still hiding in the ghost of his mother, before she moved, before she had him.

[0:07:48] tutor: not sure we ever spoke. farleigh: ...oh.

HEHEHEHEHE. i giggled.

[0:08:48] oliver: so you're picking apart the style of my essay instead of the substance? that's kind of... farleigh: kind of what? oliver: lazy? farleigh: it's completely valid to debate the rhetoric of an essay. it's not what you argue, but how. tutor: great point. oliver: yeah, especially if you haven't read any of the poems.

i think this dialogue is incredibly fitting for farleigh's character. as in, it represents how farleigh interacts with people at oxford, with the cattons. picking apart the style rather than the substance, because it's not what you argue, but how. using that comparison, oliver pointing out that farleigh clearly didn't read the material is synonymous with farleigh being clueless to how and why the cattons truly tick. this makes farleigh's socializing hollow by nature. whereas oliver... he does his research. he learns how the cattons function, what motivates them, what their dynamics are. he doesn't play into style or rhetoric; he doesn't need to.

[0:13:11] felix: oh, there he is! oliver! ollie! oliver, come here, mate! yeah, come here. come here. what? come here!

farleigh's face visibly drops, and he sits up straight where he's sitting beside felix. he's not disgusted, nor offended. he looks anxious. a few seconds later, as felix says "this is my fucking hero, right here," farleigh is giving oliver the gnarliest look. he's fidgeting with his hands, and you can see him swallow. i think he looks a healthy blend of angry and exasperated. as it's made known later in the movie, felix has a notorious savior complex. farleigh knows exactly what's happening.

[0:14:00] (shots) you can see that, between the last timestamp and this one, farleigh has been displaced to the other side of the table. previously, every single sighting of felix has farleigh glued to his side. standing right next to him. farleigh on the opposite side of the table as felix is very indicative of the very real threat that oliver poses to farleigh's stability.

[0:14:10] farleigh: it's your round, man! oliver: i should go to bed. farleigh: wait, no no no. you can't snake your way out of a round. oliver: i'm not. farleigh: it... looks like you are.

the most important thing about this scene that i'd like to point out is that oliver would not have, and should not have, stayed for his round if it wasn't an intentional plan. the nature of "buying rounds" was made clear and is clear. he reasonably shouldn't have stayed and specifically left when it was his turn to pay. that's gnarly. that's generally just rude.

[0:14:30] felix: farleigh. farleigh: what? felix: just cut him a break, mate. farleigh: what? felix: that round's gunna cost a fucking fortune. farleigh: pub rules, felix.

yes, i understand that farleigh is being intentionally confrontational. but felix consistently falls flat when "combating" the judgmental attitude of his family and classmates. although he did exactly what oliver wanted him to do by paying for the round, he lacks a genuine purpose behind his verbal condemnations. felix wants to believe he is morally better than his family, the people he surrounds himself with. because of this, he lacks passion. farleigh surrounds himself with whoever felix surrounds himself with; he has become part of felix's background noise. he has become another steppingstone to felix's upward climb to righteousness. another blurring, booing voice, antagonizing the people felix protects and defends.

[0:16:09] felix: yeah, well you know farleigh basically grew up with us. oliver: i didn't know you and farleigh were cousins. felix: mmm, my aunt, farleigh's mum, ran away to america when she was 19 to escape the cold-hearted english. ciggie? oliver: eh, i don't smoke. farleigh: dear aunty fred married a lunatic who pissed everything she had up the wall and a fair chunk of dad's money, too, until he had to finally cut her off.

(oliver did know that farleigh and felix were cousins tbh what a liar, can't believe he would lie like that. unbelievable. truly criminal).

at 0:16:10, farleigh watches felix and oliver sitting with each other at a party. this is played behind felix's voice-over, as he tells oliver about farleigh's family history. i find that so emotionally impactful. jealousy is a hard emotion to read on someone's face, but almost always, farleigh just looks sad. i often see him glancing down; this can often mean disappointment, insecurity, deep thought. at 0:16:27, you can see him briefly scrunch his eyebrows together as he watches felix light oliver's cigarette. he looks confused, judgmental, or surprised. the only thing i can compare this to is taking a bite of food that you didn't expect to taste horrible.

i wish we got to see more of farleigh and his mother, or at least what their dynamic entails. we know he asks (begs) james and elsbeth to give frederica money. we know that frederica was either too kind or too weak to cope with her family. we know that she was well-loved at oxford, or at least had some admirers. i find it poetic, that frederica ran from the english, and now her son is running back in place of her. i also wonder about farleigh's dad. there's no mention of him, past this scene; but if he's no longer with frederica, why would she still be cut off by the cattons? are the cattons really that cold to her, or is frederica still married? curiosity, man. i'm about to start making stuff up on the spot.

[0:16:42] felix: well dad, you know, he felt so guilty about the whole thing that he decided that he would pay for all of farleigh's education. oliver: lucky farleigh. felix: oh, fat load of good that's done him. he's been expelled from almost every school in england for sucking off the teachers.

at 0:16:50, farleigh is shown with a woman on his lap. she's more adult than farleigh. i think it's relevant, considering the voiceover.

i think an important word in this dialogue is guilt; it's a strong motivator among the cattons. yet, it's an inconsistent one. because the cattons guilt is so external as opposed to internal, there is a threshold at which their guilt feels resolved. they just have to convince themselves that they are charitable and therefore good. there is no real understanding of love, and what comes with it. there is no intrinsic need to support their family, simply because they are family.

i don't know what to say about farleigh and his relationship with authority. clearly, he has an unhealthy attachment to transactional and exploitative relationships. how does that complex interact with his social life? his family life? to live surrounded by money and to surround your life around money creates a need to quantify everything. it means you're trying to understand what you're worth, and what your actions are worth. this can also be a testament of farleigh's character; is he just unwilling to put more effort into school? is he unable to compete with the schools that he's attending through money instead of merits? yes, james is paying for his education, but since when? how long has farleigh attended school in england, and what schools did farleigh attend in america? there's a large difference in education. i digress. i find this detail about farleigh significant and upsetting in a lot of ways, and it would be just as upsetting if he really did just prefer transactional sex over doing his homework.

[0:22:27] (oliver sees felix at the bar without him) and this is where farleigh regains his place next to felix. the framing of the shot specifically includes farleigh and felix, centered together on screen. oxford is the only period in this movie where you can truly consider oliver and farleigh mutual threats. this is the limbo, where both of their minuscule actions could change the course of their relationship with felix. oliver and farleigh are both intimately aware that only one of them can exist at felix's side, only one of them can be felix's accessory. oliver's motivation to be in this position is infatuation. he hates what felix represents and loves felix as an individual. is this the same for farleigh? how much is farleigh motivated by his love for his cousin? how far devolved is their relationship, since farleigh realized he needed to play a game just to be treated with compassion by his family?

[0:26:30] farleigh: oh, nice tux. oliver: thank you. farleigh: wow! it's a rental, right? oliver: yeah- farleigh: yeah. yeah, the sleeves are too long. always check the sleeves! but still, not bad. i mean, you're almost passing. oliver: for what? farleigh: i don't know! a real human boy.

he's so petty, it's hilarious. there's not much to say about the majority of this interaction, other than the fact that farleigh is overcompensating for his own social insecurities. to be expected. i like that last line, though. "you're almost passing for a real human boy." does that have anything to do with oliver's poverty? maybe it's just a jab at his fashion choices. i think it's also safe to say that farleigh finds something legitimately unsettling about oliver. or maybe he really is just prepared to give felix's new project a tough time. there are a few reasons for farleigh to go out of his way to make felix's friends uncomfortable or inconvenienced; almost all of them are petty. venetia does the same. elsbeth, who shares felix's habit of hosting people, seems thoroughly entertained by oliver.

farleigh's oxford era is hard to get a read on. he's truly just... rude. he's also scared. his dynamic during the school year with oliver is so compelling to me, because oliver is still in a place of deep instability. he almost lost felix halfway through the year; he needed a high card to win him back. farleigh doesn't play cards, though. that's one of the biggest differences between the two characters. for all their similarities, the only action against oliver that farleigh seems to have is being mean. oliver is driven by an obsessive ambition to control, interfere, dominate. during the school year farleigh is shown, repeatedly, that he just wants to get through it. he's coasting, truly. he slides right back into place next to felix when the spot opens up, and he stays in the background. again; all style, no substance. no research. the cattons were never a game, to farleigh. they were just an uphill battle. they were his family.

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scholarlyhub · 11 months

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Scholarly Hub offers online mentorship, personal development and tutoring services for secondary education.

#scholarly tutoring

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cinnamonest · 2 years

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I loved your student x teacher posts for Childe ❤️❤️ could you possibly write one for Ayato? Rich boi might be one of those private school honor students who gets anything he wants or maybe he’s home schooled with a personal tutor? thank you 🫶

omg he would be the biggest overachiever kid but also I am loving the idea of rich kid!Ayato, I love rich boys with an subtle arrogant flair and he's the perfect candidate

For reference, the past Teacher X Student posts can be found here:

Childe (Part One)

Childe (Part Two)

Xiao

-----

Working in a private school environment has its ups and downs. There's a lot of benefits, sure, but the thing is that those benefits can often be downsides in and of themselves.

For example, the most elite of private schools tend to bring a lot of very strict parents, and thereby kids who have been raised with high expectations and rigid enforcement of behavior. Consequently, they're usually very well behaved, making life easier in that regard for faculty.

On the other hand, such kids also have a tendency to be perhaps a bit too prideful with themselves, see themselves as above certain rules or having to listen to authorities, are showoffs, or simply suck up to the teachers a bit too much (and yes, even as the teacher yourself, those types still can be a little irritating). These kids come in surplus, higher amounts than you would find in "normal" schools, and thus, this presents both a higher amount of both the positives and negatives that come with that.

Not that you're really complaining or anything. For the most part, they're all very pleasant students to teach. You get plenty of wonderful students that are a delight to have, even if some have their moments every now and then. The few truly not-so-great ones are the minority, and even then, the fulfillment you get from enriching lives and all that makes it worth whatever inconveniences you have.

There's also another element that can be even more of a challenge to deal with than the students themselves: the parents. In this environment, it's a well-known, terribly-kept secret that administration chooses which students are to be taken into higher degrees of consideration, given more leeway and assistance, and so on, based on their parents' donation history to the school. There seems to be a trend in which those students from the absolute wealthiest of families always seem to get the highest degree of special treatment and favoritism in several areas of the student experience.

Not that those kids are necessarily bad themselves, no, plenty of them are still great students. And some of the elite families have very pleasant parents and children alike, very wonderful families all-around.

You're actually familiar with two students exactly like that -- a pair, actually, siblings. Parents are involved in politics or something like that.

Their daughter is more or less the ideal student, successful in everything she does, and notably, has inherited the social prowess befitting someone of her status. Their son, likewise, is a high achiever, but focused particularly on academic and scholastic achievements rather than social status.

You've seen Ayato's records on file a few times before. The type that excels in everything. Every academic subject. Whereas some kids might say they're more of a "math and sciences" person while some say they're more of a "fine arts person" and others still a "humanities person," he is all of them. No one area is better or worse than the other beyond maybe a single point or two in his grade average, which are all borderline flawless, very close to if not right at a perfect score.

To your knowledge, he's involved in some sport or another, and excels in that too. A few extracurricular activities, too. He takes part in each one of those scholarly national and regional competitions they have for maths and essays and the like, and has come back with some sort of recognized finalist award each and every time. He's in the nation's respective honors student chapter at your institution. He's on the student council, too. You heard another teacher say that with his current standing, he's more or less guaranteed to be his class's valedictorian.

And you... well, actually, you feel a little pity for him when you think about it. Sure, you're certain he enjoys a lot of those things, but you also can't help but think that some of that probably isn't really his own choosing, but rather expectations that have been set for him that he has been conditioned into meeting at all costs. You see it a lot with the students at these types of schools.

You're certain it does have its costs. The one thing you haven't seen him doing a whole lot of is talking to other students. He eats lunch in the classroom while he works, since he takes so many of those special, higher-level classes. He seems to always be working on something school-related, even during otherwise free time where others are socializing.

Not that he isn't well-liked or socially apt, because he certainly is -- capable of winning over anyone, charismatic and persuasive. He just doesn't seem to have enough time to really socialize too much. He's the sort of student who is popular with everyone and well-liked by everyone, but has never had the time to form any particularly close relationships. Everyone is an acquaintance, he's on everyone's good side, but no one is truly close to him.

You're somewhat surprised he comes to talk to you, one day at complete random, walking into your room with a soft smile and a hand held up in a greeting gesture. Surely he doesn't need any help. He's always done very well in your class without needing anything.

And you're right. As it turns out, he wanted to ask you to write recommendation letters for him to turn in for various universities. You're unsurprised when, after you ask as casually as you can, he gives the names of some of the institutions he's considering: all incredibly prestigious, renowned, and notoriously low-acceptance ones, the sorts of places most kids don't apply to simply because they know they stand no chance. But for him, of course, it doesn't really surprise you, and you honestly doubt he'll have much trouble. If there's anyone set to land themselves a spot there, it would be him.

Still, it puts quite a bit of pressure on you to write the best letter you can.

You do wonder to yourself why you were his choice of teacher to go to. Sure, you like him plenty, but who doesn't? All the teachers are fond of him. You've never really had any one-on-one conversations or anything. Perhaps he's looking to study a field related to your subject. There's also plenty of that happening in these elite environments -- many kids with business or politically involved parents are already set to inherit said business or enter directly under their parents' career, and will be accepted into a high position as soon as they are ready. Some actually study for the field, but a lot of them simply go to a university for the "college experience," and simply study something they find interesting, even if it's completely unrelated to their future career. Still, you'd imagine someone like him to intend to study in a way that's dedicated to his career... well, whatever, it's not something worth pondering over too much.

So you go through with it. Normally, writing these letters doesn't take very long, honestly you just kind of write one very generalized letter, then replace the name and a few descriptors here and there for each student you write one for. For him in particular, though, you make sure to add a lot of attention-catching words that you know admissions people like to see, fluff it up to make him sound like the best student to ever walk the face of the earth and all that, then send it off to the front office to be organized and sent out.

He drops by again to thank you for it, after school a few days later. Common courtesy, nothing out of the ordinary, a lot of students do that sort of thing where they always come to thank you in-person, especially here where they're all raised under a strict concept of manners and customary practices. He shows up at your door, pleasant in expression and voice, I just wanted to stop by and thank you for... and so on. The usual. You smile and nod, and likewise give the standard response -- oh, you're so sweet, I'm happy to help... A set-in-stone sort of dialogue, as if the lines are predetermined by the social norms.

And then he adds something else.

I'm incredibly grateful. If you'll allow it, I'd like to repay you. Are you busy this coming weekend?

That part catches you off-guard, though. You sit still for a moment, blinking, hands still resting on your keyboard.

...Huh? Well, no, I don't... have anything...?

He doesn't seemed to be fazed by your clear bewilderment. He keeps that same soft smile, says that's perfect. He was a bit worried you'd end up being busy... making reservations before asking probably wasn't the best idea, but he just got ahead of himself, you know? Anyway, your address is already on the school's directory, so no need to give it to him. Just be ready by eleven-thirty in the morning or so. We'll just come to your door.

You're still rather puzzled, he's moving so fast into whatever he's referring to, but you gather the jist, that he wants to take you somewhere, which, of course, strikes you as rather odd and somewhat inappropriate.

But before you can try to find the words to voice that thought, he adds that his sister also wanted to come, she likes you plenty too and all. The two of them just wanted to show their appreciation.

Anyway, dress formal, but not too formal, you know? Somewhere in the middle. Will that work for you?

I... well, I... I guess I...

Great. Everything works out well, then. See you then. He nods, turns and gestures a goodbye, makes his way out the door while you're still blinking and sputtering and trying to process the interaction that just happened, not even close to being able to formulate a response.

...

Well. That was... a bit strange. It's a bit burdensome, really, you'd be much happier just spending your day at home at rest, you don't need to be shown appreciation in this way. And isn't it a bit odd to do something like this, considering your relationship to each other? It just seems like such an unusual proposal under the circumstances that you don't really know what to think of the matter.

Still, he means well. And besides, his sister being there makes a huge difference in terms of appropriateness. If she wasn't, well, maybe then you'd have to have a brief discussion about how it's probably not very acceptable, but since she'll be there, it's alright, you suppose.

It's probably just yet another one of those things where these wealthy young students go above and beyond on everything they do. You once had a student give you a rather pricey gift card as thanks for tutoring, and there was that other one that went on a trip abroad and brought back fancy souvenirs for every teacher, even. To these kids, expensive or time-consuming gestures have far less significance than they would to a normal person. So sure, it's odd, but you can rationalize how he would think it was something that he was supposed to do. Still, you have no idea where you're even going, and, well, you don't know him well enough that having an extended one-on-one conversation will be anything short of horribly awkward and uncomfortable.

You don't see him again for the remainder of the week, except in-class, where he doesn't stop to talk or anything, merely comes and leaves with the bell as everyone else does. You almost forget, until you get the reminder from your phone on Friday night, and begrudgingly go to find something you can wear. You're still rather bewildered by the whole thing.

But no matter how bad you thought it could be, that could never compare to how bad the awkwardness actually is, the day of. It's so, so, so unbearably awkward, coming out to meet this boy you really don't know that well, forcing yourself to return the smile and wave he gives you as you walk up to him as you talk, oh, you're so nice to be doing this...

...And then, you turn your head to look from side to side and...

...Didn't you say Ayaka was coming?

Oh, her? Well, it turns out she had something come up. She hates to miss this, but turns out she had a previous commitment that she forgot about. Such a busy girl, she's always doing something, haha. Anyway.

He just sort of immediately moves on, switching the conversation to the present moment -- it's a really nice place you're going to, his parents go there quite often, you'll like it for sure... he just sort of goes off on that, leaving you no opportunity to speak, sort of quietly shifting you over to the car... which does have someone else in it...?

Oh, yes, that's the family's driver. Don't mind him, his job is to just drive without saying anything.

Anyway.

He's fond of that word. Conversational navigation is a skill he's become rather good at over the years, largely out of necessity, considering his prospective future. When someone is starting down a path of conversation that they probably shouldn't, all one has to do is distract them, change the subject, engage them with another matter and steer them away from matters that will only go down an unwanted path of dialogue.

Yes, anyway, what a quaint little area you live in. Although these buildings are dreadfully close to each other... and there's no gates around the whole area... how unsafe. He thought that a private institution would pay teachers a little better than that. Maybe you're just frugal.

He keeps talking. You wouldn't deny he has a certain charm about him, he's an easygoing person to talk to, even if it is still quite awkward. He mostly focuses on questions about you and your work. You in turn ask him a few questions -- has he heard back from any universities yet, does he have any idea of what he wants to study, so on and so on... for someone who you've always perceived as quite the perfectionist, it turns out he's actually quite indecisive in that regard. Says he doesn't know yet, doesn't really have a place or a major in mind. Plenty of time to think on that.

You want to get this over with, nonetheless. It only gets worse when you arrive at your destination -- one of those places you would never even think about going to yourself, where everything in the building looks like it costs a fortune, down to the tablecloths and curtains. It makes you uncomfortable. And oh, oh no, the menu doesn't even have prices listed next to the options, one of those places. You're tense.

You almost feel kind of guilty, even. All you did was write a copy-paste sort of letter. Was that really worth this...?

In contrast to your unease, he's very calm and relaxed. You're pretty sure there's no way he doesn't notice how tense and uneasy you are, but he doesn't say anything about it, just keeps talking. He knows the owner of this place, actually. You see, he and his father met a decade ago in the such-and-such region (a word you could never hope to pronounce) of such-and-such country (one you've only heard of a few times in your life) at a resort his father was at on a work-related trip and... are you alright?

He finally seems to acknowledge your tension. You give a wavering, forced smile. I'm just not used to something so nice, haha...

He just chuckles. Don't worry about it. I wanted to do something nice for you, after all.

The words themselves are perfectly innocent, kind even, but there's something in his tone of voice, the way he says it, that makes you hold back a shudder. It's just so, so unbearably uncomfortable. You force another smile.

You get the cheapest-sounding thing you can think of, but of course he notices that -- really, don't worry about it, get whatever you want -- and after a bit more pressuring (almost like he wants you to get something expensive or something), you go a step up and get something that sounds like middle-ground. You're just grateful he can't have them bring out expensive wine or something, since he's not quite old enough for your region.

He talks like someone far beyond his years, in the sense that he's like one of those (usually, they'd be middle-aged, not a high schooler) men that seem to know everything about everything, are well-versed in knowledge of this or that place and the quality and make or origin place of everything in the room. You just try to listen, let him do the talking, hope it'll be over soon. You hope no one you know sees this, that you don't get spotted in some horrible coincidence that someone else happened to be here at the same time... people might think this was something... weird.

You keep up the same casual conversing as you leave, as you get back in the car (was that poor guy just waiting in the parking lot this entire time? He hasn't moved from the space he let you out in...), about this or that. Little things about the school, classes, the future. All the way back, until you see your place in sight, a quite welcome relief.

...But you feel like you need to say... something, before you leave. There's a lingering thought in the back of your mind.

As per norms, the conversation begins to close as the car slows. That sort of conclusive tone, well, it's been wonderful, that sort of thing. You get out, he gets out, walks you to your door, saying something about how he's sure you have a lot to do before Monday, so he'll leave you to it, thanks you for your time, hopes you enjoyed yourself, all the usual... But you voice your concern, slightly cutting him off, feeling it necessary.

Hey, ah, by the way... um...

He pauses. Tilts his head, raises his eyebrows, waiting for you to speak. You swallow.

Ah, don't take this the wrong way, but... don't mention this to anyone, alright? I just... I wouldn't want people to get the wrong idea.

He doesn't get offended, nor does he seem amused or anything. He just smiles and nods. Of course. No worries.

You're glad he understands. You bid him goodbye, say you'll see him next week, go inside and practically collapse on your bed. Ugh. The whole ordeal was exhausting.

It feels sort of relieving, but odd at the same time that he just sort of... leaves it at that. Doesn't mention it again aside from once, a very basic 'it was great seeing you' the next Monday, and then just sort of... returns to normal, for the rest of the week. Doesn't say a thing. Though, you do find yourself making eye contact with him more in class, he always seems to be looking directly at you. He always gives you one of those warm, closed-eye smiles when you gazes meet.

It's not until the following Thursday that something happens that's a bit... off-putting.

School let out for the day twenty minutes ago, most of the kids have left, and you also intend to leave as soon as you print a few things off. You make your way to the printer they have towards the front office, get what you need, head back to your room.

As you approach your door, you catch a familiar face coming down the hall. She raises a hand up as she sees you. Hello, Ms ____. Gives you a warm smile.

You haven't really spent that much time around Ayaka, you only ever had her in one class, but she's much like her brother in the fact that she's generally well-liked by everyone, on account of having a very pleasant, kind nature.

You smile back, unable to really wave since your hands are full. Oh, you're still here?

She says yes, that she merely forgot something and went back to go get it before leaving. A casual exchange like any other. But you figure it would be odd if you didn't mention the other day, you should probably acknowledge it, for the sake of social norms if nothing else.

Oh, and by the way, sorry you couldn't be there the other day. It's fine, I know you had other stuff going on. Tell your brother thanks again for me!

She's silent for a moment. She blinks, still smiling, but she tilts her head.

Hm? Sorry, what do you...?

A moment ticks by. A second. A third.

You shake your head, giving an awkward chuckle. Oh, nothing, sorry, I got something mixed up for a second there... A-anyway, ah, well, you have a great day, okay?

Oh, okay, ah, you too...

You walk off before she can say any more.

....

You don't like the feeling the interaction gives you. You can't get any work done, the rest of the afternoon. Your mind is far too distracted, sorting out all of your thoughts.

He wouldn't outright lie to you, would he? And if so, why?

...Well, you can think of one reason. You're not stupid. But he doesn't seem like the type of kid to be... like that. And besides, there was a valid reason to do something nice, it wasn't as if it was out of the blue. It would be horribly embarrassing, and you'd feel quite guilty, if you accused him of something that wasn't his intention regarding the whole thing. You decide not to say anything at the moment.

And neither does he. She must not have said anything to him, as he doesn't mention anything about his sister, merely greeting you as normal the next day.

Nor does he seem overly attached. You do start to notice that he lingers, after the class is over, will stop by for just a few moments to speak with you just for a moment, a very basic how's your day going sort of thing, before leaving in time to get to his next class. It's a bit odd, but it's not overstepping any boundaries or anything that would be unacceptable. You've formed close, pleasant relationships with students before, those students who just seemed to like you, in a purely normal way. They just particularly like you, and it's nothing more than that. There's no reason to think any differently of him.

He's not trailing you all the time, not smothering you, he's not overbearing. The only other thing you notice is that he often catches you on the way out when you leave for the day. Naturally, he's involved in so many extracurricular activities, that he doesn't leave school at the same time as everyone else, often staying behind for various reasons -- he's the president of some club or another, he's in the student council, so on and so on. Often times, as you're leaving for the day, you hear him call out to you, smiling and making his way over. Says he was just about to leave too. What good timing. He walks you to your car, but he never gets pushy, always bidding you farewell without any trouble or clinginess.

See, if he were acting only on impulse, he certainly would, but he's a very self-controlled, calculated person. He knows not to go overboard, to ensure he doesn't smother you. That would only irritate you, and he can't have that.

And even if he doesn't show it outwardly, he's very, acutely aware of the signals you give off, the subtle messages of the things you say and do. He could tell how uncomfortable you were that day, how awkward you seem to talk to him. But at the same time, it's the kind of discomfort caused not by you disliking him or anything, it's more situational, he can tell that much. Likewise, he can tell it's getting better, you're much more comfortable around him now, whenever he speaks to you.

Although sometimes, he prefers to just watch you from a distance. You're so cute. He's memorized the time of day you eat lunch -- most unfortunately, you were assigned a different lunch period than his classes -- and often he can see you out the window, always eating at the same spot. He enjoys just watching you go about your day, doing all your little tasks and the like.

You do feel odd, as if being watched, sometimes, but a quick glance around shows nothing, so you assume you're just overthinking things, being paranoid. You've been trying to ignore it.

And things just sort of stay like that. There's no gradual increase in the intensity or frequency of his interactions with you. He doesn't get too close, neither physically nor in the social sense. He's always polite, never pushy, always seems to exit conversations just when it's about to cross over the line of being normal for a student who is just very fond of one particular teacher.

He does get you gifts. His family went on a trip for a week, he brings you back some sort of fancy champagne and chocolate made in that country from the trip. But to be fair, Ayaka also brought a little trinket back for every teacher, she's done so more than once in the past in fact, so you figure it's just normal for them... you tell yourself so again when he gets you one of those super expensive watches, around the winter break. How generous. Still, it's no big deal (and you're not sure if you even have much use for it anyway...).

The only other thing you can't shake is the feeling of staring, how you can feel his eyes on you as you stand at the front of the classroom. That odd feeling you get sometimes when he's not around. The way his eyes fixate on you when you're talking with each other. It's all so... odd.

But he never escalates, never does anything inappropriate. So, you don't see any reason to confront him or try to stop him.

Sure, maybe he does have a teacher crush. That seems obvious to you, as time goes on. He does let something slip every now and then. Things that aren't necessarily inappropriate, per se, but the occasional compliment that is obviously not normal for a student to say, things like telling you you look nice that day, that you have such a pleasant voice, that you're just so enjoyable to talk to, with such a sincerity in his voice it goes beyond a casual, normal interaction between two people of your sort of relationship. But even so, if he does, he's self-controlled about it, never goes too far, never does anything warranting having to say something to him about it.

In truth, he realizes that it would never work, that it's not a realistic fantasy, that it's unwise to even consider actually pursuing it. Thus, he's resolved to just enjoy the time with you that he has. He knows better than to let it go too far, to get carried away, and thus never takes things any further. You think that's a very mature way to handle it, if that is in fact the case.

And thus, you just... say nothing. You imagine he knows you know. You're polite and pleasant to him, neither encouraging anything more nor discouraging him in any way. You think it's a good balance.

The months pass. It always teeters on the edge, coming just barely short of the line where, if crossed, you'd feel something needed to be said, but it never is crossed.

About three-fourths of the year passes in total. For those in their final year, as he is, a lot of them are getting anxious, excited, lots of feelings all at once, as they draw nearer to closure on their current "chapter of life", as some call it. Still, they have a while longer to go, but nonetheless a lot are already thinking about the future.

You were anticipating NOT having to handle the year-end events. They rotate which teacher gets assigned to it each year. Some gathering they host at an off-campus venue that goes on all night, a teacher is assigned to essentially stay a while just in case something bad happens needing an ambulance to be called or the like (the requirement for a teacher to be there for a while was implemented after there was such an incident when a kid fell off the side of a staircase a few years back), but the general practice is that said teacher leaves after a while and the kids are left unsupervised... probably for the best, or else said teachers would probably be under legal obligation to report the sheer amount of underage drinking, among other questionable substances being passed around. Besides, it's off-campus and not official, so they don't have to have someone there the whole time.

And you, well, you did it last year. It's a high-energy social event, it's always loud and annoying and you end up leaving with a massive headache, so you were hoping to be spared this year.

He asks you out of the blue one day. You were expecting that maybe, towards the end of the year, he'd try to come spend time with you in some way or another, but you were not anticipating him to ask you to meet outside of school once again... especially not for this.

He comes into your room after classes have ended for the day. Comes straight to you, rather quickly rushing over, visibly excited -- it's endearing, really, whenever he gets excited like that. He's normally essentially forced into an unusual degree of maturity and seriousness, it's cute that even he can have moments where that very energetic, typical teenage-boy type of excitement shines through even still. He smiles and says that he has something to ask you. You’re aware of the event, right?

You say yes, of course, you’ve been to some in the past before… why?

Well...

He smiles. It just so happens that he and his sister volunteered to host the venue, since they have a suitably sized estate and all. His parents agreed to it.

Would you happen to be willing to volunteer as the designated chaperone? It would really make her quite happy.

It's almost like that day, months ago now, that he asked you to go out to eat as thanks; you sort of stare and blink, caught a bit off-guard by it. You try to formulate a response.

Oh, well, ah...

She'd love for you to be there, he adds. Oh, and of course, he would want you there too. But you know, forget him, he wouldn't want to be demanding or anything, he just knows how much she really likes you, and she wanted you to come, so...

It's a bit odd. You really don't know her all that well, you've never really spoken to the girl very much. And considering last time... well, you're not sure what happened there, maybe it was all a mutual misunderstanding. You can give him the benefit of the doubt. You'll be aware and cautious about it, so it's not like you're naively walking into it unaware.

You agree to it. Lots of people will be there, so it's not like he's got you one-on-one, and hey, maybe they'll spare you for several more years after this.

You insist, in the coming days, that you really don't need to be picked up by a driver, you can get there yourself... eventually, he relents and gives up trying to get you to agree to be picked up again. You're not really dreading it, per se, but you're not exactly looking forward to it either. It's a matter of the fact that you'd really enjoy just staying home... but, these two have been good kids over the years, so at least you can feel good knowing you're doing something for them.

You still have to more or less force yourself to get out of bed that day, make your way over there... you were given the passcode to get past the gate. There's a lot more people than you expected... did they bring the entire high school...? It's also very unpleasantly loud. Really loud, the kind of loud where you can physically feel the music vibrate against your chest, can't hear yourself think over how loudly they're talking and yelling as they move around. Sigh. Kids these days.

You don't have to go looking for Ayato. He's already striding up to your the moment you walk up, asks if you had any trouble getting in, more or less immediately starts talking about... well, you're not certain. You can barely hear a word he's saying, both the music and the kids themselves are so loud. And most of them fairly intoxicated too, you're pretty sure he's the only one that isn't... you suppose you'll just have to turn a blind eye and pretend you didn't witness that part, or any of the filled coolers laying around.

He notices your discomfort more or less immediately. Ah, too loud for you? There's a quieter room inside, if you would prefer to go in.

You nod. If it's not too much trouble.

Hm?

I said, if it's not too much... You end up trailing off, shaking your head and not bothering to even try to speak over the noise, just gesturing and letting him take you in. At least the house is a ways away from all their neighbors, the people here all have a lot of land surrounding each house.

It's immediately quieter inside. You're led into a foyer area, then into a hallway... all very empty and quiet. You pass by various rooms, each of which have some purpose or another, additional rooms for various purposes the average house would not include. You reach a staircase headed down. He doesn't say much. You follow behind. You realize you didn't actually run into Ayaka at all... you suppose you'll have to talk to her later.

You end up in a... room. Not a bedroom or a living room or any sort of standard, definable room that the average person has in their home, but rather, some sort of extra lounge room in the basement. It's not the sort of average damp, cold, grey sort of basement, no, they have the whole thing furnished, there's a huge TV, a fridge, carpet, and so on... and it's completely devoid of people. Empty. When he said there was a quieter place inside, you were still assuming that meant that there would be other people, not an empty room... at least it is quiet. You can still sort of hear the noise outside, but it's all muffled.

He doesn’t seem bothered by it. So loud out there, it's much better in here right? Nice and quiet. Do you want something to drink? Hang on, there’s bottled water over there in the fridge, he’ll get you one. He’s moving and talking rather fast, you can barely get a word in – you can’t help but wonder if it’s intentional, to prevent you from saying anything, and if likewise he’s moving around so much to prevent you from speaking to you directly.

Go ahead, sit down wherever you like…

…You know it’s too much. You shouldn’t be doing this, allowing it. But it’s peaceful in here, whereas out there… and you only have to stay here a short while, right? That’s how it always goes, the teachers are just there arbitrarily to ensure it doesn’t seem completely without supervision, no one actually needs you to be out there. He probably just wants to talk to you some more.

You sit, but very tensely, body rigid and ready to stand back up at any moment. It would also, of course, be rather bad if anyone walked in here. You wouldn’t get in too much trouble just by being in the same room alone, but it wouldn’t look good, for sure.

But you also can’t just tell him you want to leave. Not when he comes over smiling as he does, extending his hand to give you your water, that soft, endearing expression.

He’s not doing anything wrong. You would feel awful if you hurt his feelings in some way.

You can just stay a while. Yes, that will work. Just stay another hour or so, entertain conversation with him, excuse yourself and say you have to head home. You can even get up every few ten minutes or so to go check on the crowd of kids, right? Better in here than out there. You trust him not to actually do anything bad.

So you sit there. Stiff and uncomfortable. You’re on a sort of sofa, with you pressed right up against the arm of it, trying not to make it too obvious you’re leaning away, and with him sitting more towards the middle. You try to break the tension. So, have you decided on what you’re doing after graduation yet…?

It’s a good transitional question, it helps get a conversation going. Ah, yes, he’s planning to go to this institution… it wasn’t his first choice on its own, but he decided he wanted to stay somewhat close to home, you know? Still undecided on a field of study, but he has a few things he’s been considering…

You talk for a few more minutes. It goes back and forth, back and forth. He finishes answering one question, but before you can ask another, he asks you one of his own.

What about you?

You tilt your head, give a soft hm?

Oh, he just meant… what are your plans for the future? Didn’t know if you intended to stay here or not, is all.

You shrug. You haven’t really thought about anything other than staying right where you are, really, and unless circumstances pull you elsewhere, you were more or less intending to stay at this school until retirement.

I see.

There’s something off about the tone of his voice. As if that answer was somehow incorrect, as if he has thoughts on it. His expression is rather flat and neutral. You pause. You ask him if something is wrong.

And just like that, he returns to that soft, more pleasant sort of resting smiling expression. Ah, well, no, it’s just, I can’t help but think you must be under a great deal of stress here, you know?

You give a sheepish laugh. Well, it certainly is often sometimes stressful, but you like what you do.

There's a pause.

Do you have any other passions and hobbies, outside of work? I was just thinking, you probably don't get a great deal of time to work on them.

To be fair, he's right about that part. You sigh, say yes you do, you list off some of the things you enjoy doing. Haven't had any time to work on them recently though, you add, just too busy. But it's alright, you'll get around to it eventua--

Have you ever considered early retirement?

The question seems to pop up out of nowhere. You raise your eyebrows. Huh?

He doesn't seem deterred by your confusion. In fact, he seems like he really wants to bring up the matter, almost as if he's been waiting to do so. Leans forward, elbows on his thighs, interlacing his fingers.

It would be ideal if you had the financial support, right? Perhaps you should consider it. You're so very busy, it must be incredibly stressful, it's really not good for you. It leaves you with no time to go out and do things for yourself, no time to meet anyone. If you were able to quiet your job, think about all the things you could do! Surely you have hobbies and passions you'd rather be pursuing, yes? And you probably want a family, no? You'd need to have far more free time for that. Besides, you're really at the age where you should be thinking of settling down and marrying and having children, don't you think?

...He seems to catch himself. His mouth opens again, like he had more to say, but he stops short, goes quiet. Ah... well, never mind that. Uh...

You can see a sheepish unease on his face. He realizes he stepped over that boundary, the line he's been so perfectly teetering on the edge of all these months. For just a moment, it breaks his composure, you see a slight sense of panic in the way his eyebrows furrow, the way he leans back just ever so slightly.

And you, well, it catches you off-guard, almost shocked at the boldness of such a thing to say. Struggling to think of the right words, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

That's not appropriate.

Maybe you could have worded it differently, but the audacity of saying something so out of line does take you by surprise.

He doesn't react poorly, though. As quickly as his composure broke, so he regains it in the same few seconds.

Ah... my bad. Apologies.

But he pauses. There's a hesitation in his body language, the way his lips part like he's going to speak. Like he knows he shouldn't keep going, but has to, a sort question refrained from asking for so long that the urge is unbearable.

..Just... out of curiosity... would you not want that opportunity if it were extended to you? Because... It's just that...

You stand up. An abrupt motion, it causes him to go silent.

You take a deep breath in, sigh. You shake your head, hold a hand up to your head, rub at your temples.

This has gone too far.

You don't explicitly say out loud what you mean by "this". You don't have to. There's a mutual understanding. You both keep pretending to not know, keep ignoring it and refusing to acknowledge it, but you know it comes as no surprise to him either that you're aware.

There's a silence that follows. He doesn't seem angry or distraught. His eyes go wide for a moment, he looks startled by the suddenness, but his expression goes cold, neutral, eyes slightly narrowing, face otherwise expressionless. But he doesn't say anything.

It's my fault, you add. I allowed this to go on too long.

And you do mean it -- you think back now, you feel guilty. You should have nipped it in the bud sooner. And finally, you finish --

I'm sorry. Really. You're a good kid, you really are. I just... this isn't right of me to be down here. I should go.

You grab the bag you brought with you. You take a step back. The silence is so horribly uncomfortable.

His eyes close. There's an obvious disappointment on his features. He takes a deep breath in and out, but nods.

...I understand. Do you need any help getting to your...?

No, I'm fine. You start to turn away. Thank you, really. I'm... grateful for everything. I just... sorry. This is just how things have to be.

And you leave. You turn, you walk as fast as you can without breaking out into a jog, footsteps rapidly clacking against the hard floors.

You make a beeline back out, ignoring the volume, keeping your head down. Don't stop to talk to anyone -- most of the kids themselves are too intoxicated to notice your presence anyway. You make a straight path for home. You realize you never did get to go see his sister... but you get the sense she probably didn't even know you were there in the first place, much less was the one that wanted you there.

You feel ridiculous for shedding tears over the matter, but you can't help it, as you lie there in bed after getting home. You don't bother to eat or shower, merely crawling under your covers as you feel your eyes water. It's all so uncomfortable and unfortunate, and frankly, you feel horribly guilty. You had opportunities to stop it, you probably should have. Now you probably hurt the poor thing. And how are you going to handle seeing him again from now on? It's all so much, it's overwhelming... you wipe your eyes, trying to blink the accumulated water away before it actually starts to run down your face. You resolve to try and rest now... you can handle everything when the morning comes. You can't take anymore tonight.

...

...Well, that certainly did not go over well.

He normally doesn't like to be particularly dramatic, but it would be a lie to say he didn't more or less feel like he's been stabbed in the chest. Ugh. He ends up slouching back, laying down and staring at the ceiling... now that racket from outside is starting to sound even more annoying.

He wasn't expecting much, granted. Knowing it was unrealistic, he tried to push away indulgent fantasies where it went perfectly, like some sort of cheesy pornography plot... although maybe he should have gone with the original plan to give you alcohol, that would have worked better... he wasn't dumb enough to take you to a bedroom, but still, this couch is very wide, it would have worked just fine... ugh. No, no, this is the exact type of unrealistic fantasy he was referring to. Never mind that.

He really, really, really didn't want to have to do this. To do something that hurts you. But you're being so difficult. He's been so nice to you, and he's been so careful to hold himself back, to not be overbearing. And yet, this is what he gets in return for all that time and effort spent. Did you not even comprehend what you're being offered?

No, of course you didn't, now that he thinks about it. You were so caught up in recognizing and reacting to any acknowledgement of whatever... thing you have between you is, that you didn't actually stop and think about what he was actually saying. Maybe you will, now. You'll go home, think back over his words, understand exactly what you're turning down. There's no way you would actually reject it, if you're in your right mind and in a steady, stable emotional state. Maybe you'll come back tomorrow and apologize. Surely you won't wait until Monday to speak to him again.

He can forgive that. Yes, even though you were incredibly hurtful, he understands you're just concerned about your perception of social norms and doing the right thing and all. 'This is just how things have to be.' That was what you said. Yes, so you do want it, even if you don't realize it, you're just allowing yourself to be held back by all these... unnecessary outside forces, getting into your mind. He understands how that happens. It's forgivable.

He'll give you one day, then. Rather than acting on the backup plan now. You have twenty-four hours before he actually starts going down that path.

If not, though, well... he can't afford to have this take too long. He's already considered, too, the possibility that you may try to get him in some sort of trouble, too, and he can't have that... so he has to be proactive, and take care of you before you can get him in trouble.

He's already told his parents it may be necessary for them to speak with the school, that he was having some issues with a particular teacher... if he says nothing, they'll just forget about it, but if he brings it up again, adds in some... fabrications, well, they'll surely want a word with administration on his behalf.

In fact, maybe he wouldn't even have to come up with something to accuse you of. Pretty sure his parents donate more money to the school annually than your salary, even. They can afford to lose you easily, might not even take convincing. Blacklist you from the entire region of institutions. And what will you do then? Come crawling back and apologizing? That would be quite nice, actually... but he's not so cruel as to wish that on you.

Regardless, he's sure you're going to come around, once you're convinced to reconsider. Maybe an opportunity isn't quite enough. What you need is a little push.

#.ay #lena's asks

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