𓇢𓆸 Rupture 𓇢𓆸

Lee Felix Fic! Recommendations

(pt 1) my blog tw! — some chapters/oneshots may contain heavy smut,horror,angst read at your ownrisk. 🕷️ — smut 🐈‍⬛ — fluff 🐦‍⬛— angst

CHURCH – Chase Atlantic

▶• ||ıı|||ıı|||||ı|ıı|ı. 0:30

! Miniseries + synopsis

TWIN FLAME by @/seospicybin

• 🕷️🐈‍⬛🐦‍⬛

— Back home for a summer holiday, you meet the new next-door boy, Felix, who will turn your summer into a burning bright one.

HAPPY PILLS by @/seospicybin

•🕷️🐈‍⬛🐦‍⬛

— For the most talented dancer slash the most popular boy in art school, Felix could date anyone at his choosing but he chooses you instead, even though the whole school knows you’re a ticking bomb that could go off any time.

ON TOUR by @/seospicybin

•🕷️🐈‍⬛🐦‍⬛

— Your best friend, Felix, is in a rock band and he takes you to join him on tour as the band's photographer. On the road, you learn how to deal with his bandmate, Hyunjin, who's not very welcoming of you .

Weathering your shades of blue by @/blossomwritesthings

• 🕷️🐈‍⬛🐦‍⬛

— ever since you were born, all you've ever known is living a simple life in the small australian coastal town of bridgeport bay. you're content with working at your parent's beachside restaurant angel waves for the rest of your life, and you're happy with your place in the world - you have good friends and an even better boyfriend. that is, until everything comes to a standstill when a familiar face from the past visits town for the summer. and in the wake of his return, lee felix upturns everything you thought you were content with here in your comforting little beach town.

! Oneshots/Drabbles

SUNSHINE by @/j-One25

• 🕷️🐈‍⬛🐦‍⬛

— You officially hit rock bottom. Living in a shitty apartment in a foreign city, recently broken up with your cheating boyfriend and overall just done with everything, you decide to at least have a little bit of fun when reinstalling that useless dating app.

WINGS by @/j-One25

• 🕷️

— “Oh, poor Y/N, what happened to you?” Felix, your favourite fairy, asks once he witnesses your drenched clothes.

SWAN LAKE by @/j-One25

• 🕷️🐈‍⬛🐦‍⬛

— Felix has always been a hopeless romantic and believes he always will be. His life gives him hope again, when he meets you all unexpectedly for the first time.

HURRICANE by @/j-One25

•🕷️🐈‍⬛

— Freezing in your apartment due to a heater problem, it seems as if only one person can save you - your enemy Felix

but I'll know by @/yeahspider

• 🐦‍⬛

— one hour . that’s how long felix had to wait before he could see you again .

Already over by @/yeahspider

• 🕷️🐦‍⬛

— saying that what you guys had was never good to begin with . but they wouldn’t get it . because they’ve never been loved by lee felix .

Casual by @/yeahspider

• 🕷️

— felix was never good at taking it slow . when he loved someone who loved them fast and intensely. and it was no different when it came to you .

Why does it hurt? by @/skz317cb97

•🐦‍⬛

— When your soulmate Felix can feel everything you feel he wonders, why does it always hurt?

Untitled #6 by @/matryosika

• 🕷️

— It was an accident. He didn’t mean to see that. He was just curious.

Untitled #8 by @/matryosika

•🕷️

— He was always unpredictable. There was always something else hiding behind that warm smile and those bright eyes —something that, not even in a million years you would dare to figure out.

Voice by @/matryosika

•🕷️🐦‍⬛

— "you are doing so well, precious" felix says

﴾ she’s my collar

pairing: han jisung x f!reader

genre: idol au, one-shot, smut

word count: 10,1K

warnings: alcohol use ⋆ choking ⋆ mutual!choking ⋆ switch!han and switch!reader ⋆ mostly sub!han ⋆ mommy!kink (ehm…yup) ⋆ spitting! ⋆ fingering (f. receiving) ⋆ unprotected!sex ⋆ creampie!

summary: while playing a game of spin the bottle, you learn some very interesting things about your friends that night, but probably the most memorable one of them is when the cute boy next to you confesses his dirtiest dream

author’s note: another boy absolutely obsessed with the reader, but that’s exactly how it should be

──────────────────────

You lick your lips, tangy liqueur burning at the back of your throat. Mind fuzzy, you feel your body softly vibrating with the side effects of your sugary drink. Even after one taste you just knew it would not be long, before you would feel your body loosing up, laying back in to the back of the couch with a heavy sigh. The bartender, your long haired friend, sure is not shy with alcohol and looking around the room your blurry vision falls on the mess on the living room floor. If you knew that you would be in such a state like this, you wouldn’t spend so much time getting ready. The black dress, which was probably way too formal for a small house party, started to stick to your skin from the humid air and alcohol in your system. You pulled your hair up just to feel the light breeze going through the room, skin glistening in the soft light, itchy slightly with sweat. You just know you look like a total mess, but there is someone who finds himself disagreeing with this statement.

Han nervously played with the liquid inside his glass, thirsty, but not taking a sip, because he couldn’t miss the opportunity to literally gawk at you. He wasn’t subtle with his looks, but you out of anyone didn’t notice it. Maybe because you got kind of used to his big, doe eyes looking at you or maybe you are simply oblivious. His friends already knew about his little fascination with you, but they didn’t say anything — but one thing about it was funny. Han looked like he didn’t know it himself.

Did he really not realize how much time he spends just staring at you? Tonight especially. Though he did register how he got completely stiff when you walk in with that pretty, little dress, makeup done a little darker than usual. He has an eye for a detail, literally spending the whole party going over your body with his eyes. The first time, the only time, he didn’t look at you was when he got seated next to you. He wanted to sit across from you, get a clear view of how your legs spilled out of your dress, how your fingers played with the pillow between your thighs, how a drip of sweat slowly rolled over your neck down, right between your breast— but no…He has to sit next to you, because of his friend who though it would finally help him talk to you.

You are friend of Seungmin’s. He still remembers when he first met you — so sweet and smiley, he wondered how could you be his friend, but the more he got to know you, he realized, you are really different from what he first thought. Well, get to know you in the sense of watching you from afar and maybe throwing a few words when you would be having a conversation with one of his friends. He usually wasn’t so quiet — Is he really that stupid? He knows that maybe there’s a small crush or something, maybe he is just admiring you. Though his silence, almost shyness, seems to be natural when it comes to you.

There is something pulling him in…He must say that he always liked how confident you are. You didn’t put yourself above or anything, but your humor and the way you spoke made him feel like a fucking high school girl who has a crush on the one popular jock. Oh, but you do really make his heart throb as he purposefully, unintentionally, took a deeper breath to inhale your spicy perfume. Even if he doesn’t want to keep himself away from you, your whole presence intimidated him enough for him to tuck himself a little away from you. Not to make you uncomfortable and also for him to not do anything stupid.

You tilt your head slightly to the direction of the man next to you who for a while seems to only shuffle around in his seat. You wipe away the sweat forming on your forehead, before putting your attention back to the game before you. Few minutes ago you laughed at the idea of playing spin the bottle, but after putting few new rules and twists to it, you are kind of really getting in to it. After few rounds of spinning, still not being picked, you grew amused with the scandalous questions and answers from the guys. However when the bottle suddenly points at you, your smile flatters.

Seungmin watched your face fall into small scowl, completely natural reaction you always have when looking at him. His brown eyes for a second flicker to his friend next to you who again is only looking at you, but other than that his attention is fully on you. “Choose your next words wisely, Kim.” You say, eyes forming into slits at the way he grinned evily.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be anything crazy.” Those words sounded ridiculous coming from him, but you only lean back on the couch, challenging him. The twist to this game is probably the results of the alcohol. From what you heard so far your jaw dropped every time at every new information about your friends and you think that you now know a little too much about them. The brunette across from you, basically knows everything about you and than makes it easier for him to choose his question, easier for him to embarrass you. “Y/N, do your favorite position with someone of your choice.”

Your lips parted in shock. Your hand flies to smack him across his exposed thigh peeking from his jorts painfully, the noise being muted by the others laughing. You scoff at him, watching in small delight how he hissed in pain. You immediately feel heat traveling to your already hot cheeks, eyes going back and forth between your friends. Everyone was still laughing drunkenly, everyone expect him as you turn to look into his direction.

You think he looks even more flustered than you. His pouty lips, stained a little red from his chapstick, fall apart, eyes wide, glistening in the darkness. When you turned your head to him, he almost jumps out from his spot next to you. Han’s heart skips a beat from the question, more like a dare, send your way. He doesn’t know if he wants to know the answer, because that would mean you would have to do it with someone — someone else than him. God, he wished for you to pick him. Seungmin wants to kill him doesn’t he? Maybe it is a payback for the time he figured him all out, he was the first one to confront him about it — of course he denied it. By giving you a free choice of choosing whoever you wanted was probably the most painful thing about his revenge.

However your eyes are still on his and he almost shivers from the way your eye color shined through your slightly smudged eyeshadow. “Hannie.” His mouth falls more open, ears ringing from the way his name fell from your tongue, he nearly forgot his own name.

You could have chosen anyone. Maybe your close friend and put him into some embarrassing position as a payback, but you chose him. He felt sick to his stomach, but in a good way. The lump in his throat was hard to swallow as his whole body froze for a moment in shock. From his small inner tantrum, your sudden difference in body language came unnoticed till now.

The laughing stops at your voice, everyone turning back at you with their own faces of shock. Yours is only turned to the man facing towards you. You feel a small nervousness creeping up on you from his silence, maybe the alcohol gave you a little too much confidence. “You up for it?” You trail off slightly, not so sure about your chosen partner at the moment.

Han however feels his body shake in adrenaline, sitting up quickly. “Yeah-“ His voice was kind of piched, making him cough into his fist, already dying of the embarrassment as his friends snicker. “Yeah, sure.” He corrects himself, leaning back in to his hands, trying to act nonchalant. His friends watch him and you carefully, but not laughing further, they kind of wished for this to happen. They are invested in your answer and also eager to see their friend finally getting to be close to his dream girl in some way.

Han’s confidence which was already fake from the start, now flies out of the room, when he watches you make your way closer to him. His boba eyes fall on to the pillow between your legs, silently wishing you would shove his head between them — wait that would be his favorite position, how silly of him. The soft material is thrown away, drool forming in his mouth as he catches a quick view of your soft thighs and the way you for a moment sit up to pull your dress down, they just so happened to smash together so beautifully.

All air then gets taken away from him when you make your way to him, but mostly because you boldly crawl up to him. The vibe in the room shifts slightly as you go closer to him on your hands and knees. You don’t even know where the confidence of doing that came from but the look on his face is totally worth it, you don’t even look at the other people in the room as they only mimic his expression and his is the only one that mattered. He wants to look away from you, heat spreading all over his chest and face, but the way you move so smoothly and they way your tits spill over your top, is basically impossible for him to look away. You have him totally under your spell, he hopes you know your own immense sex appeal, because watching you crawl over to him from between his legs, should be illegal.

You stop before him, your hands touching his legs, balancing your weight. “Lay down for me.” Han is literally in heaven right now. He almost whimpers at your honeyed voice, eyes falling on to the soft fat of your chest. You literally have him mesmerized so it isn’t too difficult for him to comply, but he still feels how his breathing becomes heavier when he slowly layed back on the floor.

You wish he doesn’t see your hands shaking when you touch his knees, pushing his legs down, so he lays completely flat. You can’t lie that you are not enjoying they way he is trying so hard to look unfazed — Is he really that nervous around you, like Seungmin told you or is it because you crawl up his body like a predator?

Both, definitely both.

Han thinks he will never get this view out of his head ever. You are careful enough not to touch him too much as you suddenly come into his field of vision. Gosh, how pretty are you actually? Your hair falls to your face slightly since you hover above him, licking at your lips. If it would be possibly, he would turn into dust, watching you slowly sit down on his upper thighs, hands falling on his heaving chest. He hopes you don’t feel his heart pounding, he hopes you don’t feel him getting hard like a pathetic boy. He just can’t help it, he can’t help those dirty thoughts racing through his head. He wants so badly to touch you, left hand forming into fist as he looks up at you.

You nearly let out a sound, gasp of sorts, from the view you are having. His eyes were slightly glossy as his spit licked lips, looking good enough to eat. The glasses on his nose fogged up slightly at the bottom from his deep breath which you feel him take under your fingertips. You for a moment forgot about the others, not even caring that your dress is pushed up. You want so badly to sit down, to not be hovering, but already this is even for you too much. He looked so yummy with his sweater pulled down his one shoulder, exposing his collarbones, Adam’s apple bobbing, having the biggest argue to bite at it.

However a voice speaks up at the moment, making you and your current partner snap back to reality. “Cowgirl?” Seungmin voices out, looking at you like you just grew a second head. “That’s it?”

You choke a little over your answer, pushing your weight more onto your hands as you look back at him, not missing the small huff under you. “And? Simple, but good…” You answer, shruggering.

“Who would’ve guessed, Y/N likes to be on top.” Laughs Hyunjin and to you it kind of sounded like an insult, immediately glaring at him, but your head snaps to the man next to him.

“Kind of expected you to be a pillow princess or something.” Says Minho, taking a sip of his beer. His eyes held a teasing look, smirking at you and mostly his friend who still had his eyes on your figure.

“Yeah…” Agrees your close friend again, head tilted up to the ceiling like in thought, before shaking his head with a small smile. “Can’t imagine you toping someone.”

You nearly roll your eyes at them, it hurt your pride a little. Your fingers scrunch up the soft material of Han’s sweater, weight now fully on your hands. He doesn’t move, because he simply couldn’t as he feels the delicious pressure on his body. While you were conversing, you probably didn’t even realize that by leaning more forward, your back formed a little arch. He almost missed the saliva rolling over the corner of his lips, head pulled to the side just to see the way your body formed into the beautiful arch. Fuck, he hopes you don’t feel him under you, because he tugged himself into his boxers maybe a little too stupidly back into his room, where he literally spend his whole day picking up his outfit with Jeongin’s help. If you would just push yourself a little higher, to the right, you would be literally grazing his —

“I can…” Han nearly chokes over the word, eyes widening, not even expecting himself to speak up. You then look down at him, your eyebrows raising to your hairline in a silent question. This all feels to him, like he should be thankful for even getting a look at you like that. “I mean–“ He laughs, but it doesn’t sound amused, he only let the noise out of embarrassment he literally put himself in, it was going so well for him till now…well, at least he can say that he had you on top of him at some point. “–it’s hot when a girl tops.” He swallows, lips jumping into a small smile, feeling sweat drip down his forehead from yours and his friends’ stares.

You have never felt so full with power, looking down at the cute, flushed boy with a smile. Slapping him across his chest, made his body jump, eyes widening, before he snaps his hips immediately back down. “Thanks, baby boy.”

He knew it was meant as joke, watching you in disappointment as you stand up, but he couldn’t stop his cock from twitching in his pants. He immediately sits up at that, grabbing the pillow you were holding before and putting it between his own legs. His moves are so obvious to all of his male friends he wants to literally die, but some of them look like he wasn’t the only one moved in some way with your small performance. The realization that the pillow was literally between your plush thighs, really doesn’t help him find his composure.

You black out a little from the moment you pull away from Han, because you can’t believe you just did all that and said that. It rolled out of your tongue so naturally that it shocked even you. Your hand grasps one of the pillows next to you, putting it between your legs, so you won’t expose anything, well you think you definitely did flash someone by crawling up to Han like a slut, but whatever. It was mostly because you don’t want anyone to get a glimpse of the growing wet spot on your panties. You know it’s not the alcohol anymore, after what you did, you are totally sober.

You were never that shy about speaking about things like that, but this kind of comes to the top of the list of the wildest things you have ever done. You can’t look at him, you can’t. You can’t however get him out of his head, how good he looked under you…You look up from your hands playing with the pillow between your legs, eyes falling on the muscular man, watching his lips move, till you finally find your sense of hearing again.

“Who you would make out with in this room?” From this and the other questions, you think you kind of had the worst one. With only being your first one, you already thought it was enough. You wished that it was something like this, instead of the thing that you did, but deep down you kind of enjoyed it in some sick way.

The question was meant for the cat like man who really didn’t seem to be even a little bit bothered by such question. “Easy, Y/N.“ Minho almost scoffs, gesturing to you, before looking at you for an answer.

From the look in his eyes you think he is hiding something from you, like he knows something you don’t. You give him nothing in return, still salty about his comment, but the man next to you definitely had to pull a face or something as the oldest points at him. “Han looks a bit offended there.” Chan laugh blends into the rest of the cackle and even if you also smile in amusement, there is still confusion. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, but his hair is too into his face to let you see him. Thank God, because he would dig his grave even deeper if you would see his furiously red face.

Jeongin brings the attention back to the game as he grips the glass bottle in the center of the circle to spin it again. You watch the bottle spin quickly, reflecting the lights before it stops right between you and Han. However the youngest doesn’t think further about who is more close to it, eyes falling on his friend immediately. “What kink you haven’t tried before?” It still shocks you that this cute faced guy can be sometimes so blunt.

Your own interest in his answers makes you look at him and like he can just feel your stare, he also glances at you briefly. He humms long and loud in thought, eyes going everywhere around the room, before he tugs his head back into his chest. But you didn’t know that from the corner of his eye, he was watching your fingers playing with material of the pillow. His mind grew fuzzy at your lovely manicured nails, mouth again opening before he could even think his answer through. “Ehm…choking?” He answers truthfully, but he wishes for the day he could lie instead.

“What — really?” Says Felix, the others also voicing out their own disbelief.

Han only nods, already wanting to end this conversation, but he can’t help himself from glancing at you to see your own reaction. To his surprise you are not looking at his flushed face, but at his fingers instead. He stops the unintentional playing with his rings, the move making you look up at him through your eyelashes. Your gaze meets his and he again doesn’t look at you, simply because it is impossible. However to his surprise you look away from him first when both of yours eyes met. Did he just catch you checking out his hands? Now he is the one feeling powerful, liking this new, shy look on you just as much as the other.

────

You don’t even know how you lasted this long. It is now the early hours after midnight, maybe not that spontaneous, but considering the party was going on since the late afternoon, you are really shocked that you are still standing. You think that the reason for your upstanding is the game of spin the bottle which kept your body and mind occupied till now. You only drank soft drinks after that, craving something sweet. Sadly your sweet tooth wasn’t suppressed, because there was something way more sweeter you were craving.

Han, not to your surprise again kept this weird distance between you two. Perhaps the thing that you put him through totally blew any chance you had with him. However you are also aware that his silence was a little different from the other ones. Those times felt like he was just kind of shy, but now? He literally looked like he was trying so hard not to finally say something to you.

You spend a long time in the bathroom after that. Trying to make yourself a person again as well as also trying to calm yourself down. You still can’t believe you basically sat on him like that…also this one thing still lingered in your mind. Choking. How on earth had he not tried it before? You don’t know about his game, but from what you have seen he seems to be quite bashful about this kind of thing. Though when you would catch him with the guys talking, he was always the loudest of the bunch. Maybe he didn’t like you? No, he liked you a little too much…

As you felt somehow fresh, wiping of any smudged makeup on your face and also washing the sweat off your body, because you couldn’t function otherwise, you did feel confident enough to walk up to him. Everything is now cleaned up, looking like there wasn’t a party at all and now it was the time for sleep. Seungmin, even if he mostly acts like he isn’t actually one of your closest friends, let you have his bed, while he would sleep on the couch. Still it shocked you a little, because he likes his beauty sleep, but he only scoffed at you, saying that the couch was actually way more comfortable than his bed ever will be. Oh, how you loved your friend’s love language sometimes…

You approach Han while he pulls out a bottle of water from the fridge. You are thankful that everyone else was already either in their room or showering, because you just had to stop in your steps to just stare at his profile. Your eyes travel down his strained neck, head thrown back, you watching closely how he eagerly swallows every drop. A small drop rolls from the corner of his lips and you wonder how can someone look so hot when drinking water, because the way the liquid rolled down his sharp jawline all the way down is throat was simply sinful.

Wiping the small drop of water from his neck, he almost chokes on his water when he sees you from the corner of his eyes. Pulling the bottle away from his lips quickly, he looks at you with big eyes, you not really catching his spooked reaction, because you are trying so hard to play it cool right now. “Do you have something I could change into?” You ask him, breaking the awful silence between you.

“Doesn’t Seungmin have anything for you?” Is his immediate response and your mouth opens and closes at that. His question is genuine, but also yours makes him jump in the inside.

You smile softly at him, shrugging. “You know how he treasures his stuff…” Looking at him, you realize that maybe you shouldn’t have asked him that. You were already bold enough for today…His face didn’t tell you much, but from what you can see, it looks like he doesn’t want to. “Sorry, I’ll ask someone else–“

His hand silences you, lips pulled together. He again feels embarrassed by the way he reacts so brightly yet so dimly around you, but he can’t missed the opportunity of giving you something his. “No…come with me.” Your face forms again in the same smile as before, but now it is more genuine.

He knows his steps are looking a little too fast, eager even, but when he walked pass you his nose was again hit with your perfume. He really couldn’t wait anymore to give you something, for you to return it back leaving only the linger of your smell behind. When he nears his room, he suddenly remembers the small mess he left it in. He is already dying inside, because no way you will see his room, be with him even just for a few minutes alone and he really is looking forward to bask in your presence alone. Though he really didn’t want to flick the lights on and give you the view of the mess of clothes, so he just goes inside blindly, trying to find his lamp. After few stumbles he finally turned it on, but it still didn’t make the mess disappear much to his disappointment.

You however don’t really put too much mind to it, because he is man after all and also you are a little occupied with looking around his room. Few posters are plastered on the wall, eyes falling on to his guitar at the corner of his room. You remember liking every post of his playing, spending a little too much time analyzing how his fingers moved so smoothly over the instrument. Han unknowingly to you came after each one of your likes to Minho, jumping in excitement from this small gesture, only for it to be answered with a groan every single time.

You watch the brunette go through his closet, making your way to his bed. His back was turned to you, so he didn’t see you slowly lowering yourself to sit on his bed. He was too caught up in finding the perfect thing for you to leave your scent on. “So…” You trail off, so quietly you feared the he didn’t hear you, but his head snaps so quickly to you, you think he had a whiplash. “You really haven’t tried it before?” You hate yourself for not keeping this small wonder to yourself.

Han nearly forgot about you being here with him, the question striking confusion in him. “What exactly?” Maybe there is too much on his mind right now, like you for example and the need of finding something for you to sleep in.

The small pout on his face is cute, cheeks puffed out and eyebrows furrowed. Again the way he lets himself be so quiet and quite soft spoken around you, helps you come out of your shell more. The fact you don’t feel any effect from the alcohol anymore tells you that this confidence was coming from you only. In the air lingered something raw as he looked at you sitting on his bed and he really can’t say that he hates how you just sat on it without his permission. He kind of liked it how bold you are sometimes. Maybe it isn’t actually such a deal, but it is to him, any way of having you on his bed is a win for him.

You pat the spot next to to you, hand digging into the softness of his sheets. “Come here.” You say, nearly in a whisper and again you are using your spell on him.

A dumb ‘huh?’ flies out of his mouth, because that is the only answer he could form at that moment. The quietness seems to suffocate him as well as also your intense stare, looking like an angel from the way the light of his lamp created a halo around your head. It was never this quiet in the dorm ever, even at night, it felt like you two were the only people here — but in his heart it is only you.

“Come here.” You repeat again with the same tone, patting the same spot again.

Right next to you, again. A little closer, too close, he just knows, he will shut off from the proximity. But he really wants to make you happy and also he is getting really curious about what you want to whisper to him in that sultry voice of yours. Han is a literal puppet, you have him in the palm of your hand and finally — you see it. Your lips are tugged up in to a small smile as you watch him take careful steps to you, before sitting down right beside you.

With your hand blocking him from getting even closer to your body, it kind of calms him. His hands fall onto his lap, eyes going over the crotch of his jeans. The situation, the awful situation you put him through was painful and hard to get through. After you literally made him hard just by hovering over him, you put him through hell, him fighting the argue to not just go to the bathroom and jerk off, till he would cum all over himself at the thought of you. The reason was that his band members would never let him live out a peaceful day if he would and also he didn’t want you to figure it out. Not let you figure out that he would jerk off, just because of you, literally few rooms away — though it’s not like he hasn’t done it before…

“Okay.” He says, palms of his hands sweating wildly as you leaned back on to your hands. He can’t let his eyes travel down the length of your body, he can’t — “What were you talking about?” His voice came out smooth, but not too much to his the ability to talk again vanished away when you say the next word.

“Choking.”

“Oh!” Is the first thing he says, laughing again in disbelief at the way you just so casually brought this thing up. You didn’t talk much before this. Only a few side conversations about a new movie, his love for superheroes etc., but never anything that would get you guys close enough for you to get the green card to ask something so intimate. He swallows nervously as you only stare at him back, waiting. “Yeah, I have never tried it before.” He also shakes his head as he didn’t answer you already.

You know he didn’t. He seems to be honest whenever you are around and you think you’re slowly understanding his behavior towards you. Even if there’s a mask of fake confidence on your face right now, you still try to be the leader of the conversation as you also started it. The more you think this through, the more you realize how you are probably taking this way too far, but in some way you can’t help it. The thing about confidence is that no one know if it’s fake or not. However he still in some way makes you feel a little more sure about yourself, but also you still can’t help, but feel shy around him. How could you not?

You literally sat on top of him, like you would ride his cock hidden inside his baggy jeans to your displeasure. He gave you the vibe of a total loser, maybe because of the black framed glasses, but also he is the hottest guy you have ever seen. You already feel the change between you two when you hovered over his body like that. His brown eyes shined in the light the same way as they are right now, him still patiently waiting for you to continue. You at his stare really become unsure about this whole thing you are trying to get at. “And do you want to?” You ask him, your eyes momentarily falling onto his hands. “Do you want to try it?”

His lips parted at that, answer a little late as his attention is slightly taken away by the way your lips moved, forming those pretty words. “Well, yeah?” He says, both of you already knowing the answer, but his little, pretty head didn’t catch that you meant it a little differently.

“I meant with me…” You say quietly, turning away from him as he only looks at you in total shock plastered on his face.

His heart jumps wildly, head spinning from your sentence. He thinks he is dreaming, he must be, because there’s literally no way that you just said that. He wished to take you right there, but he is only capable of looking like a fish on a desert. ‘-with me…’, he repeats again. Han is ready to pass out. He already thought that he was lucky enough for you to chose him when you were playing the game, but now this? He feels his chest warm up, heat totally different from the usual one spreading across his body.

He watches you turn away from him and — is that you being shy around him? His heart already can’t take this further, but most importantly it hates the fact you are not looking at him. “Are you serious? I don’t know, we are–” He is again lost of words as usual. He really doesn’t want to say the status between you two and ruin everything for him.

Your eyes fall shut for a split second, throwing the obvious embarrassment over your shoulder so you won’t crumble at his feet. “If it would make you uncomfortable–“

“No!” You jump, frightened a little by his loudness, looking at him with wide eyes. His own flicker over your features, missing how your chests rise with the same deep breaths. “Sure!” He says, again wanting to slap himself for answering that. “I mean…whatever — it’s cool.” There is no such thing as cool when it comes to you and specifically this.

The temperature in the room rises up as your frozen body slowly melts. A short silence hangs in the air, taking your time to go over his pretty face. “Okay.” You whisper.

The confirmation makes him hot all over, fidgeting. Han held his breath as you pull yourself up, turning your body into his direction. You both look at each other with longing in your eyes, he almost making a noise when you bite down at your lower lip. He doesn’t know how it is possible, but you are even more beautiful when you are looking at him. Fully at him, no one else, just him. He can already die as a happy man when you shuffle a little closer to him, your hand just grazing his leg over his jeans. Your own breaths came out rigid as you glance at him, following the slow closing of his eyes, like a cat.

A moment past by just staring at each other and even if you don’t mind it that much, the more you glance down at his pretty hands the more you became desperate. You crave his hands on your neck, squeezing just right and hard for you to see black spots. He doesn’t seem to notice your slow struggle, looking at him in waiting. Han only has this look on his face and other than that he doesn’t move an inch. Your mouth opens, nearly a chuckle thumbling out of you by this, it was starting to get a little awkward. “Well…are you going to?” You roll the words slowly out of your lips with a small embarrassed giggle, when he still doesn’t move.

Your words snap him out of the state he is in a little, gaze traveling to your own hand that gestures to your neck. He feels the immediate known burning sensation on his cheeks and chest. “Oh!” Again with this, it seems like you always make him speechless. The shyness on your face makes him smile a little, but it was more sheepish. He should’ve known by the look you were giving him back in the living room that you meant it like this. He is starting to get the idea that there really wasn’t even a small thought of you doing it to him…Though the image of his own hand around your pretty neck is pleasing it’s just not something he truly desires. “I thought…i meant it the other way kind of–“ Han mumbles, scratching the back of his neck.

Your jaw falls to the floor a little at his confession. The embarrassment melts into something way more different after those words, even if he looks like an absolute blushing mess, he still waits for your answer. You actually are a little…troubled. Your gaze falls on to his neck, remembering how his Adam’s apple moved up and down, how the small stray string of water traveled down the length of it. “You want me to choke you?” You say, just to be sure, starting to feel the rumbling inside your tummy.

He wants to die. No way you said it out loud. He knows it was kind of obvious from his statement but still…you are literally talking about one of his biggest dreams. He can’t count how many times his own hand was squeezing at his neck, imagining it was yours instead. “Yes-“ He says breathlessly in desperation, swallowing the embarrassing reaction right after at your unrelenting expression. “Well, I haven’t try it either way, but I can do it to you.” He isn’t so sure If he could handle that, but he’s not that stupid to miss the opportunity.

You are still trying to get over the fact that he wants you to do it to him more. You completely forget that you wanted it first, because you simply can’t get the idea of having your hand around his neck out of your head. “Well, I kind of want to do what you want to do…” You say, again biting at your lip.

“Okay–“ He squeaks out.

You slowly move even closer to him, knees touching each other. You don’t waste anymore time, because you think you will go crazy otherwise. You raise your hand to his neck, watching how he nervously swallows, but you realize something. This whole thing was a little…casual in some way. You want him way closer than this, you need it. “Wait–“ You say, laughing a little at how awkward you are behaving. He nearly falls down to his knees to beg you to not stop as the hand that just graze his sensitive skin falls back to your side. “I can’t just do it — that would be weird.”

He sighs through his nose quietly. “Why?” Han hopes you don’t see the way his eyes shinned in neediness.

“It is better if it’s in the moment, you know? Otherwise it’s just not it.” You click your tongue at him, the muscle mesmerizing him for a second as you lick at your red stained lips. Han is actually really in the moment right now, he is already getting off to this in some way. He thought it couldn’t get better as you sit so closely to him, ready to choke him to a blissful death he hopes, but then you really surprise him. “Can I kiss you?” The question hangs heavily in the air. “Just to show you how it feels?”

You leaned closer to him with those words, boldly fanning your words across his face, fogging up his glasses. Han literally moans in his head. He wants to pinch himself right now, but even so if this would be a dream, he wouldn’t want to wake up. Your eyes become hooded, your eyeshadow making your whole look a little too intense for him to handle. He becomes putty in your hands, breathing out a sigh that sounded dangerously close to a whine. “Yeah, just to show me how it feels…” He repeats, already pushing his head down to line his face with yours.

“Yeah…” You say in the same tone, before smashing your lips to his.

You could taste everything on him. From his sweet chapstick that made his lips feel so soft, to the cider he drank on his tongue that slightly grazed over yours. Your eyes are closed to fully savour this feeling, but you could just tell he is trying really hard not to touch you. You want him to, those freaking hands of his make you feral. How they move across his guitar or how he simply opens a can with his middle finger like nothing, made you gush. It’s embarrassing that you are already feeling your panties sticking to you, but you can’t help it. The boy really knows how to kiss.

The quite loud smacks of your lips echoed through the room and when you experimentally pull away little, you immediately feel him chasing your lips. But you make it even better for him as your teeth wrapped around his plump bottom lip, biting and nibbling at it. His mouth falls open in a silent moan and you perfectly take the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Your tongue wraps itself around his and you have to sigh into him as your spits mix together. It was so fucking messy, just how you like it and just how he needs it. Han was completely at your mercy, body slumped forward, towards you and he just could feel the tears of pleasure burning and begging for more. He didn’t even know that this was your plan all along — to get him like this, completely drunk on you, so he wouldn’t expect your next move.

You had experience, you knew how it feels like when you are the least expecting it. You tremble just at the thought, hand touching his chest, momentarily trailing up and down. Your hand just barely touches his fresh tattoo and it makes him pull himself closer to you at that, but he completely still as your hand travels up. His kisses become a lot less precise, saliva trailing down his chin, but your own tongue stops it, licking him all up. His lips again parted, but now the whine building his chest is finally released as you wrap your finger around his neck, squeezing.

You shiver at the sound, hand already grabbing a little too hard for his first time, but he doesn’t seem to be opposed to it. He throws his head back, letting you climb onto your knees so you could still catch another small whine in your mouth. You are already soaking through your underwear, juices leaking onto your inner thighs. If he would just looked down he would see it, your lace panties completely ruined only by him. You have to pull away a little for him to see his face and it is to die for.

“Good?” You tease a little, because the pathetic frown on him is probably the best thing you have ever seen. You can feel him swallow under your hand, sweat rolling down his face and you quickly wonder what else you can do to him. The need to have him under you again is immense, you want to suffocate him with your body — in a good way of course.

Han is completely fucked right now. His cock is painfully digging into the hard material of his jeans and he knows that if you would squeeze more he would literally cum untouched. “Fuuuck…I-I–“ He can’t form any words, eyes blinking open to look at you.

You humm a little, head tilting to the side, your hair falling over both of your faces. You can see it on his face, in his eyes that the tears reflecting in them are just a pure pleasure. “Hm? Talk to me.” You say, loosing your grip a little to maneuver his head to the side. You feel his pulse pumping wildly around your fingertips as your lips touch his jaw.

A low moan rings in the air, loud enough for you to hear it. Han’s head – whole body is only supported by your hand on his throat, because he can only tremble in your hold when you kiss his jaw, all the way to his ear lobe. “Fuck me…” He groans a little, head fuzzy as your teeth nibble at his ear. Your sudden stop at your passionate kissing, makes him realize what he just said. “I mean–“ He tries to safe it by turning his head to look at you, only again going mute by the way your lipstick is smudged across your lips — he just knows it’s also all over his own and he will gladly wear it for you. “It feels good, better than I imagine, but…”

“But?” You continue, hand still unmoving, tips of your noses touching. He finds the gesture endearing.

His own tongue comes to lick at his lips and he realize he was right as he faintly tastes your glossy lipstick. His hands grip at his sheets tightly, material spilling over his fingers. He looks at you like a marvelous painting, not even feeling the small pain by having his neck in such position. “I need you closer…please.” Those are his words, the last one voiced out in a complete desperation.

You can’t fight against the smile spreading across your face and he melts again at such sight. The next thing that comes makes his cock jump, lips open wide. You swing your leg to strandle him like before, but now he could fully feel the delicious weight on him. “Holy shit–“ You really want to laugh, you really do, maybe make him a blushing mess, but seeing that this is already a little too much for him, you keep your mouth shut for now.

His throat is released from your grip, but before he could complain, your mouth is again on his. When you feel him deepen the kiss, you let out a small noise of bliss. There’s no way you can’t feel him under you and his guess turns out to be the truth when you ground yourself on him. You pull away from him again, just to hear the delicious gasp. His eyes are wide, dark, staring into yours, watching you move on his lap. There’s again this small smile on your lips and you can’t help yourself, but roll your hips harder against his to feel his tip hit your clit.

“You can touch me you know…” Your breathless voice sounds like honey to his ears, eyes shining at your request. You are starting to love the way you can make him look like this. Like a complete mess, so pathetic…If only he knew how much you are actually trying to stop yourself from just dry humping him till you both cum. You grab his hands that are still on his bed, before placing them on your waist, still not stopping your movements. “Here-“ You move his right hand up to your breast, not missing the small twitch of his cock. “–or here.” You leave his hand on your left tit, his hand fitting perfectly around it and he could your nipple poking at his palm. He watches you closely, a nasty curse flying out of his mouth when you move his other hand to your center.

He looks down at your legs, muscles jumping from your smooth moves. Your dress rides up to your thighs and when you tilt your hips closer to him, he gets a glimpse of your underwear. With the lamp light he sees the wet spot on to the front of the lacy material as well as also your stained inner thighs. Han can’t believe, he made you look like that, so wet and so full of lust, keeping his hand on your thigh for a while. You are so so soft — he remembers the day when you put that amazing smelling lotion on your legs after a day at the beach. He didn’t get a look at your bikini nor your body, because he had to go early to help Minho with groceries. He wanted to kill him for that. But now? This is better than he could have ever imagine.

He squeezes your tit lightly, only doing it harder right after when you whimper. You are a literal siren, luring him in to giving you anything and everything. He does want that. His fingers tweak your nipple skillfully, letting out a shocked moan at his sudden confidence. His other hand finally trails up you thigh, dipping his fingers in your essence before they press into you. You just happen to roll into them, sighing at the pressure. “More – give me more, Han.” You sound incredible. It should’ve come out as a plead, but he only hears it like demand.

His eyes keep going back and forth between his hand fondling your breast to you rolling your pussy, but he stops his gaze on your face. Your mouth is open, freely letting out sighs of pleasure and even if he’s probably the one that should be dominant, it’s you instead. He pulls your panties to the side, moaning with you when he trails his fingers through your folds. The grip you had on his shoulder, nails digging into his exposed skin peaking out of his sweater, makes his head momentarily roll back.

Your hole gushes more as his fingers circle your clit, you messily rolling your hips into his hand. The sight of his exposed neck and the need of being filled, the need leads you to shoving him in the chest. He lets out a small yelp as his back meets the mattress, watching you taking his hand between your legs and moving it a little more down. The tips of his fingers find your opening, letting you sit down on them.

He now finds himself again at this position with you being on top of him, but now with his fingers inside of you. The way he curls the tips of his fingers, makes you whimper, his ring rubbing deliciously against you. You are so warm and wet, your ass rubbing against him as you start to ride his fingers. “Oh…oh!” He gasps out, eyebrows shooting up as you bounce on his fingers, his hand becoming still..

Your thighs shook from the pleasure, palm of his hand just grazing over your clit. Even in your state you can’t miss how his breathing is getting heavier and heavier, like it was his cock you were riding. The thoughts make you look down, seeing the perfect outline and you realize you in fact can’t torture him and yourself for ever. “Want me to ride you?” You rasp out, the confidence radiating from you making his hips jump. “Want me to ride your cock, Han?”

“Fuck, yeah – please, ride me–“ He sounds so good like that, looking at you with puppy eyes as you pull yourself off his fingers. You miss the feeling of being filled, but you know it won’t take long before you have something even better.

You shuffle a little down to take his sweater from the front his jeans, giving you a glimpse of his hard abdomen. You are thankful that there’s no belt in your way, just flicking his fly open, pulling at the hard material and his boxers. He helps you pull his pants hallway, both of you too desperate to really strip fully. Your mouth waters as his cock springs up, hitting his stomach, the material of his sweater roughly grazing over him.

If you knew sooner that he was sporting such a pretty cock, you maybe would’ve said something sooner. His tip is painfully red, leaking, big vein running all the way from his balls to his tip. You wish for him to fuck your mouth, so deeply that the short hairs on his pubic bone would tickle your nose — next time…there will be next time definitely.

You grasp his heavy cock, thumb pushing at his hole, leaking even more around your digit. “How much do you want me, baby? Tell me–“ He moans wildly when you start to pump him too slowly to his liking.

He again gets a good view of your tits hanging out of the top of your dress, areola peaking at him. He blushes at your words, gasping as you pucker your lips, spit falling onto his tip, before spreading it over him. “I want you so bad.” He cries out at the end, because you squeeze him even harder. “Y/N, please. I wanted you for so long — ah! Do anything you want to me–“

You get a lot more out of him than you expected and his confession and plead, made you even wetter. “Anything you say?” You ask, him furiously nodding his head as you lean over his body, hand releasing him, cock slapping against your inner thigh. “Then open up–“ Han’s mouth is opened wider with your fingers at his lips and he nearly comes all over you when you spit in his mouth. He whimpers at your taste, he fucking whimpers — he even swallows it before you could even say it to him and that makes you finally sit down on his thick cock.

You quite underestimate his size, you own desperation blinding you. You feel him stretching you, burn however so good, your hips instantly roll down onto him. He already sees stars, looking onto his ceiling, wondering if was just send to heaven. Your walls suck him right in, pussy so good he already fights the urge to not fuck into you — he wants to be good to you, he wants to be your good boy.

You say his name, hands grasping the bottom of his sweater to pull it up, so you can see his slutty waist. He is so loud — he probably doesn’t even realize it, with his hands falling to your chest messily groping you, glasses already falling from his face. You let him pull the top of your dress down, tits spilling out and letting them bounce in the air. “You feel so good.” He moans, a sob or sorts falling out his lips, emotions all over the place.

He is so happy and so fucking horny. The way you move on top of him is so good that he just lets you do all of the work, pushing yourself up and down on him, rutting, hips rolling — he’s a total wreck. But he becomes a total mess when your hand again falls onto his neck, immediately grasping it roughly. “Oh my–“ He can’t finish, your grip kind of stoping him to do so, but he just can’t do anything other than be a whimpering mess. Han didn’t even know himself he could sound like that. You also let out a series of high pitched sounds, your fast movements making his bed creak and bang onto the wall. You hope everyone hears how good you are riding his cock. Fuck, Hyunjin, Minho and Seungmin, they can only wish to be in his place instead.

“Momm–“ Han chokes wildly from his own voice, eyes flying right open to look at you. Your hips shutter against his, your own eyes widening, but he could feel how you tightened around him. The grip on his neck surprisingly becomes tighter as you also pick up your speed. You never thought he would be so submissive, but you loved every second of it and hearing him almost call you that…

“Yeah, baby wanna cum? Wanna cum for mommy?” Han cries out, head pressing into his pillow. His mind spins from your words, hands gripping your waist.

He can’t think straight. A drool rolls down his chin to pool at your fingers around his neck, glancing at you. You moan at his state — he looks like a complete fucked out slut. “Please, mommy wanna cum for you, but — I-I need you to cum first-“

“Such a good boy.” You compliment him, your tongue tasting the sweat on your body. He whimpers again, letting you take his hand from your waist to put it around your own neck. “Make your mommy cum, Hannie–“ You lowly mumble.

As his own hand grabs your delicate neck, pressing into roughly, he soon sees why you love it so much. Your red face, puffy lips and his hand keeping your head tilted down for your gaze to be only on him, Han thinks that this look will be the death of him. His cock throbs inside you, feeling his tip kissing at your cervix slightly — so good. His other hand grips full of your waist, helping you move even more wildly against him.

You both gasp slightly for air, the familiar black spot appearing in your vision. Your own hand tightens around his neck, him giving you a long deep groan in return, completely different from the other sounds he gave you. Your skins meet with nasty loud smacks!, sticking and melting into each other. Your sweat starts to mix together, your hips jumping as you feel your sweet release. Like he could read your mind, he starts to fuck into you, making you see stars, his cock pressing roughly into your spot.

Your mouth hangs open, drool also rolling down your face, before in falls onto his stomach. He groans at your face, loving your messed up make-up and your body leaning more into him. When you start to moan more he keeps up the same pace, watching your legs tremble, body shaking, cunt forming a creamy ring around him as you cum. “Holy fuck! Just like that–“ Han slurs out.

You for a moment just lean into his hands, because you think you almost blacked out for real for the mind shattering orgasm. The way he still keeps fucking you, using your body to chase his own pleasure brings you to a quick overstimulation. You whine, grasping his hand around your throat and he at least loosen his grip a little to let you catch your breath. It burns, but with everything happening so fast you only cry out, squeezing his throat a little too much by your overstimulation.

Han’s eyes widened at your roughness, not missing your own state of fucked out even with the tears in his eyes. “I’m going to cum! — ohhhhhhh–“ He starts to literally sob, making you snap back to reality just to watch him cum under you.

“Gonna cum? Gonna cum for mommy? You’ve been such a good boy – you are mommy’s good boy. l-look at you, fucking this pussy so good, making your mommy cum so fucking hard –“

His hand falls from your neck, pressing into your tummy, his hips jumping as he cums inside you with a loud moan of pleasure. You gasp for air and same for him when you release him from your grip, your body slumping on top of his. With how deep he’s breathing his chest makes you move up and down, the hands on your body falling by his sides, completely wasted. His cum leaks slowly out of you, his cock still twitching and you on the other hand milking him dry. Your head is a fog and his is nothing – literally nothing, because the fact this was the best sex he ever had, makes him unable to form even a single thought.

You both take your time catching your breaths and after few deep intakes of air, his right hand start to caress the top of your head and yours his arm. You can feel him smiling when he kisses your forehead lovingly, making you mirror his expression, pulling your head from his chest. However your eyes firstly fall on his neck, red marks left behind and as he touches your own, you know you must have them also. “Did you like it?” You ask him and he rolls his eyes into the back of his head at such question and also from the fresh memories.

He groans firstly, before laughing in delight, the sound rumbling his chest. “Are you kidding?” Han asks you in disbelief, pulling you down to kiss you sweetly on your lips. “I loved it.” He whispers against your lips, your own forming into a smile. “But–will you...can I be your boyfriend?”

You laugh at him, pushing yourself up to our elbows to fully look at him. “Of course, you dummy ah!–“ You can’t finish as he flips you over, silencing your cry of surprise with a kiss.

When his laugh mixes with yours, body pressing into yours, feeling his soft cock hardening again, you knew you were in for a ride.

have you heard Seungmin covering Stitches by Shawn Mendes???

Reckless Convictions

Copyright Ⓒ 2024 by Moonjxsung

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner. Doing so will result in a legal takedown per the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and is subject to legal action.

Pairing: Han Jisung x fem reader

W/c: 31.5K

Warnings: masturbation, perversion, use of pet names, breast/nipple play, clitoral stimulation, unprotected sex, dry humping, trespassing, sex in a semi-public place (no one is around), fingering, cum eating, mention of cheating

Synopsis: Your senior year of college takes a strange turn when you develop a relationship with your professor.

18+. Mdni!

•

The first time you come across a coda in a piece of music, you are to ignore it. You may only jump to it once you’ve begun from the da segno symbol, and played through until reaching the written indication to return to the coda.

If we've passed the coda once, let this be our sign.

Come back to me.

•

Upon entering your senior year of college, the news is broken that the old lecture hall on the east side of campus is officially on its last leg as a functioning location for classes. You’re made aware of this through an email from the school’s president, detailing the intricate plans to demolish it entirely and build a new gymnasium in its place. And for the most part, the students are happy about this fact, whispering excitedly amongst themselves as they traverse the grand cherry wood flooring and picture all of the new sporting equipment this facility will soon house. They speak of the bright painted walls that will represent the school’s colors like every other new modern replacement for the old-fashioned buildings- cobalt blue and white, resembling that of a dentist’s office on most days. And they make sure to voice their very robust distaste for the spiral staircase that leads to the second floor of the lecture hall, the stairs always announcing the late arrival of students with the deafening creak of wood and a tarnished banister.

Yet as you hoist your bag further up your shoulder and follow a trail of students into the lecture hall for your first day back at classes, you can’t help but feel sorry for the old place, always having loved the courses you took here. A philosophy course one semester, where the ancient feel of the building only made stories of Greek myths more vivid as they graced your imagination. A writing course the semester after that, where your professor could hardly be bothered to properly read your essays, despite the attention to detail you gave to them. And now this course- the only remaining course with afternoon availability, something about the history of classical music.

One glance around the room tells you all you have to know about this course- it's full of students who couldn’t care less about courses pertaining to music, especially not general education ones for mindless credits. You reckon all of the students here would rather have landed art analysis, or even some form of a writing course, yet instead they’ll be stuck learning about Bach and Mozart for the next few months. Of course you’re not bothered by it, being a music major yourself, but it’s painfully evident in the way that they keep their faces glued to their cell phones and blow bubbles of gum as you wait for the arrival of the professor. The rows of chairs are fuller than you’d anticipated, groups of friends chatting amongst themselves, while those sitting alone are busy on their laptops or with headphones blasting muffled music.

You settle on a spot in the middle, away from most of the students already acquainted with each other, and cross your legs as you wait in silence. While the others groan about their courses and inquire about their remaining credits, you take in the sight of the lecture hall- it’s just as massive as you remember it from last semester, the ceiling housing patterned medallions and hanging pendant lamps that give a dim glow to the room. The seats are just as uncomfortable as you remember them, too, folding suede brown chairs that jerk violently if you move a little too much, and at the very bottom is a crescent-shaped desk and a tall podium reserved for the professor. It’s a little old, sure. And it smells like mothballs on most days- but it’s a shame to tear down someplace so historical like this.

Your course is set to start at three, and at almost five minutes past the mark, the students are visibly confused by the absence of a professor. You can hear them murmuring and speculating about canceled courses or retired professors, and it’s then that you realize you’re not even sure who the professor is. So you reach into your bag, pulling out your schedule for the one class you have today, and printed in bold black text to the right of the course name is the professor’s name.

Mr. Han, it reads, and you scan the name over a few times before shoving the paper back into your bag. You conclude he sounds like an older man, probably a little irritable toward students who couldn’t care less about music history. And he’s probably late to most of his classes like he is today, not bothering to be punctual for a group of students who will grow to despise him mere weeks into the semester.

A little past the ten minute mark, some students have begun to pack their belongings, ready to depart from the confines of the lecture hall and go inquire about why there’s no professor assigned to this course, maybe even beg for a switch of classes. And then, as though he can sense they’re making attempts at an escape, a man you can only assume to be the professor shoves past the double doors, a leather laptop case slung over his shoulder, making his way to the desk in rushed motions.

“Sorry, sorry,” he calls out, hoisting his bag over the desk and motioning for students to take their seats again.

“I apologize,” he reiterates, sighing deeply, hands tucked in his pockets as he glances around the room. It’s then that you notice he’s drenched, stringy black strands of his hair falling into his face, droplets of water speckled on the thin wireframe glasses that sit on his sharp nose.

And your second observation- he’s not old. In fact, he’s nothing close to the likes of the average professor- he’s attractive. Not just attractive- he’s alluring, captivating, like a model cut out from the thin pages of an editorial magazine. He’s tall, with a slim frame that contrasts his broad shoulders and sculpted biceps that protrude through the sleeves of his collared button up shirt. The white fabric clings around his broad chest so erotically, patches of dark gray rainwater conveniently providing you a better view, and his shirt is tucked into a tight pair of khaki slacks, hugging his toned thighs and leaving little to the imagination. He’s not even dressed provocatively, you mentally remark to yourself. He just looks like that.

All of this so perfectly complementing his flawlessly sculpted face, an angular jawline that clenches as he speaks, and plump pink lips that pull back to expose a pearly white and perfectly straight set of teeth. His pronounced nose bridge is made more attractive with his geeky pair of glasses, and those eyes- big and brown, framed by thick black eyelashes that flutter as he pulls off his glasses and wipes the lenses with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Lots of traffic when it rains,” he says sheepishly, pinching the frame of his glasses with two fingers and setting them so delicately back on his face. “It won’t happen again.”

And then he pulls his hands out of his pockets, leaning against the podium at the front of the room and taking a good look at the array of students.

“Welcome,” he announces, giving a small nod before continuing to speak. “My name is Professor Han. I’ll be your instructor for the duration of this course.”

He pulls back from the podium, shuffling through the leather bag on his desk and pulling out a stack of papers. The first student to the left is handed the stack, instructed to pass them to the back of the crowd as he explains it’s your course syllabus.

“Pretty much everything you need to know is listed here,” he says a little louder, as the room teems with echoing chatter. “I accept late work up to a week after it’s due, with a point subtracted every day it’s late. If you’re going to be later than 15 minutes, please don’t show at all. The stairs are too loud. Food and drinks are permitted, just don’t make a mess. And do whatever you want with phones and laptops, just shut off the sound.”

He paces back and forth as he speaks, his wet shoes squeaking along the tiled flooring as he does. He wears canvas sneakers with his fancy teaching attire, and he pulls them off remarkably well.

“A little bit about me,” he then says, and you perk up at his words, intrigued by just everything about his presence. “Been teaching here for about five years now, since I finished grad school. I love music, and I love music theory, so you’ll hear me talk about it a lot in between historical lectures. I teach three classes in total, all pertaining to music history, and in my free time, you can usually find me doing something related to music. Any questions?”

The class falls silent as his gaze scans the room, his curious eyes falling over the rows of seated figures who in reality, desperately want to ask him questions, but they’re also painfully shy in his presence. He gives a little nod as he takes note of their blank stares- and then his gaze falls momentarily over yours- staring directly into your paralyzed figure, almost as though he’s challenging you to ask him something, anything. But you don’t- you just remain seated, staring back at him, hoping the glowing blush on the tips of your ears doesn’t pick up under the dim lighting of the room.

“Okay,” says Professor Han, clasping his hands together and gesturing to the board behind him now. “Let’s see if I can figure out how to use this projector this time around.”

*

Lucky for you this semester, your schedule is sparse throughout the week, just a total of three classes on varying days. Which means you have ample free time to laze around your dorm when you’re not attending courses. Students make the most of their senior year, scoping out parties and sneaking out late at night to catch a movie or a quick bite- and you would join them, if you had people to join.

It’s not that you failed to make friends in the duration of your college career- in fact, you made solid efforts to befriend most of the people you came across, sometimes even allowing yourself to be dragged to a party and entertain mindless frat boys. But none of them stuck around, and you quickly realized they were much further from the simplicities you actually enjoy about college. Like the coffee shop on the second story of the student union, where the barista always adds a little too much caramel to your lattes. Or the windowed seat at the very back of the 8th story in the library, where when it rains, you can watch lines of people rush to their classes with hands over their heads and desperately clutching their umbrellas. Even your dorm room is a preferred spot for you, where you often find joy in curling up under your covers and getting lost in a good book. And although you’ve grown to love being alone, it’s a little jarring some nights, like the following Friday in your first week when almost everybody is out at a party, and the return to your dorm room is pitch quiet as you walk down the carpeted hallways. As you swing your door open, you gasp at the sight of your roommate, who’s not usually occupying her side of the room- not unless she needs something.

“Oh,” says Mina, as she places a stack of folded clothing into a large duffle bag and zips it up. “I didn’t know you’d be here today.”

You chuckle softly at her remark- of course you’d be here today. And the day after that, and the day after that… you’re always here. It’s Mina who seldom graces you with her presence, usually too busy at her boyfriend’s dorm or out with a group of friends.

“I’m here,” you say sheepishly, assuming your spot on the edge of your bed. Mina says nothing, raising her eyebrows a little and nodding, and you can tell she’s thinking about what a pathetic life you must lead.

You and Mina have never quite gotten along- not for reasons much more complicated than disagreements regarding her cleaning style or her boyfriend coming over unannounced. You’re simply from two separate worlds, and it’ll remain that way for the next few months until you graduate.

“I’m going to my boyfriend’s,” Mina announces unsurprisingly, hoisting the duffel bag over her shoulder. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Okay,” you say to her finally. “Have fun with Lucas. I’ll see you on Monday.”

She seems to roll her eyes as she makes her way out the door, not so much as a goodbye from her. And when the dorm is all to yourself again, you reach for the book on your shelf, one you’ve gotten halfway through since yesterday’s time spent alone, and curl up under the covers, the sound of gentle rain tapping on the window behind you.

By the time Monday rolls around, you’ve almost forgotten entirely who your course professors are.

It’s always taken you a few months to get situated with their lecture styles, and on occasion, even their names- but this semester in particular feels so unimportant. It’s your final one, after all, and while students talk excitedly about plans for the future and their graduation parties, the only thing you’re looking forward to is the physical degree you’ll get to leave here with.

Mondays are for your intermedia course, led by a professor who dismisses the class early almost every chance he gets. Wednesdays, you have another writing course, and you have to stop yourself from dozing off while students review their essays dissecting music theory during critique sessions. And Thursdays are spent in the old little lecture hall on the east side of campus with Professor Han. You’ve forgotten about him by the time your first official class with him rolls around, and you mentally scold yourself for dressing so casual in his presence when you remember how attractive he is.

When he saunters in, much earlier this time around, the students cease their chatter, and all eyes are on his handsome figure as he makes his way to the podium. He wears fitted slacks again, a knit sweater tucked into the belt that hugs his thin waist, and a collared white button down is visible at the neckline. His jet black hair is styled neatly out of his face to reveal his chiseled features, and his wireframe glasses are absent this time around, emphasizing the big brown eyes that peer back at his students.

“Good afternoon,” he says to the class, and they utter mumbled replies back at him.

“I hope you all had a good weekend,” he then remarks, pulling his laptop out of his bag plugging in a series of wires to set up the projector. The class remains quiet at this, not a single word from any of the students as they sip coffees and navigate their own laptops in hushed motions. Professor Han looks up at the class as his fingers hover over the mouse of his keyboard, his lips pulling into a grin, eyes forming little crescents as he lets out a soft chuckle.

“Come on guys,” he says dramatically. “Why are you so silent? You’re killing me.”

It’s the first time the classroom fills with laughter, and Professor Han seems to relax a little as he takes in the sight of smiling faces. He’s not quite sure he’ll ever get used to the silence that falls over college lectures, especially in the awkward first few weeks, when students are too scared to even look him straight in the eyes. And what Professor Han never quite grasps is that the students aren’t afraid of him- they’re intrigued by him, just the way that you are.

The girls wear full faces of makeup to a single 3pm lecture in hopes that he’ll take special notice of them, and the boys almost seem to mirror his dapper choices of clothing, trying their hand at knit crewnecks and slacks with canvas sneakers. Anybody who knows him concludes he’s just about one of the coolest professors around, yet he’s too consumed by his passion for music and theories of composers to take notice of anybody’s fascination for him.

And aside from that fact, he’s a professional at his job, only here for the purpose of lecturing and distributing course materials. He doesn’t make friends with other professors on campus, he doesn’t traverse these buildings when he doesn’t have to be here. And he certainly doesn’t care to know any of his students beyond the space of these four walls.

The projector starts up with a low hum, and a slideshow is promptly shone onto the wall across from you, a painting of some historical figure accompanying the title slide.

“I want to preface this lecture by saying that this particular composer is often deemed one of the greatest of his time, which is true for the Baroque period, and untrue in comparison to some of the other greats.”

There are stifled laughs from around the room as he makes his way to the screen at the top of the wall. As he transitions to a speech about the Baroque period, he reaches up to pull on the little string that dangles from the center, and your eyes can’t help but observe his lean figure as he does. The hem of his sweater is untucked from his slacks momentarily, revealing the small waist he flaunts beneath such a broad chest, and one hand reaches down promptly to cover himself again. It feels so wrong losing your focus from the lecture like this, your mind wandering places you know it shouldn’t be. Yet as he speaks, you can’t help but imagine what the rest of his chest must look like underneath the oversized knit that swallows his sculpted figure. Your eyes graze briefly over his navy slacks, ones that hug him so generously, and down to the stylish canvas sneakers he wears, the same ones he wore last time. They squeak along the tiled floor as he paces, hands gesturing passionately as he recounts the history of Johann Sebastian Bach, who you’ve only just realized this lecture is about.

“Not only was he a composer, but he was an organist, a harpsichordist and a violinist,” he explains, clicking the little remote in his hand and proceeding to the next slide. “He was a prolific part of the Baroque period, and he’s well-known today for some of his most famous instrumental and choral pieces.”

He paces the room confidently as he speaks, head down most of the time as he details accounts of Bach’s life, seemingly having memorized most of it.

“Does anybody happen to know any of his orchestral music? There’s one in particular he’s very famous for.”

The class falls silent again as Professor Han scans the room, pausing from clicking through slides as he awaits an answer. Nobody says anything, and all that fills the air are the sounds of keyboard clicking as they do their best to mindlessly copy his words. Without a second to properly think it over, and before you can even begin to doubt yourself, your hand is shot straight into the air, heart racing as his eyes fall to your seated figure, and then he gestures toward you, a small smile on his face.

“Yes!” he says enthusiastically. “Go ahead.”

“Brandenburg Concertos?” You voice quietly, a slight tremble in your voice as you speak. You’re not sure you’ve ever done adequate research on Bach- let alone any classical composer. But you are familiar with German history, and the Baroque period and the grand titles of symphonic pieces are still ingrained into your memory from years of piano lessons.

“That’s correct,” he replies, an amused breath escaping his lips as he speaks. His gaze lingers on yours for a second- just a brief second, not enough for the students to imply anything.

And Professor Han is admittedly fascinated by you himself, the question always marking the course as his first official question of the semester. One he’s never gotten the right answer to until now. In fact- one he’s never even had a student take a stab at answering until now. He’s well aware that no normal college student is going to have the Brandenburg Concertos in the back of their mind like the rest of the frivolous knowledge that dwells there, but perhaps he’s finally been assigned a student who gives the slightest shit about this course and its materials.

“Sorry- what was your name?” Professor Han then asks, the corner of his lip pulling into a half-smile before he proceeds with his lecture.

Students in front of you crane their necks to get a good look at you, and the peers on either side of you glance at the single sheet of notebook paper on your desk, scribbled with sparse notes in dark blue pen.

“Y/n,” you finally respond, your voice coming out more timid than you’d hoped it to. You feel microscopic with all eyes on you like this, quietly praying he’ll proceed with the lecture so that you can go back to admiring him from afar and in the comfortable silence of your thoughts.

“Y/n,” he repeats, giving a small nod, and then he finally transitions to the next slide.

Professor Han might not care to be on campus when he doesn’t have to- but that certainly doesn’t mean he’s generous about early dismissal when it comes to his courses. The analog clock above the doorway counts down the seconds before he finally dismisses his students- and even then, he’s not averse to keeping students a few minutes past to wrap up his lectures, either. While it’s a trait most students despise during their classes, not a single student utters a word of dismay when he requests just five minutes more of their time, their eyes still fixated on his pacing figure as he rushes through the remainder of his slides. He has a way of encapsulating a whole room when he speaks of ancient composers, like he’s meant to be up on a podium recounting Bach’s concertos. And the students soak up every last second they get to be in his presence, a sort of melancholia present in the room when they finally file out the door for the afternoon and back to their dorms.

When you find yourself lingering in the classroom a bit longer than the other students, completing the futile task of shifting around papers in your bag, Professor Han seems to take notice, glancing at you over the screen of his laptop and observing the way you shuffle about in the now silent room.

“Brandenburg Concertos, huh?” He calls out to you, and your gaze falls to him, where he’s seated at his desk, the familiar wireframe glasses now sitting upon the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah,” you respond, a little unsure of how to entertain the conversation without coming off as painfully awkward as you truly are.

Professor Han chuckles a little, and then he glances back to his laptop, typing something as he continues speaking.

“Nobody’s ever gotten that one right. In my five whole years of teaching.”

“Really?” You reply, thoroughly surprised nobody’s heard of the most famous orchestral pieces by one of the most significant composers.

“Nope,” he says plainly, shaking his head to affirm his answer. “Are you secretly a composer or something?”

It’s your turn to chuckle lightly, approaching his desk with your bag slung over your shoulder as you shake your head.

“Just years of piano,” you say to him.

“Piano? Very tricky instrument, it’s good to pick up when you’re still young.”

“I’ve been playing competitively for ten years,” you explain to him, heartbeat quickening a little as he lowers the screen of his laptop to make eye contact again.

“Wow,” he breathes out, thoroughly impressed by the fact. “I might have you teach a lecture or two, then.”

You chuckle in unison with him, shrugging as he pushes his glasses a little further up on his face.

“Convince them to put a piano in here and I’ll think about it,” you say to him. “I need a few course materials.”

“Deal,” he replies, narrowing his eyes a little as his lips pull into a smile, flashing you his perfect set of teeth. He glances around the room momentarily, and just as you think the conversation’s over, he sighs deeply, pushing back his laptop screen once more and continuing to type.

“Pity they’re tearing it down, though. A piano would have been a nice addition.”

It’s your turn to glance around the room, craning your neck up toward the tall medallion ceilings and elegantly crested walls. The room looks even more beautiful at this hour, rows upon rows of vacant brown chairs folded neatly back into their place, beams of afternoon sunlight streaming through the long glass windows on either side of the room.

“It is a shame,” you echo, grazing your fingertips along the smooth wooden finish of his desk. He seems to be lost in thought as he stares at his computer screen for a brief second, eyes glazed over as he remains silent. There’s not a sound in the room as he pauses his typing- no students remain in the hallways, no one taking notes in the stillness of the lecture hall. Just you and your professor, in silent thought about the unfortunate fate of the grand lecture hall.

“Maybe next year I’ll be teaching in a gymnasium,” he says finally, shooting you a sad smile and shrugging.

And then he winks at you- nothing romantic behind the gesture, just a brief blink of his left eye as he lets his gaze fall to yours.

And for the second time in the confines of this grand lecture hall, you pray the dim lighting doesn’t reveal the growing blush across your cheeks.

*

As the weeks pass, Professor Han’s lectures are stuck in your head like the piano melodies you’re so acquainted with. Beethoven Fidelio. Le nozze di Figaro. Adagio Cantabile.

The titles of famous composer pieces circle your mind like they’re suggestions by him, to you. And you like to think they are, when he’s slipping comments into his lectures about which pieces are his favorites, which are the most evocative and which ones he’s listened to the most.

The other students sit absentmindedly as he lectures, hearing the words he utters and writing notes like they’re translating his musical language to one they can comprehend. But they’re not listening to him- you’re certain they’ll never understand it the way that you do.

“Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake was my first piano recital piece,” you’d told him once after class. And the way his face lit up when you did, indulging you in a long list of reasons why he deems Tchaikovsky his favorite composer of the Romantic period.

“Only a genius could have produced 1812 Overture,” he said to you excitedly, throwing his head back in disbelief and slouching back in his swivel desk chair as he collected his thoughts.

“That’s the one he used real artillery as background noise in, right?” You had responded, a bright smile on your face as you spoke the common language only the two of you seemed to understand.

“And church bells!” He had responded excitedly, clasping his hands together as he recalled the booming melody.

And then he had played it for you- despite the two of you already knowing the piece very well. His slender fingers hovering over the keyboard of his laptop, searching for the overture he’s listened to almost daily in the duration of his career as a professor.

As a quiet stillness fell over the lecture hall following the departure of the last few students, the speakers echoed with the booming instrumentals of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture- the entire four minutes of the song. You watched in fascination as Professor Han gestured at his all favorite parts, waving his hand in the air to mirror the harsh eighth and sixteenth notes that span the intricate melody. Excited chuckles escaping his lips as the familiar sound of cannons could be heard in the background, followed by the lull of harmonious church bells.

It was then that he turned the music down a few notches, explaining how he helped teach this piece back when he still worked as a musical director. You recall the fleeting sadness that seemed to overtake him, his smile faltering a little as he seemed to think back to his time there. And when asked why he didn’t teach anymore, he had simply shrugged, failing to give you any sort of explanation for it. He just kept his gaze on his desk for a moment, snapping out of it seconds later, turning the volume up again and waving his hands in composing gestures as the song reached its end.

It was also the first time you recall feeling a little sorry for him, carefully observing the way these talks of music and composers seem to bring out a sort of sadness from within him. The dichotomy of him against the overtures he’s so drawn to- their booming crescendo notes and tempos noted allegro con brio, and yet when the lecture hall is empty and he’s all alone, he carries himself like a somber melody, beaming only with the mention of music and then shrinking like a diminuendo set of notes, dying down until a silence falls over the two of you again.

Some several weeks in, you’re certain the fascination is no longer rooted in lust, but simply a desire to speak this mutual language of music with him, the only time either of you ever really feel heard.

*

If someone were to tell you that you’d ever find interest between the pages of a course-assigned college textbook, you would have taken them for a complete liar. And yet you can’t help but find yourself engrossed in the textbook for this course, the thick red book taking complete precedence over the stack of unfinished books on your nightstand.

Weekends are spent flipping through the pages of quotes by famous composers, stories detailing their fast-paced lives and detailing all of their greatest accolades. You carefully study the music sheets, too, reading between the staff lines the same way you scan the plain text of the chapters. It comes to you easily, translating quarter notes to melodies you hum to yourself, reading key signatures like novel dedications.

And the book ignites a sort of spark in you again, reminding you of the days you still spend in front of the monochrome keys for hours, memorizing pieces and adding in your own annotations along the treble and bass.

So when Mina comes home one afternoon, desperate to borrow your textbook, you’re admittedly vexed by the request, reluctantly reaching into your bag to retrieve it for her.

“I didn’t know you had this course,” you say to her, wiping fingerprints off the matte cover and carefully handing it to her.

“Yeah, it’s the worst,” she says, making no effort to avoid transferring new fingerprints onto the cover as she stuffs it into her bag. “But the professor’s hot.”

And her mention of him is somehow vexing to you- of course she only sees the young, attractive professor he is, and not the sheer brilliance behind his lectures. Of course she doesn’t care to understand his background, his favorite historical pieces or take notice of the way he lightens up at the mention of his old days as a musical director. She’s just like the other students in your class- hearing him, but not really listening.

“Professor Han?” You inquire, knowing very well he’s the only professor who teaches that particular course.

“Yeah,” she says, reaching into her duffle bag and shuffling around for something. “Pretty sure he’s the only reason people still show up to that stupid class. I wonder if he goes for younger girls.”

She chuckles as she pulls out a tube of lipstick, uncapping it and reapplying the dark red tint to her pouty lips.

“I’m going to my boyfriend’s,” she then says to you, tucking the tube of lipstick back into her bag and pivoting to face you. “I can have your book back by Monday.”

“Could you have it back by early morning?” You say to her, voice almost cracking as you plead so desperately. “I really need it back before my quiz.”

You’ve already practically memorized the chapter you’re being quizzed on, but you’re always well-prepared for quizzes and tests in Professor Han’s course, reviewing the textbook a thousand times to earn the highest grade possible. You’d be ashamed to score any less than remarkable on his tests, feeling a need to prove to him that his course is something you take just as seriously as he does.

“I guess,” she says furrowing her brows a little at your desperation. “I’ll try to have my boyfriend drop it off before my class or something.”

“Tell Lucas it’s important,” you relay to her, as she keeps her gaze on yours. “I really need to pass this quiz.”

“I said I’ll try,” she emphasizes, making her way to the dorm with the same pink duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

And then she’s gone again, not so much as a wave goodbye as you’re left alone for the weekend.

*

By the time Monday rolls around, Mina is nowhere to be seen. She does this sometimes, spending entire weeks at her boyfriend’s apartment and ditching a long list of her classes.

Except along with the absence of your roommate, comes the absence of your textbook.

Lucas never shows on Monday to return your textbook, and Mina is completely MIA when you try to call or text. So by Thursday, you have no choice but to attempt your quiz without having read the textbook chapter a millionth time.

“Welcome, welcome,” Professor Han calls out as students take their seats. “Put your phones away and get out a pen or a pencil. We’ll start the quiz in a few minutes.”

You occupy the seat at the very front, where you always do now, and wait patiently as he digs around his bag for the stack of quizzes.

“This quiz covers all of chapter 7,” he says, passing along the stack of papers and instructing students to distribute them across the room. “You have 30 minutes from now. If you have questions, please raise your hand and I’ll come to you. Other than that, good luck.”

And the room falls silent as he makes his way back to his desk, the etching sound of pencils scribbling on paper as students begin their quizzes. You swallow nervously, scrawling your name across the top of the paper, and then let your gaze fall to the first question.

Name one the symphonic pieces Ludwig van Beethoven was famous for.

Your lips pull into a knowing smile as you pencil in a response with ease- Symphony No. 5, the same one you discoursed with Professor Han about just last week.

What time period defined Classical antiquity?

Between the 8th century BC and the 5th century AD, you write down quickly, moving on to the next question.

From his desk across from you, Professor Han glances over the screen of his laptop at your slouched figure, observing how you pencil in responses quicker than any of the other students, without even taking a moment to think over the answers. He smiles to himself a little, amused at the clear indication of the only music major in here, a clear liking for this subject the way he has, unlike the students rushing through his course for credits. His eyes fall back onto his laptop screen where he begins to work on an email, and yet before he can continue, you’re sauntering over to his desk with your quiz in hand.

“You’re finished already?” He inquires, lowering the top of his laptop to meet your gaze.

“Yes,” you say simply, sliding him the sheet of paper and giving him a little nod.

He grasps your quiz between his calloused fingers, and just like you assured him, every line is complete with a clear response in pencil.

“I can grade it right now since you’re the only one finished,” he asks, a challenging expression on his face as you stand confidently across him.

“Sure,” you say, gesturing to the paper as he retrieves a red pen from his bag.

You watch with bated breath as he scans the first question with the tip of his uncapped pen, giving a small nod as he then moves on to the next. The second question is the same, Professor Han looking it over and moving on to review the third now. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as he reviews your answers, despite being confident you’ve gotten at least the majority of them correct. Your gaze averts his seated figure as strands of his hair fall into his face, head hanging over your little sheet of paper as he checks and then double checks your responses.

“Yeah,” Professor Han finally says, sitting up straight once more and fidgeting with the red pen he neglected to even make use of. “It’s all right.”

He looks up at you with a curious expression, a kind of twinkle in the big eyes that are magnified by his geeky looking glasses. And his lips quiver with the intention to say something to you, but he can’t quite find the words. He’s simply taken aback by your skill, never having seen somebody share this similar level of knowledge regarding music history as he does. He wishes you would stay and discourse all your favorite pieces with him the way you normally do after his lectures, but the rest of the class remains quietly scribbling down their own answers, probably most of them incorrect like they usually are, and he can’t possibly request your presence for much longer in an unassuming fashion.

“You can leave early,” he whispers so as not to disturb the other test-takers, giving you a small nod as he slides the quiz into his bag.

“Really?”

“Yeah. That’s all I had planned for today. Just read chapters 8 and 9 for next class.”

You begin to pivot on your heel, excited to depart from class a little bit earlier today and hopefully catch up on other course work, despite this being your favorite class. But his words make you stop in your place, turning to face him once again and shrugging sheepishly.

“Professor, I…don’t have my textbook,” you say awkwardly, fiddling with the sleeve of your sweater as you speak. “My roommate borrowed it last Friday and I haven’t been able to get a hold of her. If there’s a PDF you know of, or maybe a library rental-”

He doesn’t let you finish before he’s reaching into his bag again, pulling out his own textbook and sliding it across the desk to you.

“Take mine with you,” he says confidently, giving you a thin-lipped smile. “Just remember to bring it back next week.”

“Are you sure?” You question, taking the thick book from his grasp and flipping it over to examine the cover. It looks a little different than yours, a varying colored font on the cover and much yellower, older pages, but it’s the exact same book as the one you’ve familiarized yourself with so well already.

“Positive. I think you’ll enjoy the next two chapters, too. Lots of piano stuff.”

He grins as he finishes, flashing you his signature toothy smile, and you feel your heart flutter at the fact that he’s even remembered you play the piano.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” you reply, tucking the book under your arm and smiling back at him. You hope that nobody behind you suspects why you’ve been standing at his desk for just a little too long, but you’re entranced by his presence in the silence of the room, wishing so badly you could stay and ask him about all of his favorite pieces like you normally do after class is dismissed. But you can’t be sure if they’ve taken notice, and you make your departure, anyway, giving Professor Han a small wave as you finally make your way out of the class and to the hallway.

Inside the lecture hall, Professor Han observes the remainder of the students working on their quizzes, not missing the way they visibly struggle to comprehend some of the questions or make guesses to material they should definitely know by now. And it’s a familiar sight to him, seeing his students disregard the course entirely and drag their feet just enough to pass the course.

You seem to be the only exception, though, thoroughly understanding and even enjoying the course material. And try as he might to brush off the thought of you, he can’t seem to, fascinated by the way you not only hear him, but listen to him, making his role on campus feel a little less futile- something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

His brows are furrowed as he works on his laptop, the room teeming with the scribbling noises of doubtful penciled-in answers by students on their quizzes and the subsequent erasing because they simply don’t know. But you know- you always know. Like the passing moments after class in which you indulge him in a fact about your journey as a music major, and he’ll often gift you with tales from his days as a prestigious symphonic director.

And you always send him off with a benevolent wave, tucking your hair behind your ear and sauntering out so gracefully, your short skirt flowing with your purposeful strides back to your dorm room.

Not that he’s taken notice of you, of course. Not that he sometimes prays you’ll be the last one out the room so that he can try to impress you with a fact about his musical knowledge or earn little anecdotes about your life he pieces together. That would be entirely inappropriate considering he’s a professor and you’re his student- and no fleeting amount of finally feeling listened to could change that fact.

Conversely, is he wrong to admit to himself that he’s fascinated by your musical knowledge? That the silence of the room is more unnerving when you’ve already gone home for the day?

Furthermore, that he doesn’t feel like such a loser when you beam at his stories and press him for more details about his musical career? Of course he can’t admit it to himself, because that would be entirely inappropriate- he’s a professor, and you’re just a student. But as he remains in front of his laptop, his eyes scanning the room at the students who are lost in thought- or lack of, rather, there’s only one empty seat in the front row. A seat typically occupied by your graceful presence, where you do your best to avoid making heavy eye contact, too, tucking strands of hair behind your ear and smiling at all his jokes. And inappropriate as it may be to admit it, he misses you when you’re not around- musical conversations, the sight of your delicate figure seated and paying attention to him and only him. Learning, listening.

*

The library is empty that same weekend, the gentle tap of rain on the window closest to you making for a peaceful ambiance as you settle on the velvet cushions of the vacant sofa. In your possession, a warm cup of coffee, as well as Professor Han’s textbook, held tightly in your grasp as you navigate to the inside cover.

Mr. Han, the inside hard cover reads, written neatly along the bolded black line. You smile to yourself, grazing the tips of your fingers along the black sharpie, imagining how he’d looked when he first penned it in. Probably the same way he does now, his big eyes blinking as he cocked his head in concentration and grasped the pen between his slender fingers.

You wonder briefly how old his book is- it appears much older than yours, the pages thin and worn like it’s something he’s utilized for a good while. Your fingers skim the smooth stack of pages before thumbing to the inside, landing on chapter 8 as he requested for this week’s reading assignment. And you smile as you do, taking careful note of the state of his book pages.

Surrounding the small black text, in disarray and almost indistinguishable in loopy blue penmanship, are his annotations, carefully analyzing the sentences as though he’s studied them a million times.

“Written at just five years old!” One sentence reads, underlining a sentence describing Mozart’s Minuet in G major. You can’t help but chuckle softly to yourself, fascinated at the fact that he annotates with the exact same level of enthusiasm he speaks of these pieces.

Another annotation specifies how Mozart’s music was tuned to 432 hertz, a frequency commonly associated with instilling a sense of peace and calmness within one’s body. And as you continue reading the bolded text of the chapter, his annotations provide a clearer image into the history of the composers, detailing minuscule facts about their lives and their music. They aren’t facts mentioned in the book, but rather ones he seemed to know based off memory alone, and you’re impressed he’s able to retain such a vast collection of information pertaining to the subjects. Some excerpts are simply marked with a “wow!” Or a series of exclamation points, and you find yourself endeared to how much of a clear liking he’s taken to the work of a textbook chapter.

As you skim a paragraph explaining the intricate work of Piano Sonata no. 12, his familiar blue annotation catches your eye again, except this time, it feels as though it transcends the page and speaks to you.

“Listen to this one,” it reads, underlined twice in blue pen. And for a moment, the thought overtakes you that he may be telling you to listen to it.

The sentence looks so intentional, almost begging for you to give into the simple request. The implication of underlining it not once, but twice, knowing he’s the only one reading this book. Except maybe he had intended to lend it to you, so that you might take the suggestion and listen to it like he had when he annotated it.

So without another second wasted on analyzing his intentions, you pull out your phone, popping in your earbuds and selecting Mozart’s Piano Sonata no.12 from a list of classical pieces. The piece is almost 20 minutes long, a fact which you find comfort in, knowing you get to think about Professor Han for the entirety of the 20 minutes you’re listening to his suggestion.

The notes begin short and vibrant, melting into one another with such fluidity and color. You shut your eyes to the flowing melody, letting yourself melt with the harmony and become one with Professor Han’s recommendation. And 30 seconds in, there’s a shift, from the joyful tune to a more rushed one, notes transitioning to staccato touches along the keyboard and picking up in pace. Like a gentle stride to a fast-paced sprint, similar to many of the tunes you lose yourself in completely while performing.

Then back to a gentler tune again, the pace slowing down once more and moving again in gentle strides. And just as you think it’s died down, the tune assumes both tempos- fast and then slow again, from a relaxed stroll to a purposeful sprint, in the direction of resolution and with every intention of taking your emotions for a wild ride in the process.

You scan the text again as you listen, indulging yourself in the complex history of Mozart’s experience writing the soulful piece, one he was presumed to have written in either Munich or whilst visiting Vienna. And you read Professor Han’s annotations in the process, heartbeat quickening as you allow yourself to imagine they’re all for you.

“This part is the best,” he annotates, referring to the melancholy movement that begins at nearly seven minutes in. It’s much slower, assuming a minor key and with little resolution at the end of every measure. Dragged-out half notes make up the majority of the piece which bewitches you, your mind racing with thoughts of Professor Han and his little inscriptions jotted down just for you.

The piece sounds a little like him- robust and enchanting, but with something more behind it all. Perhaps a story that’s dying to get out, a history he keeps tucked away in the back of his mind or even a secret he harbors. You think back to the way he gets when he speaks of his favorite pieces and his favorite composers- undoubtedly full of life and glowing with passion. And yet when questioned about his time directing, he’s quick to pull back again, shifting back into the professional composure he wears everyday, simply there to lecture from his memories alone and assign textbook pages as homework.

You’re not sure you’ve ever met somebody who mirrors your passion for music so well- like the two of you speak a language nobody else seems to comprehend. Even his annotations must look like gibberish to the masses, who probably wouldn’t bother to tune into Mozart’s Sonata no. 12 for the sole purpose of understanding him through it. Your alphabet transcends the English language- perhaps the two of you speak only in treble and bass, utilizing the eight notes available to you on a pin-straight staff and yet producing hundreds of thoughts in the process.

Ones that yearn to know him beyond the confines of a classroom, to understand who he was before all of this, before he was stuck in the old hall to the east of campus and made to preach to students who couldn’t give less of a shit about it all.

But you do- you always do.

And as the third movement begins at the 12-minute mark, the sounds of distressing melodies and ill-paced harmonies flooding your ears, you grasp a red pen in hand, leaning over his textbook and inscribing similar annotations to his.

“I love this one,” you scribble alongside his words, smiling to yourself as you converse on the thin pages of his old textbook. It doesn’t cross your mind once that your annotations will exist on the pages for eternity- in fact, you hope they do. You hope his message is received on the pages as much as they are by every inch of your yearning soul, that the bright red pen you wield contrasts so clearly against his blue marks and provides reciprocation to all of this passion.

“The third movement is my favorite,” you then note, scribbling something about the melody in juxtaposition to the evocative choice of tempo. And your annotations continue, and continue, all through the page, as though the book is yours and not something entirely borrowed.

The final paragraph is concluded by him with a simple sentence- one that critiques the lack of resolution.

“Discoordinate, fading notes,” it reads. “Feels like it’s missing something.”

And a bold decision it is, to make a record of Mozart having possibly forgotten something. But music is only reflective of your own emotions- perhaps it’s not Mozart forgetting something, but rather Professor Han feeling as though something’s missing. To you, the piece ends here- discoordinate fading notes that serve as the resolution. To Professor Han, there’s still something beyond those final few eighth notes, like the song isn’t reaching its full potential.

Beside his comment, one last penned-in annotation, one that you observe for a good while, reading it once, twice, and three times over as he practically offers a suggestion to Mozart himself.

“Coda?” It reads simply.

A coda- somewhat of an epilogue in music. It’s ignored the first time around- not really regarded by the musician until the da segno- to which a musician then plays until the indication to jump to the coda. And the coda serves as a resolution to the entire piece, typically a sonata, concluding with triumphant notes and the complete opposite of fading discoordination like Professor Han is so averse to.

You bring your red pen down to his comment, hovering the ballpoint tip over the paper for a moment, before making your final annotation along his pages.

A circle, with a cross in the center- a coda, a musical epilogue, an offer for resolution.

*

“Here’s your textbook,” Mina says casually when she finally returns that week, tossing it beside you on the bed and averting your gaze.

“Thanks,” you reply, entirely failing to confront her about having returned it a week later than you’d originally requested.

“I shouldn’t have even borrowed it,” she says with a frustrated huff. “I failed his stupid quiz.”

“Chapter 7?” You question, unsurprised by the admission to you.

“Yeah,” she replies, hoisting herself over her duvet and spreading her arms out behind her. “I don’t know a single person who’s passing that useless class.”

She keeps her gaze on the wall for a moment, and then she glances at you briefly, her expression unreadable as she speaks.

“Can’t believe I also have to waste my time at the stupid extra credit thing this week,” she announces, huffing as she concludes her speech.

You continue working on your laptop, not yet meeting her gaze as she rants, her legs dangling carelessly over the edge of the bed.

“What extra credit thing?”

Mina turns to look at you again, furrowing her brows together, almost in disbelief at your words.

“The extra credit thing Professor Han emailed about? There’s an exhibit at the art museum nearby for famous dead composers or something. If you turn in a ticket for proof you attended, you get like, 10 whole points or something.”

You stop typing on your laptop momentarily, glancing over the top of your screen to meet her gaze at last, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“This week?”

“Yeah,” she says, frowning slightly as you turn back to the computer. “You didn’t get the email about it?”

“I guess I didn’t,” you say to her, beginning to look up the event online. “I’ve been so busy.”

In reality, Professor Han’s email missed your inbox because you weren’t invited, consistently boasting an A in his class all semester. The extra credit is only intended for students like Mina, who are well on the route to failing his course without some form of extra credit. But to you, the event won’t serve as extra credit- it’s just an excuse to catch a glimpse of Professor Han again, maybe gain more insight into his favorite pieces and converse with him beyond the four walls of the lecture hall.

The rain is still coming down in sheets by the time your next lecture with Professor Han rolls around, the class much emptier than usual, most students opting to remain in the comfort of their dorm rooms. Professor Han produces a thought-provoking lecture on Mozart this time, conveying many of the works you read about in his textbook. And when his lecture concludes, he leans back against the podium, thanking all students who did attend today, an unspoken race against the clock unfolding as the two of you stall and wait for the rest of the students to clear out.

When the class is finally empty, he beckons for you with two fingers, remaining slouched against the podium and crossing his muscular arms out in front of him.

“I have your book,” you say to him, reaching into the bag slung around your shoulder.

He accepts it from your grasp, glancing at it briefly, before setting it down on his desk and folding his arms again. You want him to open it, to read your annotations and feel heard like the purpose your little scribbles are intended for. But he doesn’t- he just leaves it there, keeping his gaze on yours and remaining silent for a minute.

“What did you think of chapters 8 and 9?” He asks finally.

“Good stuff,” you say, giving him a shy nod. “I was familiar with a lot of it, but definitely still some new pieces I hadn’t heard of. I’ll try to get around to them when I can.”

Professor Han nods, and then you watch as he sprawls his hands out behind him, leaning back against the podium still and crossing his legs at the ankles.

“There’s an exhibit at the museum across the street later tonight,” he says, voice trembling a little as he speaks.

He’s not sure why he’s even bringing it up- maybe because he’s trying to keep the conversation course-related. It’s definitely not because he wants you to be there- a reckless way of thinking indeed.

“I know,” you say to him with a knowing smile. “I was wondering where my invite was for the extra credit.”

A breathy chuckle escapes his toothy grin as he holds his gaze on yours.

“You have a perfect score,” he replies in a low voice. “The extra credit is for people who are failing my class.”

“It can’t also be for art enthusiasts?” You retort, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe I want to tour the dead composers gallery, too.”

Professor Han wants to entertain this- so, so badly. He wants to drop the professional act and flirt with you like you’re so clearly doing to him- but he can’t. You’re just a student, and it would be wrong to toy with the imbalance of power he holds over you. Still, there’s no reason you can’t also show to the exhibition, as a student who simply wants to partake in a walkthrough of the subject at hand. He can’t prohibit you from going, after all.

“I can’t give you any more credit,” Professor Han says with another breathy chuckle, cocking his head to look at you a little better. Your eyes sparkle as they stare back at him, a giddy smile plastered on your face and your hair tucked behind your ears between laughter as you meet his gaze again.

“But I can’t stop you from going, either.”

At this, he pivots on his heels, turning around to reach into the leather bag by his laptop. You watch curiously as he pulls out a small piece of paper, handing it to you and saying absolutely nothing.

But one glance at it tells you exactly what it is- a ticket to the exhibition, one that’s already been paid for. You remember Mina telling you she had purchased her ticket already, meaning this one was purchased for you- by Professor Han.

“Really?” You question with wide eyes, examining the ticket and then looking back at him with an excited smile.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Professor Han reiterates. “You asked for extra credit. And you bought that ticket yourself.”

At this, he cocks his head a little, and then he shoots you a wink the same way he did once before. Only this time, your heartbeat quickens at his actions, ones that seem to desperately seek out attention from you and even make attempts at getting closer to you.

“I wanted extra credit,” you repeat to him finally, shooting him a wink, too. “And I bought this ticket myself.”

*

The so-called “dead composer’s gallery” has been an extra credit assignment of Professor Han’s for all five years he’s been teaching. It’s hosted in the art museum right by campus, the same few paintings of composers he lectures about making the rotation every fall to tell stories of their lives and flaunt the work they produced. Students don’t typically care for it, showing up to walk the duration of the gallery in a rush, flashing their ticket to Professor Han and collecting an easy ten points so as not to repeat his class.

He’s aware of the fact that they don’t read a single one of the bronze plaques that detail the names of the composers, or that they audibly insult the paintings, despite Professor Han being within earshot of them in the quiet space that houses the art. But for him, it’s simply a way to avoid teaching the same set of students a second time. One semester of watching them drag their feet is enough, he’s always thought to himself.

Professor Han has walked the exhibit a plethora of times, thus he usually shows in a simple sweater and some jeans, and the students marvel at the sight of him dressed so casually unlike at his lectures. And despite the exhibit being no different than the last few years, he feels compelled to dress up for this visit, admiring his efforts in the mirror as he adjusts the collar of his white button-down and centers his tie.

Of course, deep down, he’ll never admit he’s dressed up for you tonight, his mind racing with the unprofessional thoughts that you might show up just for him. He’s usually a mere spectator at these exhibits, silently assuming a spot in the corner of the room as the students make their rounds and eye him nervously. He emphasizes the notion that asking questions is encouraged, or that the students are free to chat with him about their favorite paintings and apply them to his lectures. Yet they never do- they just pace the marble floors at an expeditious pace and send him off with the wave of their ticket, not a single painting having resonated with them in the process. Some of them even groan, or verbally complain about the task, as though Professor Han’s forced them here tonight, and not the near-failing grade so many of them are stuck with. As though he’s not doing them a favor by offering extra credit for such an easy task, and an enjoyable one at that- or at least to him.

Wet sneakers squeak along the marbled floors as the students make their rushed rounds, many of them accompanying groups of friends as they stifle laughter at the art and then make their departure with the flash of a ticket in Professor Han’s direction. He remains in the corner of the large gallery room, one hand shoved in the pocket of his black slacks, the other grasping a folded pamphlet as he skims the artist names and waits for students to approach, should they require his attention. Yet it’s a futile task, having been at the event for nearly two hours now as the students come and go.

Admittedly, and with all the profound guilt weighing deep in his chest, Professor Han can’t think about anything except for you, desperately scanning the halls and glancing at the doorway for the familiar sight of you sauntering in, a beaming smile on your face and purpose in every stride. The exhibit is near closing by this point, just a handful of students remaining as he glances around the room and watches them rush to finish touring the display.

And embarrassingly enough, he counts down the seconds on the silver wrist watch he wears, hoping maybe you’re just running late by chance.

As the little hands on his watch tick in seconds, and you’re still nowhere to be seen, the thought suddenly overtakes him that this is all so stupid. What is he thinking, waiting around for a student like this- one he teaches, and one he’s tried his best to avoid having non-platonic thoughts about? It's silly. Not to mention- wildly inappropriate.

As Professor Han gathers his canvas bag hoisted over a nearby bench, and sends the last handful of students off with a polite bow, a quick turn of the corner confirms his first theory.

“Hi,” you say to Professor Han, bowing to him and tucking a wet strand of hair out of your face. “Sorry, I was running a bit late. Lots of rain outside.”

Professor Han can’t help but hold your gaze momentarily, enchanted by the sight of you, despite coming to the conclusion that this is wrong. If it’s wrong, he’ll have to sort out the logistics some other time- because you standing in front of him like this, dressed much more elegantly than he’s ever seen you, a smile on your face and already glancing around at the gallery at the works of art- everything about this feels right.

“Hi,” he says back, a nervous exhale escaping his lips as he does. He silently prays you can’t tell that he’s been waiting around for this all evening, longing to see you just once tonight and maybe talk about musical composers the way he’s been dreaming of.

“Vivaldi?” You question, brushing your way past him to the giant painting across from you, depicting the famous composer in a red robe clutching his signature violin. “I’m assuming, by the violin.”

“Yeah,” Professor Han says, turning to face the painting, too. “Kind of a scary dude, isn’t he?”

Professor Han realizes you’re the first student to make a single comment about one of the paintings here- a fact he’s well endeared by, and simultaneously completely unsurprised by.

“Debatable,” you respond. “For his portfolio alone, sure. But if we’re talking looks, I think Brahms might win this one.”

Your eyes shift to the left of Vivaldi’s at the cold stare of Johannes Brahms, a long white beard and a sharp mustache framing his glaring eyes. Professor Han laughs lightly, and then he takes note of the way you cock your head at the bronze plaque, reading a detailed little account of Brahms and scanning the art as you do.

“Brahms wasn’t scary,” he finally says with a shrug of his shoulders. “He was actually really lonely.”

“Yeah?” You question back, observing the way he stares up at the painting.

“Yeah,” he affirms. “There was a long-standing rumor that he had a crush on pianist Clara Schumann- of course she was already married. Some think Clara may have cheated and secretly reciprocated feelings for Brahms, too- but regardless, he died alone.”

The space is quiet between you both, a sort of melancholia falling over you two as you piece together the story in your mind. You can’t help but imagine how lonely it must have been for Brahms, keeping his love for Clara a complete secret in the presence of her spouse. A love so strong and so unmoving that he chose to die alone rather than find a woman that served as replacement for the love he felt for Clara.

Your mind paints images of Brahms and Clara together, his gaze fixed on hers and so helplessly in love while she was wed to another man all along.

“That’s tragic,” you say finally, feeling a pit form in your chest. “What a lonely life it must’ve been.”

Professor Han seems to take note of your change in tone, perking up a little as he chimes in again.

“He still had his music,” he says to you. “And a very successful career.”

And your head cocks again at Brahms’ face across from you, a stoic expression in his eyes and his thin-lipped pout- almost as though he was hiding part of himself from the masses all along.

“But he didn’t have the one thing he wanted,” you finish telling him.

Professor Han says nothing, giving a small bow to the painting with his arms tucked behind his back. He searches for the words to say, ones that might comfort you in this pity you take on him. But he can’t, feeling as though you may be right.

Brahms had music, a successful career composing everything from Wiegenlied to Symphonies 1 and 3, a long list of credits and enough fortune to travel the world when he wasn’t producing excellency. But he never had Clara Schumann- a tragic unrequited love he took with him to the grave. Could the tender touches and kindred soul of a lover ever be replaced by half and eighth notes on a staff? By the wave of a baton in a sea of brass and wooden reeds? Was he happy, simultaneously getting everything he wanted and nothing he dreamed of?

Johannes Brahms never had Clara Schumann. And conversely, perhaps Professor Han will never get close to what he wants, either.

The dead composer’s gallery quickly proves to be a lot more tragic than you’d anticipated. The paintings are beautiful- grand golden crested frames that house detailed depictions of famous composers, wearing powdered wigs and fancy dress robes. And every stride to the next work of art is accompanied by Professor Han’s tragic, detailed account of their love lives.

“Tchaikovsky was gay during a time when it was highly illegal,” Professor Han explains. “He had a long list of gay lovers with whom he’d write romantic letters to, and he came under heavy scrutiny when it was made public- especially since he was already of a low social class.”

“Must’ve been terrifying,” you tell him, narrowing your eyes at the intense stare of his painted portrait. “What did he do?”

Professor Han is quiet for a moment, glancing over at you and parting his lips as though he’s going to say something. But he simply remains silent, staring back up at the painting and swallowing nervously.

It’s only when you glance over at him, raising your eyebrows a little in the direction of his looming figure and almost gesturing for him to continue, that he reluctantly provides an answer to your question.

“He married a student,” Professor Han says quietly.

And he understands very well what the implications are here, producing stories of instructors being romantically involved with their students, when he’s here with a student himself.

Here with you, the very same student he’s been waiting on all evening. The student he’s enjoying telling stories of composers and their romantic involvements to, and the same student he’ll find any excuse to spend more time with once the dead composers gallery is already closed for the night.

“They didn’t last, of course,” Professor Han then continues. “It was impulsive, and they were severely incompatible. Not to mention his heart already belonged to another.”

It’s your turn to get quiet, simply nodding at his words and piecing together tidbits of Tchaikovsky’s tragic romance.

“Professor,” you say to him suddenly, turning to face him with a small smile on your face. “How do you know so much about the romantic histories of famous composers, anyway? Is this part of your lecture style?”

Professor Han chuckles lightly in response, his eyes forming little crescents as his lips pull back into a big grin. He looks much happier here like this, compared to the way he carries himself during his teaching- more laid back, comfortable, even.

“I think you have to understand where they fell short in romance,” he says, maintaining the same warm smile on his face. “It’s where most of the passion, and pain alike, stemmed from in their pieces. The sheer intensity of some of the orchestral or symphonic pieces, they’re…” his voice trails off momentarily, observing a painting of Mozart on the wall in front of the two of you, whose story he hasn’t even indulged you in yet as the museum staff prepare to close for the evening. He tilts his head to one side, pondering his words briefly and giving a little nod before continuing.

“They’re all crafted from yearning in one way or another.”

*

The evening rainfall is torrential outside, the sidewalks almost empty as people seek shelter in the safety of their cars and apartments. Once you’ve both exited the museum, Professor Han remains under the concrete roof that spans the entrance, looking out at the glistening pavement roads that reflect with red and green traffic lighting.

“Are you parked on the street?” He asks hesitantly, his hands shoved in the pocket of his slacks as he awaits your reply.

“I walked here,” you say to him, a light chuckle escaping your lips. “My dorm’s just a few blocks away.”

His eyes widen at the admission, thinking back to where his car is parked, just around the corner in the museum’s designated parking garage. He debates offering you a ride, but he knows it’d be in his best interest to avoid being alone in a car with the one woman he so dangerously can’t stop thinking about.

“Do you need a ride?” He then asks, the words leaving his lips before he can even stop himself. It’s like he’s overtaken by another version of himself- one who can’t cease this little chase you’re indulging him in, too.

“I don’t want to burden you,” you respond, a sheepish smile on your face as you try to veil the fact that you’re elated he’s even offered.

One more chance to make things right- and yet there’s no discernible boundary between what feels right, and what is right.

“It’s not a burden,” he affirms. “It’s not safe to walk home in this rain.”

Your gaze meets his, a sort of triumphant smile pulling on your lips as he cocks his head in the direction of the parking garage. There’s no distinctive plan either of you have in mind, but you’re also drawn to each other, admittedly wanting nothing more than to find little excuses to put off your departure for the evening.

He begins in the direction of the garage without even waiting for verbal confirmation, and yet he doesn’t have to, because you’re already trailing alongside him like it’s been your plan all this time. You maintain a giddy smile on your face as you both brave the rain together beyond the concrete ceiling of the museum entrance, tucking your necks into your shoulders and laughing as the rain drenches your clothes completely, strands of hair falling into your face and dribbling rainwater down your glowing cheeks.

“It’s just past here!” he calls out over the deafening sounds of rainfall, squinting his eyes amidst the drops of water that weigh on his eyelashes and making out the faint outline of his car in the dimly lit parking garage.

You trail behind him as he gestures for you to follow, also catching a glimpse of his parked car in the garage, seemingly the only remaining one at this hour.

Professor Han opens the passenger door for you, stringy pieces of hair falling into his face as he gestures for you to get in. And you do without hesitation, smoothing down your skirt and occupying the sleek black leather seat. When the door is shut, there’s a brief silence that falls over you as he makes his way around to the driver’s side, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the rearview mirror. Your makeup is a little smeared from the rain, wet hair slicked down and your clothes clinging to your figure with dampened spots. But for the first time in a long while, you look happy, finally making use of your time beyond the walls of your dorm room.

Professor Han slides into his seat at last, the door shutting promptly beside him, and he runs his slender fingers through the slick black strands of hair that fall into his face. You watch him curiously, heart racing at the sight of him so close to you, your bodies almost touching if not for the center console that so conveniently separates your yearning bodies. Drops of rainwater find purchase on his bent knees, further dampening his slacks as he wrings out his jet black hair over them. And he chuckles as he does, a little embarrassed he looks so disheveled in your presence.

When he hears you reciprocate with a gentle laugh, he turns to look at you, and it’s then that he realizes how dangerously close he is to you.

From this proximity, he can make out the spheres of rainwater that collect on your blushed cheeks, every last speck of mascara that collects under your eyelashes and flutters as you blink curiously at him. He can distinguish the lipstick you’ve strategically worn just for him, one that almost mirrors the natural pink shade of his pouty lips. He can feel the clear tension that bubbles over the center console as you lean in just a little, not enough to graze his mouth over yours, but certainly enough to feel the sharp breath that escapes his lips as he leans in, too.

And just as your eyes begin to shut, with every intention to kiss him right then and there, the sound of distant rainfall lessening as your rapid heartbeat fills your ears, he pulls back again.

“Sorry,” Professor Han remarks quietly, resting his hands on the steering wheel and shaking his head as though he's physically ridding himself of the urge to kiss you.

Your eyes open again, met with his trembling brown pupils that fixate on the dashboard in front of you both. And then he starts the car without another word, not yet backing out as he sits with his thoughts for a moment.

You desperately want to think he was going to kiss you, too, but you feel painfully stupid for being turned away like this in his car. Maybe it’s not how you’ve been reading into- maybe this is strictly a teacher-student relationship the way it’s supposed to be.

“Do you want to go back to your dorm?” He asks amidst the silence, not meeting your gaze. He’s scared he’ll get the urge to kiss you again, or that you might clock how nervous he is to be here with you.

You’re quiet for a moment, a little angry with things as you ponder the question. He’s not quite telling you to go home- but he isn’t asking you to stay, either. He’s just putting the ball in your court- both a safe, and a risky play at hand.

“No,” you voice finally.

He just nods at your response, clicking his tongue once and waiting for you to say something else. But you don’t- instead, you wait for him to say something else, too.

“Do you want to get out of the rain?” He then asks in a quiet voice, not specifying where that may imply. And although he doesn’t, you nod in agreement, meeting his gaze briefly as he reciprocates with an affirmative nod of his own.

*

Professor Han may have physically refuted the notion that kissing you in his car was anywhere near appropriate- and yet at this hour, the only place he can think to seek shelter from the rain with you is his apartment.

His apartment is nothing special at first glance, just your typical run-of-the-mill unit on the third floor of his building, but at a closer inspection, everything is exactly what you’d expect it to be.

Music sheets scattered along tables and couches, scribbled hastily with notes and annotations, much like his textbook was. A studio piano against the wall of his living room, the leather-seated bench that accompanies it stacked high with music theory books and more sheet music. The walls are decorated with rows of photographs, ones that you wish you could derive answers from, much like the dead composers gallery.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says sheepishly, peeling off his coat and draping it over the back of a chair.

Your arms are folded behind your back as you traverse the wooden floors as though this place is a museum, too. You relish in the sight of every decorative item, every sheet of music and every placement of his old-looking furniture, like it might give you more insight into exactly who Professor Han is. It’s just like he is- classic, enchanting, captivating.

“What are all these?” You ask him, pointing to a wall with a neat collage of photos.

At a closer inspection, you realize many of them include him, presumably from several years ago. He’s blonde in one of them, wearing a black pinstriped suit and a stylish pair of silver earrings. Another one shows him with midnight blue hair, the cool-toned hue contrasting rather beautifully against his tanned skin. His hair is still black in many of them, but he looks younger, dressed casually with a big smile plastered on his face.

And the most fascinating quality in all of them- he looks important. Like he’s a notable figure among the other subjects, usually standing in front of a podium or a music stand, sometimes with a baton grasped between his hands and raised in motion.

“Are these from your directing days?” You then ask, knowing the answer already.

It feels a little wrong to be seeing the photographs, almost as though they’re not supposed to be visible to just a student of his. They’re a glimpse into another life he’s lived- one you’re too late to be a part of. And more importantly, one he hasn’t seemed to be interested in talking about. You remember the times he’d brush off the mention of directing, change the subject or even just respond with an absent shrug. And yet standing in front of the proof it happened, you can’t help but probe for answers, feeling as though they might provide insight into who exactly he is underneath this pensive mask he wears.

“Those are from my directing days,” he confirms with a sad smile, making his way over to you and staring up at the wall. He examines one in which he’s in the middle of composing, stick held high in the air and a concentrated expression on his chiseled face.

“You look really cool,” you tell him, and he laughs lightly in response.

“Thank you,” he replies politely. “I always felt cool.”

You begin to tell him that he’s still cool, the way he captivates a whole room with lectures about famous composers and music theory he just knows offhandedly now. But you quickly get quiet again, not wanting to overstep any boundaries.

When you turn to face him again, you’re well aware of how close he is to you, droplets of rain still gliding down the bridge of his nose and onto the damp collar of his dress shirt. You also notice he’s wearing his glasses again, which remain the only dry part of his attire.

He seems to take notice of the heightened proximity for the second time today, too, making his way over to the couch and sitting on the edge of the velvet green cushions. But his gaze still remains fixed on yours, admiring the way you peer at his space.

“Professor, can I ask you something?” You say to him, approaching him cautiously, yet keeping a comfortable distance from him.

“Anything,” Professor Han replies, swallowing nervously and resting the palms of his hands flat on his knees. His long legs are draped over the edge of the couch, bent at the knees and spread so that he’s comfortably resting against the back of the cushion.

“You didn’t tell me about Mozart,” you say to him, twiddling your fingers in front of you. “What was Mozart’s love life like?”

Professor Han thinks it over momentarily, his eyes darting to the ceiling as he recalls Mozart’s romantic involvements. And it doesn’t take long, because it’s another tale he knows very well already.

“Well he lived with a family during his time in Vienna,” he explains. “They had a daughter named Constanze, who he took a particular liking to.”

You nod at his words, approaching him a little more now and observing the way he tenses a little, yet also noticing he makes zero effort to move away.

“His father didn’t approve,” Professor Han continues, eyeing the gentle sway of your skirt as you near him. “And yet when Mozart moved out, they maintained a relationship in secret.”

“A secret relationship?” You echo, and he nods affirmatively. “And then what happened?”

“Well,” he begins, dropping his hands to his sides as you stand right in front of him now. “Mozart wrote Constanze’s disapproving father a very famous letter. And they later married.”

“A letter?” You question. “Do you recall what was in the letter?”

You eye him from above, your thighs practically grazing his kneecaps as he remains seated in front of you.

And then in a painfully slow movement, all the while reminding yourself not to rush it, your hands find his, intertwining your fingers together and allowing you to pull yourself even closer to him, effectively slotting yourself between his knees. Professor Han’s breath hitches in his throat as you do, his heart racing wildly in his chest, pulsing reminders grazing his conscience that this is wrong. Yet juxtaposed against your delicate touches on his skin, and your curious eyes awaiting a resolution to his story, he can’t help himself.

“The letter?” He asks nervously, and you nod at him.

“Yeah. Do you remember it, by chance?”

Of course he remembers it- he could recite it in his sleep if he wanted to, every last word and emotion ingrained so deep within his soul as though its memorization was some requirement to work in a music-related field. But he hesitates to utter the words, knowing that if he does, they serve as permission for this- all of this, to indulge himself in all his reckless convictions right here with you.

“You don’t have to,” you say to him shyly, loosening your grasp on his fingers.

And you refer to both the utterance of Mozart’s letter, as well as the actions you know are bound to unfold if he does.

“No, I…” he interrupts, a sharp breath leaving his lips as he speaks. “I want to.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, tightening your grasp around his fingers once more, and then you wait for him to begin.

Professor Han takes a deep breath, some form of a prayer or maybe a beg for absolute forgiveness to a higher power racing his mind before he speaks again. And then, with all the weighing guilt in his heart, he begins to voice the letter back to you.

“I must make you better acquainted with the character of my dear Constanze,” he begins, finally allowing you to pull yourself onto his lap and steady yourself with two hands on his strong forearms.

“Keep talking,” you say to him, reaching out to tuck a strand of wet hair out of his face.

“Her whole beauty consists of two little black eyes and a pretty figure,” he continues, swallowing nervously at every tender touch you produce against his skin. His hands rest on the curves of your waist, delicately grazing up and down as you watch him curiously. Your legs bend to straddle him, skirt flowing over his black dress slacks and draping over the fabric of his crotch, where he can feel himself growing unbearably hard for you.

“Mhm,” you say, two hands now grazing the fabric of his silk black tie and loosening the knot at the collar.

“She likes to be neatly and cleanly dressed, but not smartly; and most things that a woman needs, she is able to make for herself.”

At this point, Professor Han’s tie is completely undone, your nimble fingers now undoing the buttons of his shirt and grazing fingertips along the exposed strip of his chest to you.

He pauses momentarily, eyes fluttering briskly as he relishes in the sensation of your skin against his. And then in one swift motion, your hands tug the fabric of his tie toward you, grazing your open mouth over his and pressing a short, chaste kiss to his pink lips.

He waits for more, but you don’t indulge him just yet, pulling away to stare into the swirling galaxies he houses in his big eyes.

And before he can finish reading the letter, you’re speaking again, putting out the same words he completely intended to produce.

“I love her, and she loves me with all her heart,” you say to him, finishing Mozart’s signature letter for him. “Tell me whether I could wish for a better wife.”

Professor Han says nothing, his eyes widened with shock for a moment as you toy with the fabric of his tie. He wasn’t expecting you to know the tale, let alone echo the letter back to him- one he’s had memorized for most of his life.

“Mozart’s letter to Constanze’s father,” you voice with a small shrug. “It’s always been one of my favorites.”

And Professor Han can’t take it anymore, finally allowing himself to pull you in by the small of your back, desperately gripping his fingers against the fabric of your shirt and locking his lips with yours once again. His kisses are purposeful, and needy, but he’s still gentle with you, guiding you further down the length of his legs until you’re sat right over his crotch. The two of you say nothing in between kisses for a good while, remaining like that and exchanging gasped breaths into each other’s mouths as his hands explore every inch of your still-clothed body. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him into you and arching your back into his touches. And when his hands graze the length of your skirt, tenderly stroking up the skin on your inner thighs, you chuckle lightly into his mouth, well amused by the actions as though you haven’t wanted it all this time, too.

“Is this okay?” He says nervously, pulling away momentarily to scan your expression.

“It’s more than okay,” you say to him, toying with his tie again. “I’ve wanted to do this so badly.”

Professor Han chuckles lightly, not wanting to admit he’s been thinking about it, too. Maybe externally you’ve already taken note of the way he stares at you as he speaks during lectures, or the way he eyes your short skirts when you assume your seat in his classroom. But you don’t know the nights he spends alone in his apartment, desperately fucking his fist to the thought of you bent over the podium in his lecture hall and filling the space with your erotic moans. Or the way he’s had to divert your gaze in class sometimes, lest he accidentally flaunts a hard-on for the whole class to see, because he knows his mind will run someplace it shouldn’t be.

He’s completely ridden with guilt, his sleep schedule almost nonexistent as he spends hours after he’s already tucked himself into bed, praying the universe won’t punish him for thinking about a student like this.

But he can’t help it- not when you saunter into his classroom so confidently every week, speaking of composers with the same level of admiration he shares, earning the highest grade possible and taking a genuine interest in his life. He’s almost angry at the reality of it, questioning constantly why you hadn't crossed paths before he became a teacher.

“Where were you during my college days?” Professor Han says out loud, a sort of disappointment evident on his face as he speaks. “I wish I’d known you earlier.”

You chuckle in response, one hand tangling in the back of his hair as you rub in gentle massaging motions.

“What’s wrong with right now?” You retort, trailing one finger over his plump lips.

“What’s wrong is that I’m your professor,” he emphasizes, scoffing lightly. “Everything about it is wrong.”

“I’m an adult,” you respond, pulling him in by his collar to work kisses down the column of his neck. “And I want this.”

“Yeah, but…” he begins, the guilt weighing heavily on him all over again.

“You don’t want this?” You then ask, pushing yourself off him briefly and holding eye contact with him. He looks as nervous as he always does when he’s near you, his eyes wide with fear and his timid movements conveying a clear reluctance to reciprocate the affection.

“I do want this,” he mutters sheepishly, knowing it’s also not in his best interest to lie to the woman he’s been leading on for several months now.

“I can leave,” you say to him finally, acknowledging how scared he sounds at the prospect of being here with you. “I won’t tell a single soul. It’ll be like it never happened.”

And Professor Han’s eyebrows arch up in an almost pleading motion, not verbally conveying anything, and yet telling you all that you need to know in the process.

Without saying anything back to him, you reach down to pinch the bridge of his wireframe glasses between your index finger and thumb. His glasses are fogged up, resting almost crookedly on his face when you pull them off, snapping the frame shut between your teeth and setting them on the couch beside you. You can hear Professor Han’s breath hitch in the back of his throat, nervously awaiting your next move and practically shifting total control over to you, who wastes no time reattaching your lips to his and humming into his mouth. He looks completely helpless under you like this, beads of sweat forming on his temples, indistinguishable against the rain droplets that still grace his attire. When you pull away, you examine his chest again briefly- the very same one you couldn’t seem to look away from on your first day of classes. His broad pectorals jut out against the thin white fabric of his button-down shirt, almost completely see-through all drenched in rainwater. And two buttons reveal his sharp clavicles to you, but you’re still just as eager to see the rest of him.

So in slow movements, you graze your hands down lower, snaking off his tie and discarding it alongside him with his glasses. Your nimble fingers work his buttons now, undoing them one by one, pulling open the hem of his shirt so that his chest is visible to you, and when the very last one is undone, you practically tear open both sides of his shirt, allowing the fabric to drape down over the couch and slouch off of his shoulders.

His waist is a sight to marvel at, delicate yet still muscular, made even more erotic in contrast with his broadened shoulders that span much wider than his hips. And your lips quickly find every curve of his chest, pressing a trail of kisses along his clavicles, up to the crook of his neck, down where his nipples protrude and along his shoulders, which tense up beneath your touch.

“Fuck,” he breathes, shutting his eyes in blissful pleasure as your kisses turn a little harsher, pulling his flesh between your teeth and sucking small bruises onto the raised goosebumps that grace every inch of him. You can feel him shift beneath you, trying his best to keep his now swollen cock at a distance from you, as though the act might be less incriminating if you can’t feel his physical yearning for you. And yet it’s enough for you to take notice, scooting closer to him with a smile on your face as you meet his lips once more.

When he feels you squeeze your thighs around his still-clothed cock just once, enough for the friction to emit a bead of precum from under his slacks, his hands find your waist again, tugging lightly at the fabric to signal you to remove it.

“Can I take this off?” he asks in a low voice, his eyes now hooded with lust, lips parted at the sight of your body practically grinding onto his.

You don’t reply, simply crossing two arms over your torso and pulling your shirt off over your head. It’s discarded along with the pile of other things, and then before he has to ask, your bra joins it beside him, too.

Professor Han feels as though he might finish right here at the sight of your breasts on display for him, your hardened nipples protruding generously with arousal and practically begging for his touch. He feels his mouth water with saliva, desperate to take you in his mouth, but somehow even with you straddling him like this, he’s too scared to make a move.

“Professor,” you say to him quietly.

“Hm?” He responds.

You say nothing back to him, blinking innocently down at him and waiting for him to act upon his urges. You know what it is that he wants so badly- and you want it, too. But you want it to feel as mutual as the yearning has, for some confirmation neither of you are manipulating the other into this. His eyes don’t leave your breasts, examining the way your chest rises and falls with every heavy breath as you wait for him. And then he meets your gaze again, a sharp breath escaping his lips as he does.

“Jisung,” he says, now chuckling lightly. His hands snake up your sides, rising higher, and higher, until they’re resting on the mounds of your breasts, not yet making contact with your hardened nipples.

“What?” You hum in response, a small smile on your lips as he watches you carefully.

“That’s my name,” he now says, leaning in to capture your lips in a kiss again. As he does, his hands move lower, until his slender fingers are sprawled out over your nipples. He doesn’t stop kissing you, moving his hands in gentle kneading motions over your breasts as his kisses turn more eager.

“You don’t have to call me professor,” he says in between kisses, hands now reaching around to pull you in closer, gripping your ass just as tenderly the way he did your breasts and desperately grazing your smooth flesh against his calloused fingers . “Just call me Jisung.”

As you smile into the kiss, he flips up your skirt, looping one finger into the hem of your panties and toying with it as he adjusts himself below you. He tugs at your panties just an inch, now transitioning his movements to find the buckle of his pants, metal clinking between your bodies as he unfastens it and snakes it out beside him.

You pull your own panties off as he unbuttons his slacks, awkwardly parting from you momentarily to rid himself of the still-drenched fabric. And then all that remains are his boxers, his erection pitching a tent against the constricting fabric as he resumes his kisses.

“Jisung,” you breathe into his mouth, earning a toothy grin from him against your parted lips. “I love it. I love your name.”

“You’re welcome to say it whenever you want,” he says back, running his hands along the small of your back.

“Just me?” You ask teasingly, tangling two hands in his ebony hair.

“Just you,” he emphasizes, grazing his fingers along your inner thighs. “Just like you’re the only one who scores a perfect on everything she does,” he continues, the pads of his fingers attaching to your clit.

“Just like you’re the only student I’d bring back here in the first place.”

Jisung’s fingers begin slow, circular motions on your bundle of nerves, earning a gasp from you as he dips once into your entrance to gather your wetness and spread it around again.

His mouth accumulates with a needy wad of drool, cock growing even harder at the sight of your eyebrows arched for him as you grind into the pads of his fingers and push him even harder against your flesh.

“Do you think about me often?” You ask him between labored breaths, tilting his chin up to meet your gaze. His eyes are wide with lust and curiosity alike, peering back at you so innocently, with every intention to pleasure you.

“I do,” he affirms, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

“What do you think about?” You now ask him, scooting even closer and allowing your chests to make contact as you wrap your arms around him.

“Those short little skirts you wear just for me,” he replies, smiling as he speaks. “They drive me insane.”

“That’s on purpose, you tell him, grazing your nails along the back of his neck. “What else?”

“Your stories of piano,” he then says, surprising you with his response. “It’s so sexy how talented you are.”

“Really?” You ask him, chuckling lightly as he kisses you once again. He nods affirmatively, dipping two fingers into your entrance with ease, just past your glistening folds, but not yet moving them inside of you.

And then he grows quiet for a moment, meeting your gaze with a serious expression, before he begins to pump his fingers slowly in and out of you as he speaks again.

“I touched myself to your book annotations,” he tells you, this time a smile absent from his chiseled face.

“My book annotations,” you repeat, and he cocks his head to look at you.

“All for me,” he continues, filling the ache between your legs with the gentle thrust of his fingers. “Were you trying to get my attention?”

“Depends,” you reply, clutching his shoulders and moving down the length of his fingers a little further.

“On what?”

“On whether yours were for me,” you say to him finally, clenching down around his digits.

He moves his thumb to stimulate your clit as he fucks you, earning a breathy moan as you struggle to speak now.

“Tell me what it was like,” you say to him breathlessly. “Describe it to me.”

“It was earlier today- just before the gallery,” he explains, cocking his head as your lips part in pleasure. “I never annotate in red. I knew instantly that it was you. Your handwriting- your words,” he continues. “I wasn’t expecting it- I’d hoped maybe you penned in a phone number or something.”

You chuckle lightly as he speaks, taking note of the way his fingers pick up the pace inside of you.

“You would’ve loved that, huh?” You retort. And his fingers now move inside of you in a ‘come hither’ motion as he resumes his actions.

“I would’ve loved that,” he groans. “Too bad all I had was your handwriting, and the thought of you in that skirt you wore today. And ten minutes alone with my right hand, praying you’d actually show up tonight.”

Jisung can’t cease his perverted confessions once they begin escaping his wet lips. In complete contrast to his reluctance earlier, his fingers now thrusting in and out of your sopping pussy with such force, spilling every little detail about how much he’s thought about you these past few months.

“God, I love your body,” he breathes against you, craning his neck to take your breast in his mouth. His mouth latches around your erect nipple, tongue swirling in circular motions as he hums helplessly. And you let out a fervent moan at the sensation, not missing the way his fingers prod into your squelching entrance, your thighs trembling as you near your finish.

“Jisung,” you gasp, tangling a hand in his hair and tugging him gently off of you. A string of drool connects his wet lips to your flesh as he meets your gaze, labored breaths grazing your skin, desperate to taste you again.

“What is it?” He coos back.

“I want to finish with you,” you say helplessly. And your hand reaches down between the two of you onto his still-clothed crotch, taking his girth between your hand and giving a light squeeze. He’s wet, as though he’s already finished once for you, and he whimpers powerlessly at the contact.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, shutting his eyes in pleasure at the sensation. “Fuck, touch it again, will you?”

You chuckle lightly in response, looping a finger into the hem of his boxers and tugging down.

“I can do a lot more than just touch you,” you tell him, allowing his fingers to depart from your entrance as you position yourself over him. He watches too as you tug his boxers over his crotch, his eyebrows arching in preemptive arousal as he feels the cool air graze his exposed flesh. And when his cock is finally free, growing erotically against the concave of his abdomen, you can’t help but gasp, completely in awe at the sight.

He’s much bigger than you’d anticipated, a thick girth lined with pink protruding veins and a generous length, his cock almost red at the tip and leaking with precum.

“Fuck,” Jisung says for a third time, feeling another bead drip down his length at the prospect of you watching.

“Is it okay if-”

Jisung doesn’t let you finish your sentence before he’s nodding eagerly, practically begging you to ride him. And you waste no time indulging him in the request, positioning your entrance over him and steadying yourself with two hands on his broad shoulders. He says nothing as he waits, his nails digging into the small of your back as he shuts his eyes, reveling in the sensation of your body so close to his. And then before he can meet your gaze again, you’re sliding down the slick of his length with complete ease, almost bottoming out fully as he opens his eyes again and whimpers loudly.

He’s already pulsating rhythmically inside of you, the tip of his cock kissing your walls as you move even lower, precum mixing with your wetness and producing a light sloshing sound as you begin to move up and down.

His eyes watch your pussy swallow him for a few motions, doing his best to stave off his orgasm as you pant at the sensation. You can feel him all the way in your stomach, filling you up so fully and deeply, labored breaths leaving your lips as his whimpers fill the room. And then you capture him in a wet kiss again, just barely grazing your lips over his as his voice rises in pitch.

“Shit, I can’t,” he whines, gripping your skin a little tighter. “I’m gonna cum so fast.”

“It’s okay,” you emphasize, clenching around his girth and smiling against him. “We have all night.”

The words make him twitch once inside of you, the thought of fucking you a second time making him dizzy with anticipation. Any fleeting thought that this might be a bad idea is completely dissipated from his mind, replaced with unwavering pleasure and his longing to fill you up the way he’s imagined for the better part of the semester now.

“Can I cum inside of you?” He groans, using two hands to move you down his length a little deeper, your clit grinding softly against his abdomen as he bottoms out inside of you. “Jesus, you feel so good.”

You nod in response to him, burying your head in the crook of his neck as he continues to help you, one finger stimulating your clit again as beads of sweat trickle down his forehead.

For a while, no one says anything, the only sounds present between the two of you being the gentle slosh of your juices around his girth and the helpless panting that bridges the gap between your bodies. Your moans and his whimpers are a lot like the discoordinate piano pieces he analyzes so deeply, fading in and out of pace and searching relentlessly for resolution.

And as you crescendo toward your release, you can’t help but take note of how right it feels to be here with him, consuming each other the way you pour yourself into your music, as he does his work. He had asked you earlier where you’d been all his college life- but you know you’re supposed to be together like this now, regardless of his relationship to you. Had he been ten, twenty years your senior, you wouldn’t care- it’s your souls that keep you intertwined like this, the way he sees you for your passions and your interests, beyond just the traditional sense of a student and a teacher. He’s so much more than that- he’s so much more than just a professor.

As Jisung reaches back to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you feel yourself clench once around his pulsing girth, and then you let go entirely around him, grasping his broad chest as you breathe out his name like a prayer in the duration of your release.

“Jisung,” you moan against him, allowing his first name rather than his professional title to linger between your two listless bodies.

“Y/n,” he groans back, shutting his eyes briefly and arching up his eyebrows. And then as you tremble in exhaustion around him, legs aching from working yourself to your finish, he reaches his finish, too, shooting generous ropes of cum up inside of you and wrapping two arms around you to pull you closer to him.

He remains like that through his finish, his head finding purchase in the valley of your breasts, resting against the chest that rises and falls with deep breaths as his release dribbles down out of you.

And neither of you make any haste movements to get cleaned up just yet, allowing yourselves to remain pressed up against each other, hands tenderly caressing flesh and limbs tangled together.

In the midst of massaging his soft ebony locks, the pads of his fingers clinging tenaciously to your body, you can feel the presence of tears graze your chest, soft sniffles emitting from his flushed face against you. He weeps for you- for his guilt, for yearning, for the confirmation that he’s not better than his filthy conscience after all. And contrastly, because he knows he has all night to do it again, and again, and again.

*

By the morning, your bodies are sore and bruised, sunbeams absent through the giant glass windows of Jisung’s apartment as it continues to rain outside. There’s a chill in the air as thick clouds of fog caress the windows, and not even the layered duvet of Jisung’s bed is enough to warm your still-nude body.

You blink in a state of confusion around you, not realizing where you are momentarily. It’s not until you eye the stacks of music books, loose sheet music and picture frames that you recall last night’s events.

How many times had he fucked you- four, maybe five times? You can’t remember; you do remember he was good at it, switching back and forth between having his way with you, and then submitting to you again, letting you take the reins and ride him until you physically couldn’t anymore. As you sit up in bed, you catch a glimpse of him beside you, his bruised chest visible under the white duvet that drapes lazily over him and covers only his lower half.

He’s still asleep, lips parted innocently and his hair tousled around his chiseled face. He’s also in need of a shave, flaunting a generous patch of stubble on his chin. And you’re not sure he’s ever looked so tantalizing to you before.

When he hears you stirring about, his eyes flutter open, meeting your tired gaze and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He begins to say something, but then he gets quiet again, sighing deeply and shutting his eyes once more. You observe as his lips pull back into a sheepish grin, his straight teeth exposed as he chuckles lightly.

“We’re in trouble, aren’t we?” He says with a groan. And you simply shrug in response, lying back down beside him, resting one hand on your pillow as he turns over to face you.

It’s a little more real at this proximity, the fact that you’re in bed alongside your professor. But the point still stands- it doesn’t feel awkward, nor do you regret any part of what unfolded yesterday. It’s like something that was bound to happen- if not last night, it would’ve been a week from now, maybe two weeks- definitely not three considering how long you’ve been thinking about him.

Jisung swallows from across you, his hand tucked under his pillow, too, and he watches as you reach out to trace the mole he flaunts on his cheek. It’s not one you’ve had the pleasure of noticing until now- it’s really not one that can be noticed from the vast distance between a lecture chair and a podium. But beside him in his bed, you take notice of everything- the mole in his cheek, the flutter of his long lashes, the sheer guilt he still wears on his face.

“Come on,” Jisung says from beside you, cocking his head in the direction of his bedroom door. “I’ll make you coffee.”

“The blue hair was a bold choice,” you say to Jisung, gripping a warm mug of coffee in hand as you sit cross-legged on his wooden flooring.

You’re in nothing but one of his t-shirts, your hair still messy from last night’s events and lipstick staining the edge of the white mug he’s provided you with. He’s a little more put together this morning, despite canceling today’s classes, a white woolen cardigan enveloping his figure and gray sweatpants hung loosely around his toned legs.

“I dyed my hair a lot back then,” he says from his spot on the couch, staring up at the photograph you admire.

And for some reason, the utterance of “back then” makes you laugh, the way he speaks as though he’s twenty years older than he is. He’s really just six years beyond you, a gap that most would overlook had he not been a professor. And sure, he already boasts a master’s degree and years of experience, but it’s not as though you’re not on the same path yourself.

“Why did you stop?” You ask, turning to meet his tired gaze.

He sighs momentarily, bringing the mug up to his lips for a sip, and then he shrugs at you.

“It’s not professional,” he says plainly. “I had to look the part.”

You smile at him, shaking your head before responding.

“Not the hair,” you emphasize. “Directing. Why’d you stop directing?”

It’s the first time you’ve asked the question so boldly, despite pondering it for all the time you’ve known him. And his composure turns uncomfortable again, as though the question implies much more than it lets on.

“You don’t have to answer,” you say to him after a brief silence, feeling guilty for having overstepped. But Jisung shakes his head, furrowing his eyebrows before speaking again.

“It was eating me alive,” he explains, his gaze falling to a distant stack of books as he thinks back to his days as a director. “I couldn’t do anything else. I couldn’t focus on anything. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep- I wanted to be the best. I just wasn’t a very good person.”

You nod at his words- it’s a phenomenon you know very well already, being a music major yourself. The soul-crushing weight of turning everything into a competition, of bypassing your peers and losing loved ones along the way. You’re pretty sure your lack of friends in college can be largely attributed to the same thing.

“Well I think you’re a good person,” you say finally, but his gaze still doesn’t find yours. You can tell there’s more he wants to say- but he remains there, staring into the distance, pondering a lifetime of regret he’ll continue to take with him if he doesn’t at least try to address the hurt.

“I wasn’t,” is all he can say, earning another head shake from you.

“You can’t blame yourself for wanting to be good, Jisung. I’m sure you feel the same thing working as a professor. Besides, that doesn’t mean you can’t-”

“I was a lousy husband,” Jisung finally blurts out, and your eyes snap to his gaze again, finally making contact with his trembling eyes.

“Husband?” You echo, and he swallows nervously.

“I married so young,” Jisung tells you now, folding his legs on the couch in front of him. “I thought it was the right move, fresh out of college with a girl I’d been dating for four years. I had everything- a job, a wife, a sense of stability.”

You’re taken aback by the admission, never once having taken Jisung to be a formerly-married man. He is young, and aside from the sexual tension that’s risen between the two of you, he shows no interest in pursuing another partner.

“The divorce cost me everything,” Jisung says, his eyes glazing over again as he recounts the story. “I was responsible for somebody walking away from what they believed was a lifetime of stability. And she knew it, too, that I was lousy. She told me- her parents told me. I just wanted to be the best at my work. And it cost me everything. So I quit. And I opted for something that wouldn’t drive me crazy anymore.”

Jisung’s heart races wildly in his chest as he speaks, and then he’s hit with the realization that he’s venting to a student of his- one who shouldn’t be occupying his apartment in the first place. One he slept with several times last night- one who he feels oddly safe confiding in. But a student, nonetheless.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” Jisung finally says, furrowing his brows again. “I’m sorry- maybe you should go.”

You remain quiet, still sat on the floor, not even halfway finished with the cup of coffee he’s brewed. And he feels bad again, knowing it’s not fair to be taking his frustration out on you.

“Do you want me to leave?” You ask in a meek voice. Jisung chews the inside of his lip, meeting your gaze with a sorrowful expression. At first he shrugs, like he might indeed want you out of this space he calls home. But then he shakes his head sheepishly, shrinking back into the couch cushions and sighing heavily.

You’re not entirely sure what to say to him, not wanting to overstep any boundaries, but longing to keep him company. He just seems lonely, you can’t help but think to yourself. He’s so ridden with loneliness, and guilt and yearning for more.

“Jisung,” you say to him, setting your mug aside and folding your hands in your lap.

He meets your gaze again, a sort of heavy, exhausted expression on his face.

“Do you really think Mozart’s Sonata no. 12 is missing something?” You then ask him, referring to the annotations from his textbook.

He keeps his gaze set on yours, fascinated you’ve remembered his penned-in opinions on the aforementioned works from class. And then he nods lightly, humming a little in response to you.

“There’s no resolution,” Jisung huffs. “It just fades into nothingness.”

You nod back at him, sitting back on the palms of your hands and cocking your head slightly.

“That's a resolution to some listeners,” you say to him. “Maybe you just desire something beyond those last notes.”

His gaze flickers over your knowing expression, pondering the way you speak of the familiar tune.

“Maybe you ought to seek what a resolution is to you.”

*

“I think Professor Han is fucking somebody,” Mina says to you one day as she gets ready in front of the full-length mirror across from her bed.

“Why do you say that?” You retort with a small chuckle, your interest piqued at her words.

“Haven’t you noticed he cancels class a lot?” She replies, wiping a mascara smudge off from below her left eye. “He runs late all the time now, he just shows up in a t-shirt when he does lecture. And he just seems happier, overall. That’s every indication that he’s getting some action.”

You thumb the pages of your textbook- or rather, Professor Han’s textbook, red pen grasped between your fingers as you finish up an annotation.

An annotation you pen in just for him- responses to his music suggestions, comments about his analyses and flirting between the lines of music notes. The textbook is exchanged back and forth between the two of you, conversing secretly between the thin pages of music theory, producing poetry from a language only the two of you speak- by each other, and for each other.

Sometimes you imagine it the way Mozart and Constanze’s relationship unfolded- secret, but robust, full of passion and yearning for one another.

And when you tell Jisung about it later that week, he practically doubles over in laughter, eyes forming little crescents as the melodious tune of his “ha ha’s” fills the space between the two of you.

“I guess I never realized how presumptuous you students can be,” he says, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

He doesn’t seem worried in the slightest- at least not with this cautious system the two of you have developed to maintain the secrecy. You don’t linger in his classroom when lectures conclude, careful not to make it too obvious that you’re waiting around for him. Instead, you meet him at his apartment, just a few blocks away from campus and void of people who might piece together the reality of the situation, like Mina. It’s convenient that she doesn’t seem to suspect anything regarding why you’re always absent from your shared dorm now, considering she’s always at her boyfriend’s place, anyway. And although Jisung makes a mental promise to himself to stop canceling his evening classes so frequently, he can’t help it.

He’s just as drawn to you as you are to him, finding solace in the way he can finally confide in somebody after so long. Jisung thinks back to the way he handled the divorce so privately, quietly putting in his two weeks notice as a musical director and opting for a career path which didn’t take so much of his time and sanity.

He recalls the majority of his friends and family acknowledging what a lousy husband he’d been, and the feeling of knowing he’d made a colossal mistake agreeing to marry so young when he could hardly grasp what he even wanted further down the line. But to you, he’s just a work in progress- you’re still enchanted by the way his mistakes are rooted in sheer passion for his work. The way he lights up when he speaks of his old days as a director, the alluring poetry he produces for you between the pages of a course-assigned textbook. He’s so much more than his mistakes- he’s so much more than the evident loneliness, and guilt, and yearning he harbors.

And although the physical aspect is but a minuscule factor of the relationship, it’s still undeniably sweeping, as though it’s another language the two of you share in secrecy. Jisung had admitted once that he hadn’t even been with another woman following the divorce- a fact which you now know to be true, the way he fucks with such desperation, as though he’s going to lose you to the same careless mistakes as before. But he also understands that you’re different, and that you don’t apprehend him for any of his former mistakes.

He indulges you in tales of his days directing, one arm slung lazily around your waist as he holds you close and plays old films of the symphonic band in action. And it’s more captivating to watch him get lost in his work, the way his eyes glaze over as he watches himself on screen, the thin black baton waving around in rushed motions as the band plays. He wears elegant suits lined with brass buttons and expensive cufflinks, and the expression on his face when the on-screen symphony turns to him for direction- hundreds of eyes eagerly awaiting his next move, as though he controls them. Pairs of eyes who actually give a shit about the field of work- not just make an appearance for a grade. He grins ear to ear when you pry for more answers, and especially when you conflate the pieces to that of your own, mentally recalling your own piano sheet music. And when you deluge him in compliments, reminding him that he’s remarkable for all that he’s done, and he’s still remarkable- as a professor, and even following his divorce, he can’t help but grow hard at the affection, reveling in the robust support and the love he’s not sure he’s ever felt before you.

He’ll often make love to you right there on the sofa, symphonic pieces still playing faintly on the tv in the background, and he’ll do it again and again to convey the reminder that he’s grateful, and that no one has ever heard him the way that you do.

*

One month into the arrangement, Jisung texts you in a sheer panic, requesting you meet him in the east lecture hall. It’s extremely uncharacteristic of him to make efforts to meet in the one place you could get caught, but still you adhere to his request, throwing on a sweater and rushing out of your vacant dorm to the east side of campus.

The campus buildings are almost haunting at this hour, no more than two, maybe three students in sight under the dim glow of the lamps that line the concrete pathways. The building names are also completely indistinguishable at this hour amidst the sheer darkness, and the only sounds that can be heard are the distant chirp of crickets and the occasional roll of a skateboard. When you arrive at the grand hall, you quickly realize it’s no longer accessible, closed off by rows of fencer wire and shut off entirely from the rest of the school.

“It’s finally done for,” a voice says from beside you, and you know it to be Jisung’s before even turning to face him.

“Already? I thought construction was supposed to begin next semester, though.”

Jisung shakes his head, hands stuffed in his pockets as he exhales deeply.

“I got the email today,” he says in a frustrated tone. “Just some short thing about not delaying the project. They’re moving me to the tiny little hall around the corner.”

You take a moment to think over the hall he speaks of- it might as well be a mobile classroom with how small it is in size, just one narrow hallway that branches off into a line of 3 other rooms. The desks are reminiscent of those from your high school days, and you can’t remember the heating ever having worked during your time passing through, the hall constantly freezing when it rains.

“I didn’t even get a proper send-off,” he reiterates, his gaze not moving from the bright orange temporary fencing. “I would’ve taken a moment to appreciate it one last time.”

You think for a moment, taking a brief moment to glance around you at the eerily empty campus, and then you turn back to Jisung with a small shrug.

“Don’t you still have your keys?”

“Yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “But…”

Jisung doesn’t finish his sentence, instead pondering the suggestion as he keeps his gaze on the fencing. He knows it would be reckless, practically breaking into the old lecture hall like this to give it one last look, but he’s also overtaken with frustration and a longing for closure.

“I do have my old keys,” he says suddenly, glancing around the vacant buildings nearby, at the faint silhouettes of shadowy trees and dim streetlamps. You watch curiously as he runs a hand along the tip of the neon orange fence, pushing down to locate where it gives in a little. And just at the very end of it, it does, pulling down much further and lowering just enough so that it’s adequate to climb over. Jisung hoists himself over the fencing, his muscular arms steadying himself as he lifts one leg over the fence, followed by the other, and then grounds himself in the muddy grass on the other side. It's the first time you take notice that he’s in a simple pair of blue jeans, brushing mud off his toned thighs and then meeting your gaze again.

“Come on,” he says to you, nearing the fence again and holding a hand out, beckoning you to follow his lead. You don’t think twice before you’re mirroring his actions, hoisting your frame over the plastic fencing and planting two feet in the mud, Jisung helping you regain your balance with his calloused hands finding purchase on your waist and then interlocking his fingers with yours.

“I hope they haven’t changed the locks yet,” he says, leading you to the familiar grand entrance of the lecture hall. His keys are fished out of the pockets of his jeans, jingling softly as he twists his gold key into the lock, and then with an affirmative thud of the door being pushed open, he smiles to himself, beckoning for you to follow him inside.

The lecture hall is even more eerie than the campus is at this hour, not a single light illuminating the dark wooden floors that span the tower. The moonlit glow through the windows flashes with the gentle wave of trees that almost grazes against the glass panes, and you can’t quite distinguish where the gargantuan ceilings even end in this darkness. Jisung makes his way to the spiral staircase to the right of the room, craning his neck up to get a good view of the room, and then he beckons you again with the wave of his hand.

“They haven’t touched the stairs yet,” he says, beginning up the stairs with one hand cascading along the wooden banister. You follow behind him, the only sound echoing around the hall being the familiar loud creak of the stairs as you make your ascent. And for the first time, it’s a sound you realize you’re going to miss very dearly, never having realized it was something you took for granted all this time. The way these stairs obnoxiously announce your arrival when you’re late to class with a coffee in hand, or how the wooden steps boom in volume when students rush down them in hordes toward their next class. Although you’ll have graduated and moved on by then, the knowledge that everything is going to be different remains a jarring fact.

At the top of the stairs, it’s comforting to see that nothing looks different just yet, the podium still intact and rows of chairs folded neatly in their places. Jisung doesn’t make any move to turn on the lights, careful not to reveal that anyone’s broken into the old building, and he makes his way to the podium, staring out at the sea of vacant chairs that sit untouched amidst the darkness.

“I loved this room,” he says after a moment of silence, his voice laced with regret.

You span the perimeter behind the podium, grazing your hands along the old walls, recalling how many times you’d stared at them beyond Jisung’s pacing figure as he spoke of composers and musical theory.

When you make your way to the podium alongside him, mirroring the way he stares out at the empty seats, he glances at you briefly out of his peripheral vision. Jisung wonders if you can tell that the demolition of this room is so painfully metaphorical for him, like one final indication that he deserves no better than the confines of a dingy little room far away from this one. As though every time he feels he’s that much closer to redeeming himself following a nasty divorce, he’s shut out again, misplaced, suddenly right back to where he was five years ago. Misguided, lost, full of regret and a permanent yearning for resolution- one that never seems to come.

In fact, he’s pretty sure you’re the closest he’s ever gotten to one, when you’re assuring him that there is a life beyond the mistakes he made in his early 20s- that the curse of pondering his place here doesn’t have to define him entirely. And that there’s always still time- to love, to better himself, and to revisit the passion which once drove him mad.

It doesn’t mean it’s going to repeat itself, you had told him once. You could do it differently.

“I don’t think Mozart’s Sonata no. 12 needed a coda,” you say to him, breaking the deafening silence between you two in the vast empty space of the room.

Jisung finally turns to look at you, hands still stuffed in the pockets of his jeans as he replies.

“Why’s that?”

“It doesn’t need to repeat the entire first part,” you explain to him. “That part is emphasized enough. I think the listener should appreciate that it just ends where it ends.”

Jisung thinks over your words for a moment, not entirely sure why you’ve brought up the piece way back from chapter 8 of his lectures. And yet he nods in response, his breath hitching in the back of his throat a little when you turn to face him, too.

“I like that it’s a little unclear,” you finally say to him.

And this time he doesn’t respond- not with words at least, opting to pull you in for a gentle kiss, his hands working their way down the small of your back. His lips feel somber against yours, like he seeks to inhibit his sadness with the tender touch of your lips against his, pushing you back against the wooden podium and spinning you around to work kisses down your neck.

There are no words spoken between the two of you, just the vibration of small moans echoing from your lips as he sucks a hickey into your flesh, even though he knows he shouldn’t mark you. And yet he does, a physical reminder that you belong to him, and hopefully one to convey the notion that you’re the closest thing he’s ever gotten to resolution.

Jisung’s hands work your blouse open, his jeans pressing into you from behind, already rock-hard for you as his hands tug off your shirt. And he giggles against your flesh when you gasp at the cold air that grazes your skin.

“Jisung,” you say to him, your hands gripping the wood of the podium. “We probably shouldn’t do this here.”

It’s he who brushes off the lewd act, consoling you with the unzip of his jeans, his bulge pressing into your thigh as he continues to work kisses down your neck.

“We won’t get caught, baby,” he says as his fingers rub circles over your clothed core under the thin fabric of your skirt. “I promise.”

And then it’s you tugging your own panties down, allowing him full access to your wet cunt as the palm of his hand works you in rhythmic back and forth motions. He doesn’t even need to touch you- not when you’re already dripping for him. And yet he remains like that for several minutes, breathing heavily into the shell of your ear as your moans echo around the dark lecture hall, his cock only growing harder against you with every touch.

It’s undoubtedly arousing for him to look out at the classroom he’s lectured in for so many years, one he usually associates with nervous test-takers and monotonous speeches- and to watch the very same space be filled with your gasps of pleasure. His eyes scan over the very seat you occupy every week, recalling the times he’s fantasized about exactly this- touching you the way he knows you deserve to be touched and making you his in the forbidden confines of a classroom. Without so much as a word, his boxers are pulled down too, positioning you in front of him and allowing his fingers to wrap around the base of his leaky cock. He strokes himself just once, eyes shutting at the sensation of his tip brushing against your warm flesh. And then he prods into your entrance, tapping ever so gently as his other hand intertwines with yours.

You take him with complete ease, the way you always do when he’s fucking you this sweetly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as indication to speed up his movements. But he doesn’t- he just maintains a steady pace inside of you, his hips smacking lightly against yours as he resumes wet kisses along your shoulder.

A million thoughts graze his mind as he fucks you- like the fading notes of Mozart’s Sonata no. 12, and how evidently his annotations referencing a coda have resonated with you. Or the tales of Mozart and Constanze’s secret love, of Johannes Brahms and Clara Schumann and a lifetime of unrequited romance that never quite got its closure. Jisung thinks about the nights you two spend in his apartment, watching reruns of him directing symphonies, or mornings when he cancels class because all he can do is lie entangled with you and bask in the love you two share in the privacy of his home.

His mind also goes back to the divorce, a constant pain he carries with him, remembering all the ways he let other people down in efforts to focus on his career and his love of music. Nights he stayed out far too long annotating sheets of music, knowing very well that his wife was waiting up for him. Anniversaries he forgot, birthdays he failed to prioritize because music always came first. And consequently, begging his ex-wife to stay, knowing very well she had already made up her mind- that he was a lousy person, far too consumed by his career and incapable of loving the way she had.

Jisung’s movements pick up in pace as he thinks about the future of this old building- soon demolished into a pile of dust, the old walls crumbling despite the years of history pent up inside of it. Tests failed and lectures given, days he spent funneling that same passion into something entirely new, because directing was never the same once he understood what a neglectful husband he’d been. The walls to be painted blinding shades of cobalt blue and white, like a fucking dentist’s office, and not an inch of the building to suggest it had ever housed an appreciation for music, simply replaced by a basketball court and cold metal bleachers.

He also thinks about you, and how you made the semester far more tolerable, your beaming smile and your curiosity about not only music, but him, serving as a beacon of hope that perhaps this wasn’t all in vain. And your comforting words helping him understand that perhaps this isn’t what he wants after all, that this chapter of life may very well crumble along with this old building. Maybe this is the end, like resilient music notes approaching the finale of a symphonic piece- and he can either allow the fading discoordination to mark the finish- or take to the da segno, and start again.

Maybe a coda is sooner than he thinks- maybe resolution is closer than he thinks.

You’re well aware of Jisung’s now rapid movements inside of you, gasping at the sheer size of his swollen cock grazing your walls, your hand tightly gripping his and your mind wandering to where his currently lies.

But you can’t verbalize the curiosity- not when he’s interrupting you to tilt your face to his, planting a wet, open-mouthed kiss on your mouth and breathing desire back into you.

His fingers prod themselves into your mouth as he fucks you, murmuring little pleas to let him watch you taste yourself, his cock inserting in tandem with his fingers as he matches their pace. Your moans are stifled as your tongue swirls his fingers, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you let the pleasure overtake you.

And then he slides his fingers out for a moment, watching strings of saliva drip so erotically down your parted lips as you continue to take his cock obediently.

“I love you,” he says like it’s an epiphany. But it’s not- he reckons he’s known it for a long time now, almost scared at the intensity of his emotions for you. He’s not quite sure he loved his wife like this, and he’s not sure he knew he was even capable of loving again. In fact, Jisung only knows that he truly loved one thing in his lifetime- music. Music, and now you.

“How could I ever ask for a better woman?” He breathes against your skin, goosebumps rising as his words echo Mozart’s letter to Constanze’s father and echo in the vast, empty room.

Your reciprocation is muffled with the re-insertion of his fingers in your mouth as he reaches his finish inside of you, painting your walls with his release, holding you close and stimulating your clit again as he coaxes an orgasm out of you, too. And the finish is nowhere near fading, nor discoordinate, as the echoes of your moans reverberate off the walls and fill the emptiness with your passionate yearning for one another.

Da segno

Returning to the dorms to find Mina in her bed for once is a shock to you- especially considering she’s been speaking of a camping trip with her boyfriend for several weeks now.

At first you check your phone, briefly, thinking maybe you’ve gotten the date wrong. But you haven’t- it’s a Friday evening, the same evening you know she should be on route to her planned trip with Lucas.

She’s propped up in bed, carefully examining something when you make your way past her, eyebrows furrowed and deep in thought.

“Hey Mina,” you say to her cautiously, pulling your sweater up a little higher up on your neck.

She doesn’t reply, eyebrows still furrowed as she keeps her head down. And then she chuckles lightly, still not looking up at you.

“I feel like you’re out more than I am these days,” she says to you, and you can’t quite make out whether she’s being condescending or cordial with you.

“Yeah,” you reply nervously, sitting on the edge of your bed across from her and crossing your arms. “Just been trying to take more walks.”

Mina purses her lips, nodding, and then she exhales sharply before she speaks again.

“Lucas broke up with me,” she explains. But she doesn’t sound sad, or even angry- she simply relays the news with a straight face, not even glancing up to catch your shocked expression.

“He did?” You blurt out, feeling an overwhelming sense of sympathy for her- of course you don’t really care for Mina, but you also know how frequently she’s out with him, how highly she speaks of him and how in love she’s been with him for all the years they’ve been together.

“Yeah,” she reaffirms, sighing as she speaks. “He’d been cheating for several months. I’m over it now- I just thought I might get a head-start on this week's notes.”

You nod at her again, still aware she seems to be repressing something, far too casual for your liking and almost ready to lash out at any given second.

“That’s good,” you tell her, crossing your legs on the bed. “I’m really sorry. Let me know if you need anything-”

“I did find this week’s chapter to be particularly interesting,” she interrupts, slouching further back against the wall by her bed.

It’s your turn to furrow your brows, a little confused by her behavior, especially considering she hardly ever reads assigned textbook chapters.

“Listen to this,” Mina says, and then her lips pull into a wicked grin as she begins down the page, her voice laced with rancor.

“I must make you better acquainted with the character of my dear y/n,” she begins, and your heart all but stops in your chest.

It’s then that you notice the textbook in her grasp, the familiar old font and the yellowing of the pages- Professor Han’s textbook, the same one riddled with erotic poetry between the lines of music theory.

“Mina, please-” you begin, voice cracking, a futile task as she raises her voice and continues speaking.

“Her whole beauty consists of two sparkling eyes and a delicate figure,” she reads. “She likes to watch me direct symphonies, and she knows music theory like the back of her hand.”

Your heart races in your chest, mind swirling with fearful thoughts as she voices the familiar love letter back to you. Professor Han’s most recent addition to the textbook, derived from Mozart’s letter to Constanze’s father, and a written account of Jisung’s affection for you. A letter you’ve read over and over since he produced it, and the same one you so carelessly left lying open on your dorm bed in a rush to go see him at the lecture hall.

“She likes to hear the stories of famous composers and their romances, and she lets me make love to her as though she belongs to me,” Mina reads, her voice growing even louder as you now approach her. Your hands reach desperately for the book, which she holds away from your reach as she now stands up on her bed, her feet digging into the mattress as she steadies herself with one hand on the wall.

“Please, stop,” you beg, to no avail, as she then concludes the letter.

“Most things that a student neglects, she excels in. I love her and she loves me with all her being- tell me whether I could ask for a better woman.”

The room falls painfully quiet as she finishes, thumbing through the pages with a soft rustling sound.

“That’s just one,” she says, maintaining the same wicked expression on her face. “The book is full of them.”

And then she shuts the book, examining the cover, meeting your gaze as she assumes her position back down on the mattress and crosses her legs.

“This is the professor’s textbook, right? That’s why it looks a little different. I had wondered, when I first snatched it from your stuff.”

You stay quiet, your gaze falling to the floor as tears brim your eyes. You want to fight back, but in reality, the book serves as admission itself- there’s no denying it’s a letter from him, to you. It’s incriminating by his loopy cursive handwriting, the book she’s seen him wield so many times in the classroom during lectures and the way he speaks of making love to you.

“You’re fucking Professor Han?” She finally says aloud, and the words sting, although you’ve been expecting them.

“It’s not like that-”

“That’s why you’re doing so well in his class? While the rest of us bust our asses studying for his stupid quizzes? What do you even do, suck him off when nobody’s looking? How big is he?”

“Stop!” You exclaim, the tears now cascading down your flushed cheeks and gathering on your trembling chin.

Mina says nothing as she wears the same stupid smirk on her face, and then she tosses the book to you, which you grasp in your shaky hands. You hold it close to you, wishing so badly you could undo whatever it is she’s seen in the book, but you know that it’s far too late- the book is no longer a sacred little thing between you and Jisung.

“What do you want?” You say to her quietly, sniffling as you tuck the book under your duvet.

“What do I want?” She echoes.

“Yes,” you huff frustratedly. “Anything. Just please don’t tell the dean about this- or anyone, for that matter. I promise to do whatever it is that you ask, especially since-”

Your rambling comes to a sudden halt when Mina begins laughing, her hands clutching her stomach as she does, almost doubling over on the bed and kicking her feet with enthusiasm.

“Do you think I’m gonna blackmail you, or something?” She questions between laughter, meeting your gaze with tears in her eyes as she continues giggling between words.

“I always knew you were weird,” she remarks. “Not like, ‘fuck a professor’ weird. But it is weird that you think I’m gonna blackmail you.”

You don’t say anything to Mina, sitting on your bed again and sprawling one hand out to rest atop the book, which remains hidden under the duvet.

“You mean… you… won’t tell?”

“I’m impressed,” Mina replies, now lying on her side and propping her head up in her hand. “He is the hottest professor on campus. But no, I’m not going to tell anyone. Contrary to your belief, I really don’t care to ruin either of your lives. I have more important things to worry about.”

You sigh a heavy breath, relieved that Mina’s taken the high road and chosen to ignore the situation altogether. But you can’t cease the heavy weight it bears within you, one that fears not for your future, but for Professor Han’s. You know the majority wouldn’t believe it, the tale that this was a mutual thing between the two of you, that he’s just a pained divorcee, and you’re a lonely college student. To the masses, it would look like complete manipulation, Professor Han requiring a sexual relationship from you for an A in his course, and keeping the discrete flirting alive within the pages of his textbook. It’s more irresponsible on his end than it is yours- and although you both know it’s wrong, it still feels different. It still feels as though it’s rooted in yearning.

“I still need a textbook,” Mina says, breaking the silence between you two. “Like, for this week’s chapters.”

“Oh, right,” you say to her quietly, reaching inside your school bag for the correct book. You toss it to her without another word, observing the way she flips to the page she was on, and resumes reading as though nothing happened.

But her voice still replays in your head, reading aloud the sacred letter Professor Han produced for you within his textbook, one that never should have graced anybody else’s eyesight except your own.

And the tears resume as you watch her, a heavy guilt present as the words play in your mind again, and again, and again.

*

Jisung’s apartment doesn’t feel the way it normally does later that week- not when you’re first sauntering in with meek steps, being flooded by a barrage of questions about why you’ve skipped class for two weeks. And especially not when you finally recount the incident to Jisung, tears flooding your eyes and cascading down the deep gray bags that hammock under your lashes. The nights have been sleepless for all fourteen days, tossing and turning on your mattress about whether Mina is actually going to keep her promise about not telling. And she appears to, failing to acknowledge it whenever she’s in your presence, visibly still coping with the aftermath of her breakup. She simply comes and goes in casual strides, sometimes still borrowing your textbook from you and returning it far later than you care for, but it really doesn’t matter by this point. You’ve stopped reading the textbook entirely, coming to terms with the fact that you’ll have to rely on your own knowledge to pass any of the assignments distributed. And Jisung knows something is wrong when he finally does see you after two weeks, dressed loosely in a pair of sweatpants, your face flushed with tears and averting his gaze.

“You’re going to be so mad at me,” you emphasize to him, shielding the tears that fall from your trembling eyes with one hand, as he crouches on the floor in front of you and gives your hand a little squeeze.

And he’s adamant that nothing could make him hate you- that whatever it is you’re facing can be worked through, and that he’s going to stand by you regardless. Yet when you recount the incident to him, explaining the way Mina had read through his written confessions of sleeping with you and expressing his love for you, Jisung falls completely silent- a reaction which is somehow more scary to you than vexed words.

“Are you sure she knows it’s mine?” He asks, pulling away to stand in front of you. He feels much taller when he’s towering over you like this, pacing frantically along the wooden floorboards and chewing on the inside of his lip nervously.

“I’m sure,” you reply quietly. “She must’ve been reading it the entire time I was out. It has your name in it and everything.”

Jisung is quiet again, thinking over your words, and then he places his hands on his hips as he speaks again.

“Did she say anything else?” He inquires.

“She said that she wouldn’t tell anybody. As far as I know, she hasn’t. I just feel-”

“I’m never going to get it now,” he then says, running his hands through his hair nervously and glancing around the room.

“Get what?”

“Jesus,” he says, almost chuckling in disbelief. “I spent all this time interviewing, and if this gets out it could ruin everything.”

“Interviewing?” You echo meekly.

“Just when I thought I had it all again. I was so close to being back. Getting out of this shitty job and making a name for myself again.”

Jisung assumes a spot in one of the chairs across from you, burying his head in his hands and remaining silent. You want to ask him to clarify what he means by interviewing, but you’re also scared of him when he’s like this, knowing he’s reverting back to the version of himself who puts music above everything.

“You couldn’t just make something up?” Jisung then asks, scoffing lightly as he finally meets your gaze.

“What?”

“You couldn’t just fucking lie? Why on earth would you admit to it?”

“Lie?” You repeat to him with a shaky voice. “What did you want me to say?”

“Say I wasn’t interested in you,” Jisung retorts. “Say you were writing the letters to yourself. You’re putting my entire career at risk because you couldn’t be bothered to put my book away?”

You’re taken aback momentarily by Jisung’s words, hardly making sense of them at first. There’s no way he could be blaming you for this- not when he’s just as guilty as you are. In fact, Professor Han may be more guilty, acting upon his urges when he knows the power imbalance he wields over you- you’re just a student of his, nowhere near the status he upholds at this school. But as he continues prodding you for questions about why you hadn’t just lied, or made a bullshit excuse, or something, the message is conveyed loud and clear. He’s blaming you entirely for being found out.

“This is about directing,” you say when the realization hits you, almost laughing at the sheer absurdity of it.

“Of course it’s about directing,” he retorts, throwing his hands in the air and scoffing loudly. “I worked my ass off interviewing for one of the most prestigious roles a few hours out of here, I got an offer just yesterday, and now this is going to ruin everything. When they hear about the little fling I had, and they assume I coerced you into it, when you know damn well you led me on. And it’s going to be my divorce all over again.”

A silence falls over the room as you take in his words. You suddenly feel microscopic in his presence as the betrayal sets in, and for the first time since the arrangement, the discomfort of this being a student-teacher relationship washes over you.

“It’s not going to get out,” you say to him softly. “Mina hasn’t told anybody, and I’ll make sure it stays that way.”

Jisung gives a small nod at your words, and then he slides his hands into the pocket of his jeans.

“I hate that you don’t realize when you’re doing the same thing all over again,” you then say to him, averting his stern gaze.

“What are you talking about?”

“Why are we even doing this?” You continue, scoffing lightly. “Is this some sick way of reenacting the same mistakes you did before, and hoping for a different outcome? Now your directing days are just within reach again, and you’re doing the same thing, making your shortcoming’s everybody else’s fault except your own. I think you’re more afraid of not being able to relive your glory days than of losing anybody you love.”

“That’s not what this is, and you know that,” Jisung retorts. “You know how I feel about you.”

“Just admit that I’m a distraction because you miss your old life,” you continue, a little calmer now. “It’s the first time your career felt like it once did when you were directing, and in love, and I’m just some good fuck who takes genuine interest in your stories.”

“That’s not what I’m-”

“Do you ever imagine I’m her?” You ask him, meeting his concerned gaze. “When you’re fucking me in your bedroom? Do you ever imagine I’m your ex-wife waiting up for you the way she used to? Pretend you’re still a director and that you finally have everything you want?”

“That’s enough,” Jisung voices, and you shake your head at him.

“You might have been infatuated over some fleeting moment, seeing the face of your ex-wife whenever you looked at me. But I really, truly loved you. And she was right- you are a lousy person. You just can’t seem to understand when your interests take precedence over your emotions.”

Jisung is silent as his lip quivers in response, experiencing all over again what he did on the night his ex-wife left him. He’d always feared it would come back to haunt him- but not like this. Not through repeating the same mistakes all over again- just as he thought he finally found closure.

Like a musical piece with triumphant notes approaching an end, suddenly directing him right back to the symbol forcing repetition. It’s dizzying, and it’s painful, and he’s sure that a conclusion is far from his reach now.

Without another word, you pivot on your heel, gathering your bag and making your way toward his front door again.

“Y/n, please wait,” Jisung calls out, but he can’t find the words to clear his name of your accusations. Instead he remains quiet when you turn to face him, his shoulders sagging in a defeated manner as you shrug in his direction.

“I really think you ought to find what resolution means to you,” you say to him finally. “Repetition isn’t always it.”

*

The dingy old hallway within the radius of the old east lecture hall is indeed just as undesirable as you remembered it- it’s freezing cold when it rains outside, the students struggle to traverse the narrow hall as they brush against each other in passing and the classroom is nowhere near as enchanting as the grand room of the old hall. Made much worse are the stripes of cobalt blue and a blinding shade of white, which line every wall in the building, almost distracting as lectures are conveyed from the front of the room. The students maintain their same positioning as the lecture is given, typing on their laptops, the clicking sounds of keyboards much louder now at this close proximity of all the chairs to each other. And you don’t write down a single thing, staring at the stripes of blue and white on the walls, following their trail from one side of the room until they reach the hinges of the door, and then repeating the process over and over again.

Professor Han’s departure comes as a surprise to many, the students murmuring amongst themselves as they theorize what could cause such a sudden leave. He fought with the dean and quit. He has a terminal illness. He’s sleeping with a student.

Of course some of them come close to the truth, but they’ll never know for sure- not unless they’re one of the two people on campus who do know.

Mina makes an attempt to ask you about it at first, fiddling awkwardly with the pages of your textbook as she inquires about the status of your relationship. She proceeds to ask if you’d known he was leaving, but not before tears are streaming down your face, your words coming out between hiccupped sobs. And all that she’s able to coax out of you is the verbal confirmation that yes, you knew he was leaving, and no, nobody else found out about the arrangement.

Professor Han’s replacement is a shameful excuse for a lecturer, an older man who only knows as much as the textbook explains, and nothing beyond the printed text. He goes so far as to actively discourage questions, expressing his distaste for “wasting time”, yet the students are well aware it’s because he simply doesn’t have the answers they seek. Your classmates don’t care of course, their grades cushioned by the generous 20 points, instead of 10, which Professor Han opted to distribute for the dead composer’s gallery walkthrough as one final parting gift. And aside from one last email thanking the class for their participation in the duration of the few months he taught it, Professor Han promptly makes his departure from your life, too. Not so much as a thank you, an apology or even a love letter the way you know he once would have written, had he not been so consumed by a yearning for his old life. Just like his ex-wife, you’re shut out by him, made to feel as though reciprocated affection is somehow a selfish request. And maybe it is when it comes to Professor Han- maybe he’s truly just incapable of loving without the limitations of his work. Like the famous composers you learn of, he’s a genius in so many ways- just not in romance. And certainly not in learning from his mistakes.

On occasion, you write to him again, tearing out pages from old chapters in your textbook and scribbling along the vacant margins.

“The old lecture hall’s finally been torn down- all that remains are gray dust and pieces of the old stair banister. They’ve already built up part of the new gymnasium. If I look out the new classroom window, I can see them sampling paint swatches- all shades of blue and white, of course. The students miss you- the boys still dress like you, and the girls don’t even look up from their laptops when your replacement speaks. There’s nothing to look at, of course- not when you’re absent.

We finally reached Constanze’s short chapter in the textbook- chapter 14. Did you know she remarried after Mozart? There was no animosity between the two until his death- she spoke so highly of him until the end. We credit Constanze for many of his posthumous works. Ones that never would have seen the light of day without the respect she paid to him.

I think highly of you, too- I know you don’t know it, but I think back to your old videos, when you’d wave around that black baton of yours and lead symphonies. I understand the fear you harbored in letting all of that go.

You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met. I wish you hadn’t told me that you were falling in love, and I hope you’re doing terrible-”

Your red pen is set down promptly as you allow yourself to catch your breath, ceasing this unproductive flow of consciousness you spill onto the pages of your textbook. Many nights end this way, your thoughts poured out and then repressed once more, no method of delivering them to him, regardless. And although you want to reconnect with him, you have no way of actually doing so, even his apartment now vacant as he assumes his new role as a director a few hours out of town. It’s a jarring fact, coming to terms with the notion that you’re likely never going to see him again. But you know it’s his way of resolution- repeating the same process as before, hoping for a different outcome.

*

“You’re starting the tempo change too slow,” Jisung says with a heavy sigh, setting his baton down on the music stand and waving his hand. “Pick up from measure three, on your own this time. I’ll be back in five.”

The room fills with the discoordinate overlap of instruments practicing, woodwinds rotating their reeds and brass players emptying spit valves. Jisung makes his way past the double doors, shielding his eyes from the almost blinding rays of sunlight that glare down over the music hall at this hour. And then he leans against the same brick wall he always does when he’s this mentally exhausted, shutting his eyes momentarily and exhaling.

He’s directing again, conducting symphonic pieces he’s only ever dreamed of. His hair is two shades lighter than it was when he was teaching, his closet is filled to the brim with elegant blazers and he’s compiled a generous collection of gold and silver cufflinks the way he once used to. But something feels different- and it’s felt that way for months now.

Sometimes Jisung can’t recall if symphonies were always this arduous to lead. He’s almost certain he’s verbally noted the painfully slow tempo change to them about a trillion times, and yet every time the metronome is turned on, guiding them with the obnoxious repetitive click at 80 beats per minute, they’re too slow.

Slow enough for his mind to wander elsewhere- like whether they’ll ever have the chance to rehearse the final few bars of this piece. Or questioning if they actually respect him here, as a director, and not just as a replacement for a metronome when he’s not yelling at them.

And occasionally, as much as he hates to admit it, the thoughts involve you. His pride’s too far gone to admit he ruined things, and his ego would never let him find you and convey some form of an apology- especially not after begging someone to stay once long ago, to no avail. But his mind wanders to the image of you in the audience, observing him keenly with the same beaming smile on your face and a genuine interest in whatever it is he’s doing- whether it be conducting grand symphonies, lecturing facts he’s memorized like the back of his hand or even just recounting old tales alongside you.

In the pocket of his blazer lies the same pathetic scrap of paper he just can’t seem to let go of- and as he glances at the inching second hand on his wristwatch, he pulls it out again, carefully undoing it from its folded state and scanning the contents. Page 256 from his textbook, detailing Mozart’s Sonata no. 12, complete with his scribbled annotations, and yours, so perfectly complementing all of his remarks.

“Coda?” He had written along the margins- a little addition that stuck with you all that time. Every time you were tangled in his embrace, listening to stories of his days as a director, Jisung pressing little kisses to your forehead, you’d inquire about his need for a musical epilogue. One that you didn’t believe was necessary within the piece, feeling as though the repetition equated redundancy in this case. “I think the listener should just appreciate that it ends where it ends,” you’d told him once, a statement he disagreed with at the time, but one he finds himself thinking over a lot these days.

Perhaps you were so certain about the finale of Mozart’s Sonata no. 12 because you could appreciate every other measure of the piece. The triumphant swell of the crescendos that mark the introduction, the changes within tempo and the distinctly separate movements that complement each other with such force. Measures that Jisung seemed to neglect, always searching for something beyond the eight notes that make up the piece in its entirety. But maybe you were right all along, that sometimes a listener should simply appreciate where a piece ends- that there doesn’t need to be any form of repetition, or even the need for a coda. Maybe those fading, discoordinate notes are enough- maybe that’s a coda in itself.

The double doors swing open as Jisung takes careful note of the symbol you also tagged at the bottom of the page, an oval with a cross through the center, a coda- an offer for resolution.

“Jisung?” Somebody asks, and he glances up to catch the gaze of who he remembers to be a third chair woodwind player.

“We practiced measure three again,” he says cautiously. “Could you… have a listen one more time?”

Jisung sighs, tucking the folded piece of paper back into his blazer and glancing beyond the student through the double doors. The music hall is dark inside, despite it being the middle of the day, the navy blue carpeting and the tinted windows completely obscuring the beauty of the world beyond the four walls. And then he looks the other direction, at the clear blue skies and the bustling roads, where the people don’t look back the way he’s done for so long.

“Sir?” The student asks again, twiddling his fingers together in front of his collared shirt.

“Not now. I’m leaving early today,” Jisung says, buttoning his blazer closed and giving the student a small nod. “Practice measure three until it’s perfected for next time.”

And then he begins toward his car, taking purposeful strides with a plan he hasn’t even conjured up yet, only knowing he has to keep looking forward if he wants any sort of resolution to all of this.

“And for god’s sake,” Jisung then calls out suddenly, stopping in his tracks to convey the message clearly.

“Get the tempo right, next time, will you? I’m tired of hearing the same thing over and over again.”

Coda

The evening of some important date in December is marked by the particularly frosty air, your dorm window fogged up with a sheet of ice and the halls much too cold to traverse without generous layers of clothing.

The remaining students here walk up and down the length of the hallways with cardboard boxes balanced in their arms, talking excitedly amongst themselves about plans for graduation parties and post-college life. And you can’t seem to part with the comfortable atmosphere of your dorm bed, neglecting your own stack of boxes as Mina makes her way in and out of the shared dorm room you’ve gotten so accustomed to.

“Are you using that box?” She asks, loudly sealing one with packing tape and setting it on top of another.

“No,” you say plainly. “It’s all yours.”

She takes careful notice of the way you remain draped over the bed, eyes glued to the ceiling as you think back to the last of your college days. A formal graduation in a week, which you’ve already opted out of. A series of parties even Mina tried to drag you to, every invitation promptly declined. And a prestigious internship in the city waiting for you come springtime, where you’ll be right back to appreciating the intricacies of music theory and piano.

Everything should feel as though it’s falling into place- and yet it doesn’t. It feels different- and it’s felt different for months now.

In a perfect world, you reckon you’d be elated to make your departure from these dorms, and anticipate the new life that awaits you after these four years of dedication. But you can’t help but feel as though something is missing from all of this- something well beyond your reach.

You think back to Brahms and Clara Schumann a lot these days, and the passionate, yet unrequited love that he took to the grave with him. He never got close to what he wanted- he had music, and a career so successful he was deemed one of the best composers who ever lived. And yet much of his life’s work was still rooted in unadulterated yearning, because he never had Clara Schumann. You want so badly to place your own musical accomplishments over your yearning, and yet you can’t. Not when the yearning had quickly transitioned to unrequited love the same way it did for Brahms, and it’s been that way since Jisung left.

You also think of Mozart and Constanze, and how he fought for everything to be with her, despite the hardships they faced. And you want to scream at Jisung when you recall Mozart’s letter to her father, one that’s now been tainted by his poetic words to you along the margins of his course textbook.

“Y/n, you’re never going to finish packing today at this rate,” Mina remarks, occupying a spot next to you on the bed. “Do you need help or something?”

“I’m good,” you say to her, meeting her gaze as she looms over you.

She remains quiet for a moment, examining your expression, and then she folds her hands in her lap politely.

“You know,” she begins. “You’re the smartest musician I’ve ever met. It’s a little weird how much you know sometimes.”

“Thanks,” you retort with a small chuckle.

“And I don’t think messing around with anybody got you where you are today. You did that yourself.”

You meet her gaze finally, not speaking as she shrugs softly. You’re a little surprised at the kind tone she assumes, wondering briefly if there’s some sort of catch to her words.

“Just… give yourself what you deserve,” she finishes. “Whether that means going back, or looking forward. But don’t settle for less than you really want. I did, for so long. And I’ll be the first to tell you it’s not worth it.”

You swallow as you nod at her words, knowing who she refers to without the utterance of a name. And then you furrow your brows as you press her for one more thing.

“Mina,” you say to her. “Why didn’t you tell anybody? What did you get out of keeping my dirty secret?”

She chuckles softly, throwing her head back and shrugging before speaking again.

“Those annotations,” she begins. “They’re not just some dirty little secret. That’s… a sort of thing I’ve never seen at that proximity. They way you speak to each other, it’s like some language the rest of us would never understand. At first, I thought I was skimming too far ahead in the textbook or something. Of course, maybe it also had something to do with the 10 extra points he gave us before leaving.”

You laugh lightly at the same time she does, and then her expression grows serious again as she picks at a loose thread on the duvet.

“It just kinda sounded like you two were in love,” she finishes. “I wouldn’t get in the way of that.”

You hold her gaze for a moment as she stands up again, brushing off her jeans and hoisting another box into her arms.

“Anyways,” she continues. “I’m out of here. Good luck in the city, and-”

“Mina,” you interrupt her, sitting up to look at her properly.

She blinks a few times, surprised you’re sitting up in bed for the first time today, and holds your gaze over the sealed top of her cardboard box.

“Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t say it enough.”

Mina smiles, her pink glossed lips pulling into a kind grin, and there’s no remaining tension between the two of you for possibly the first time since you’ve lived together.

“You’re welcome,” she replies, accompanied by a gentle nod. “Oh- and you might want to check out the new part of the gymnasium they finished constructing today. I think they followed your advice and finally put a piano in there.”

And then she’s off again, shooting you a small wink before she saunters out of your dorm, this time for good.

*

The chill of the December air is unforgiving at the early hours of the morning like this, the campus nearly empty as students depart from the place they’ve called home for four years, their college years packed up into cardboard boxes and sealed away at last.

You still have a lot of packing to finish yourself, a new chapter in the city awaiting you while you traverse the concrete village one last time. And although these halls have housed some of your most stressful memories, staying up late studying for exams and rushing to make it to class on time, you’re going to miss every part of it. Like the coffee shop on the second story of the student union, where the barista always adds a little too much caramel to your lattes. Or the windowed seat at the very back of the 8th story in the library, where when it rains, you can watch lines of people rush to their classes with hands over their heads and desperately clutching their umbrellas.

And of course, the grant east lecture hall- one you’ve already missed for the better part of the semester following its demolition. As you round the corner, you can make out the new gymnasium that’s already partially erected in its place. It’s another blinding shade of white, like the rest of the buildings are, closed off to the public and still lined with the same bright orange temporary plastic fencing as before. At where is supposed to become the entrance at some point in time, a rectangular cutout in the concrete slab of a wall, nothing but a thin plastic tarp prohibiting entry. And though you know that you really shouldn’t, you can’t help yourself, hoisting your legs over the orange fencing to the other side, your feet planting into the grass lining with a gentle thud.

There’s nobody around at this hour to watch you sneak into the new gymnasium- and realistically, what form of punishment can they even issue, anyway? Expel you?

The tarp sways with the gentle caress of a December breeze, like an invitation to come wander the new space which once housed years of history, now structured for basketball games and college rallies alike. And with one last look around, only to ensure nobody’s watching you partake in the prohibited act, you sneak your way past the orange fencing, kicking the tarp aside to gain entry, and then taping it back into place behind you.

It looks like a gymnasium- and it smells like a gymnasium. Gone are the overpowering scent of mothballs that once graced the music hall’s staircase, replaced instead by the woody notes of sawdust and fresh paint. The walls are white, true to the rest of the school’s buildings, and along the walls which are finished, the signature cobalt blue stripe. At this proximity, it’s almost humorous to bask in the putrid colors you’re grateful you’ll never have to stare at again.

As you take in your surroundings, you remember Mina’s words from earlier, recalling a new piano they placed here, and you scan the room from left to right- only there’s nothing. No piano- not even a dingy keyboard like the one in the old practice room. Why would a piano be here, anyway? In a gymnasium meant for sports and jock gatherings? Could it be Mina’s way of sending you off with one final bout of animosity?

You’re doubtful- that isn’t Mina. You know her way of comforting you earlier was rooted in the good intentions she’s always had. Which still begs the question- why did she send you here?

As you begin toward the other side of the gymnasium, a gentle rustle from the tarp startles you, the blue masking tape being lifted piece by piece and moved aside for another person to gain entry.

Construction workers, you think to yourself. It’s going to be awkward getting out of this one. And as you approach the cutout in the concrete wall again, ready to conjure up some form of an explanation, another person does make entry, crouching so as not to bump his head, as he stumbles inside and regains his balance.

His hair is two shades lighter than the last time you saw him. He still wears the same dorky wireframe glasses as before. And he looks elegant, in a white button down and black blazer, the same canvas sneakers he used to love double-knotted at the laces and complementing his black slim-fitting slacks.

“What are you doing here?” Is all you can say to him as he approaches, his hands shoved in his pockets and a leather bag slung over his shoulder.

“Mina practically chased me when I was leaving,” he says, gesturing to the empty space around you both. “Said I had to come see some new piano they put in here.”

He glances around the room, eyebrows furrowed in a confused manner, and then he turns to face you.

“Where is it?”

“There is no piano,” you say to him, crossing your arms frustratedly. “She told me the same thing.”

Jisung begins to say something, and then he stops, giving a small nod as he averts your cold stare.

His thumb toys with a loose thread inside the pocket of his slacks, and then he meets your gaze again, strands of brown hair falling into the shy expression he wears on his face.

“Graduated, huh? How’s it feel?”

“Fine,” you reply in a reluctant tone. “I leave today.”

“Where are you headed?” Jisung asks, swallowing nervously.

“Landed an internship in the city,” you tell him. “It’s close by. Just some piano thing.”

Jisung’s lips pull into a grin, chuckling lightly as he nods in response. “I always knew you’d land something good.”

You remain quiet, looking around the gymnasium once again, and then you turn to him with some hesitation.

“What are you doing here?”

Jisung sighs deeply, looking around the gymnasium, too, before speaking.

“I had an interview. Quit my directing gig.”

His words take you aback momentarily, a million questions racing through your mind about why he’s no longer directing and why he’d be interviewing here of all places.

“You interviewed here?”

“Wasn’t so much of an interview as it was a conversation,” he retorts. “They even had my old badge. I really need to get that updated considering my hair’s not technically black anymore-”

“Why would you interview here?” You emphasize to him again. “You hated it here. I thought you wanted some fancy directing thing.”

Jisung is quiet again, digging the heel of his canvas sneaker into the thick layer of sawdust that lines the floor. He knows that his ego is far too big, and he’s still consumed with an overwhelming amount of selfish pride. But he also knows that he’s not going to find any form of resolution without breaking this vicious cycle of repeating his mistakes, especially when a resolution is finally within reach.

“Look, I fucked up, okay?” Jisung finally says, taking you by complete surprise.

“The minute I started there again, I knew that wasn’t my calling anymore. Maybe it was back when I was still young, and all starry-eyed for the stupid baton and the fancy suits.”

He turns to face you at this point, taking a step toward you and almost physically demanding you reciprocate the eye contact.

“But you were right- that chapter of my life is finished now. And yeah, maybe the students don’t pay attention when I stand up there and lecture. And sure, I’m just going to be some lousy assistant college band director out here. But finding you- and the way you’d listen to me, and the way you never judged me for my shortcomings, even though I was a shitty husband once, and a shitty professor and an even shittier boyfriend to you- you made me realize it was finally time to let go.”

Jisung can’t seem to cease his emotional speech once he begins, frantically gesturing as he continues speaking. He feels like a different person entirely in this vulnerable form- like the Jisung you knew when he was first breaking his walls down around you. And the Jisung you know when he isn’t putting his dreams of a past life before the people he loves.

“… and then I couldn’t stop thinking about Brahms and Clara, and how he died without ever having told her how he felt. Or Tchaikovsky who had to hide who he loved- and then Mozart! God, that stupid letter- she remarried, you know that? Did you ever get to that chapter? Of course you did, before I could tell you, at least.”

Jisung paces the floor in rushed motions as he speaks, his wet sneakers squeaking obnoxiously along the gym floor as the words escape his lips. You don’t try to speak for a little while, carefully soaking in what you assume to be an apology. And then he stops in his tracks, eyebrows arching into a pleading expression as he towers over you.

“Music isn’t the same without you,” he finishes. “None of this is.”

You lock your gaze with Jisung’s, his big brown eyes almost trembling as he awaits a reply. And simultaneously, you do your best not to let your guard down too quickly.

“Is this how it unfolded back then, too?” You ask calmly. “When you begged somebody to stay after the first time you made this mistake?”

Jisung’s lips part to say something, but then he’s quiet again, waiting for you to continue, praying for something better than this.

“I think you’re a genius,” you continue. “I think you’re remarkable, and talented, and loving you comes so easily. But you make it hard when you do the same thing to everybody you’ve ever loved.”

“You’re the first woman I’ve ever loved,” Jisung blurts promptly, and a deafening silence falls over the room. He hesitates to continue at this point, fearing as though he’s going to scare you off, but he’s also never verbalized it to you despite thinking about it every waking second of the day, and he’s determined not to form new mistakes he could risk repeating.

“I let it happen back then because music was the only thing I loved,” he explains. “It was a shitty thing, and for so long I struggled to move on because I was still lost in the only thing I ever loved. And then you came along; I don’t need to direct when I have you. I’ll be a teacher- hell, I’ll be a fucking janitor if that’s what you want. You were my sign to move on from repeating the same fucking thing all over again- you are my end.”

Jisung breathes heavily as he finishes, gauging the shocked expression in your trembling eyes. He waits for you to say something, and then without averting your gaze, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper and handing it to you.

You unfold it slowly, already knowing it by the familiar yellowing color and small printed font- page 256 of his course-assigned textbook, detailing Mozart’s Sonata no. 12, complete with all your annotations alongside his. Only his are no longer visible- they’re crossed out, completely scribbled over in black pen, concealing his call for any form of repetition within the piece. All that remains at the bottom of the page, in the same red pen you first marked in, is a single oval with a cross through it- a coda.

Your gaze meets his after examining the page briefly, surprised he’s kept it after all this time. And then he sags his shoulders a little, gesturing to the page still in your grasp.

“I passed my sign once,” he says sheepishly. “Just please come back to me.”

Jisung doesn’t wait for you to respond this time, instead cupping your cheeks gently with his hands and pulling you in for a passionate kiss, which you don’t hesitate to reciprocate, letting your hands wrap around the back of his neck to pull him even closer to you. His lips work against yours eagerly, but still tenderly, breathing all of his desire back into you and confirming the notion that this is all he’s ever really yearned for.

He smiles into the kiss against you, grazing his thumbs up to wipe stray tears that cascade along your cheeks, and then with one more chaste kiss to your lips, he pulls away once more, chuckling lightly.

“Can we just start over?” He asks you innocently. “No repetition, no secrecy. Just start anew.”

You chuckle lightly at his proposal, nodding in his embrace, and then he pulls away entirely to hold a hand out to you.

“Han Jisung,” he says. “I’m an assistant director for the college band.”

“Y/n,” you respond with a smile, shaking his hand firmly.

“So lovely to meet you- can I interest you in a tour of the gymnasium I work in?”

He throws an arm over your shoulder, beginning down the length of the vast space and gesturing to the walls beside you.

“This is where I yell at students to fix their tempos,” Jisung explains, giving your shoulder a little squeeze as you chuckle in response to him.

“And this is where I tell stories about famous composers and their love lives. Tell me, y/n- do you know the tale of Mozart and Constanze?” He then asks with a smile.

“I can’t say I do,” you play along, earning an exaggerated gasp from him.

“Well then I’d love to tell you all about it. How do you feel about art galleries? There’s one not far from here…”

And Jisung’s hand drops to yours, intertwining your fingers together as he lets himself start anew, alongside who he now knows to have been a sign for him this entire time- a coda, an epilogue, an offer for resolution.

𐙚 just friends ⋆ l.f x reader

pairing: fwb! lee felix x gender neutral! reader genre: angst, smau, smut warnings: friends with benefits ⋆ no happy ending ⋆ swearing ⋆ special guests: bang chan & lee know ⋆ chan is called chris ⋆ vaguely written sex ⋆ riding (mentioned) ⋆ oral sex (male & gn recieving) ⋆ moody / mean felix ⋆ felix has an ex ⋆ felix is an asshole ⋆ short scenes ⋆ self gaslighting wc: 2.3k synopsis: becoming friends with benefits with felix wasn't a bad idea. that's what you convinced yourself when it started. nothing would change. (that was a lie.) request: hii is your request slot still open? if its not feel free to ignore my request. Soo Im thinking about fwb angst yk? Like maybe Seungmin or Felix. I would rly rly appreciate it if u did the request, have a nice day!! author's note: i wouldn’t call this full on smut but i did write some less descriptive sex scenes. the focus is more on the angst. also felix is mean. i said that once but i'm gonna say it again. (ps. there's no redemption arc pt. 2 because i actually enjoy the suffering of this.)

© dollracha do not copy reupload or repost.

you always thought that most friends with benefits situations would be secret; that you’d sneak around behind your friend’s backs, careless yet careful to make sure they never found out. lee felix proved you wrong.

you’re out at the bar with your friends, he’s got his arm around you. after a few drinks, he’s suggesting you come home with him. or you’re at home on a saturday morning and he asks you to come grocery shopping with him, just for the company. whenever you’re out with your friends, it’s more likely than not that felix is at your side.

all of your friends know about your situation with felix. you used to be embarrassed, but that washed away quickly. you don’t feel anything about it, or at least you try not to. 

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

“are you two together or something?” chris asks, his face twisted with confusion. it’s a reasonable question. felix has you pulled into his lap. he’s been fiddling with the pendant on your necklace for a few minutes. the two of you have been receiving looks from your friends, entirely noticed by you while felix remains unaware. 

“no?” he drops your pendant, and looks at chris like he’s an idiot for insinuating it. “nobody has a problem when lee know hyung grabs your ass. but suddenly because i’m holding y/n everyone’s got a problem?”

“what?” minho doesn’t move as he glares at felix. ‘the audacity of this kid…’ 

“no one’s got a problem.” chris intervenes between them before it has the chance to escalate. “it was just a question, mate.” 

felix practically shoves you off his lap to stand. you stumble as you try not to fall. “they’re obviously not my fucking partner.” he spits, and heads straight for the door. it stings. you know your dynamic, it’s nothing romantic. you’re just best friends who can’t keep their hands off each other. that doesn’t stop the hurt.

you look between your friends, and felix, and back again. “i’m gonna go make sure he’s okay.” chris shakes his head, but doesn’t say a word nor stop you.

you catch up to felix just before before the elevator door shuts. “felix,” he doesn’t spare you a glance. “wha—” he interrupts you. “—it’s bullshit. they’re all cozy with each other. no problem. that’s fine. but when it comes to me there’s a bunch of questions and shit?” he turns to you finally, posing the question and finally remembering to hit the button for the first floor.

“it was one question, felix.” you try to calm him down, it probably won’t work. he’s been very sensitive to the topic of relationships as of recent. “i don’t think chris is necessarily wrong for asking, and–”

“so you think he has the right to be in my business?” 

“no. that’s not what i said.”

“then what is it?”

“you were a little rough. chris wasn’t rude. you took an unwarranted shot at minho. they’re our friends.” 

“you’re my friend too and you don’t pull that shit.” anyone else would think he was brushing off your point, but you know he’s getting it. he’s reaching out to pull you close, and then the elevator door opens. he walks out first, and spares a glance behind him. 

“come home with me?” he asks, and you nod. 

“let’s go.”

  ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

he’s not always moody, but the 'what are we?' talk always manages to put him in a mood. most of the time, you two are just friends, who fuck each other on the side. nothing more. 

that’s how it started. felix was a few weeks free from a bad breakup. he was pent up, needed to relieve the stress, anger and sadness bottled up inside of him. and there you were, sitting on his couch like a godsend. it started slow. he pulls you into his arms like he has many times before. friends, cuddling together. until it’s not. his hand rests on your knee, it slowly makes its way up your thighs. you only realize how hot his touch makes you feel when his fingers sneak under the hem of your shorts.

“can i?” he asks, his lips brushing against your ear. 

a part of you (that, maybe, you should have listened to) tells you to say no. but you don’t. you nod your head, and for good measure, you say “yes.”

felix decides to try his luck further, his other hand grips your chin, and forces you to look at him. there’s a hunger in his eyes, like he’s ready to devour you whole given the chance. “can i kiss you?” he practically is, his lips brush against yours as he speaks. 

you knew it wouldn’t mean anything. you always took felix as a romantic. the fact that he was so willing to touch you with no ado made everything clear: this was a one time hookup. were you using him, in his emotionally fragile, pent up state? was he using you? you weren’t sure. 

“yes,” it’s another stupid decision, but it doesn’t feel quite wrong when his lips are against yours. when he kisses you with such need, such urgency. you lose all thoughts of moral, of rationale. all that matters is felix.

a few minutes of eager kissing is all he can stand. he slips his shirt off, and pushes up the hem of yours then hesitates. “can i?” again, you should have said no. you don’t.

“please,”

it’s a blur after that. he takes your shirt off. then it’s your shorts, your underwear. he makes you cum on his mouth. he’s reveling in the way you grip his hair, the way you moan his name like it’s the only one that you know. it makes him feel wanted, needed. like for once, in the past few months, he’s doing something right.

he’s got you itching to return the favor, to feel the weight of him on your tongue, taste him and feel as he hits the back of your throat. felix gets impatient. he grips your hair and fucks into your mouth. his cock hits the back of your throat and you tear up. he’s quick to soothe your tears, “i caused them, ‘s only right.” he says.

as he cums, he holds you in place. he looks up at the ceiling, groaning as you take his load. it’s not your name he moans. it’s his ex’s. it gets caught in his throat like a strangled sob–refusing to come out, yet refusing to stay inside. you both pretend it didn’t happen.

for now, it’s all he wants. you continue with your movie night as if nothing happened. 

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

it’s almost a routine now. you hook up at least twice a week. he’s always the one to invite you over. sometimes it’s a relief. you’re stressed about something going on in your life and he’s a perfect distraction. other times, he’s the one making your life harder. he’s begging you to come over late, and your problem? you can’t say no. you have the freedom to. you know he’d pout for a second, before telling you to sleep well and you’ll hang out later. 

and when you do come over, which it’s unlikely that you won’t succumb to his request, he’s on you immediately. he doesn’t waste time stripping you, taking you to the bed when he’s patient, and the couch when he can’t wait another moment to have you. 

one thing that felix doesn’t do, is mark you. he’ll kiss you with vigor. he’ll suck at your skin, bite at your chest, but it’s all done with just enough gentleness that your skin remains unmarked. you know, you check in the mirror like you’ll wake up one morning and discover his love lasts on your skin. it’s the disconnect between love and lust. if he loved you, maybe he’d claim you as such. he’d mark your skin with red and purple hickeys. he doesn’t love you. you know that.

you don’t love him as anything more than a friend. you should stop dreaming about things reserved for lovers when you’re just friends.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

sometimes, there’s a domestic bliss that settles between the two of you. It really has you thinking that you could be his. you’ll be in his kitchen, his hands are wrapped around your waist as you cook a quick, late dinner. his head rests on your shoulder and he sways you to the music you put on. 

or you’re cuddling in his bed. he’s the big spoon and you’re the little spoon. he has a pillow propped over his arm, his other hand draped over your waist. you’re talking about everything and nothing, all at once. the weather. his childhood. your first pet. the weirdness of sourdough starter. 

you know that the only love between the two of you is the kind friends share. 

screw the kisses that are so sweet they make you think he’s in love with you. screw the way he moans your name now as he cums. the way he looks up at you as you ride him, something so hungry, so insatiable in his big doe eyes. screw way he holds you as you come down from your high, his hands stable and firm on your shaking hips. it keeps you from floating off into a realm, a universe where lee felix could actually love you like the romantic you’ve seen him be for everyone else he’s had in his bed. there’s no way any of it could be love. at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. if he hadn’t made it abundantly clear to everyone you know that you’re ‘just friends’, you might have mistaken the lust in his eyes for love. every lie becomes true once you repeat it enough. every hope, every desire gets crushed once met with the cruel fist of reality one too many times.

do you punish yourself with the facade that he loves you, or the facade that he doesn’t? either way, you can’t resist him. you can’t say no. he needs you. or is it you that needs him? who gets hurt when nothing was ever supposed to be at stake? if you’re an addict, lee felix is your drug, and you’ve not yet seen the consequences of taking too much.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

six months fly by quickly. six months of being friends with benefits with felix. to the date. it’s a normal day, though you don’t see him. you don’t talk to him. you haven’t talked to him since yesterday afternoon. 

the only warning when glass breaks, is the fall. felix’s absence is the fall. the ‘ping!’ of a text message is the impact on the ground, the shatter into a million pieces.

you should have known better than to think it was going to last. really, what did you expect? felix to confess his love to you, rose petals on the bed and candlelight? every good thing comes to an end. whatever you had with felix was never an exception.

it’s not like you loved him, though. like you had that kind of fantasy. it just felt like a breach of your friendship for him to run back to his ex, and not say a word.

you can’t help the anger that takes over. felix was seeing his ex again? after seven months of being apart. he’s running back into those arms. it disgusts you, so much so that you feel your stomach churn. it makes you want to throw up.

you're crying and you don't even know why. there was nothing going on between you two. everything in the past few months meant nothing. right?

wrong. it was something. you couldn't quite explain it, but it was worth far more than going back to a shitty ex.

usually, when felix causes your tears, he's there to wipe them away. they're because of everything he's doing right. this time, it's all wrong; he's not here to dry them up either.

you know chris wouldn’t lie to you. you also know felix wouldn’t keep that from you.

or would he?

© dollracha do not copy reupload or repost.

THE BREAK UP BUSINESS — EP. 9

[ an advent calendar series ]

— contains adult content, minors do not interact 🔞 —

[ abstract ]: Minho takes you on a business meeting where you meet one of his fellow colleagues and his boss. Caught up in the mess inside your head, you start flirting with the mysterious man—especially when Minho’s eyes are on another woman.

[ general ]: minho + fem reader, childhood friends/enemies → lovers, non idol au, best friend’s ex, demisexual reader, angst + fluff + smut, sunshine x grumpy, she falls first but he falls harder

[ warning ]: jealousy!!!, smut [ includes fingering (f rec), semi-public, praise, reader gets called baby, darling and good girl ]

[ words ]: 2.5K

[ note ]: the updates are slow but I hope you’re still interested in reading. enjoy my dears 🩵 I hope you like this cameo of another skz member 🤭

[ !! ]: the beautiful dividers are from @saradika-graphics

“Thank you for the spontaneous meeting, everyone,” the man with the muscular arms speaks greeting everyone. No, you’re not objectifying him but you just noticed. You’re just a woman after all. A woman that’s still going through a rough heartbreak that can’t think straight at this point anymore. “And also a ‘hello’ to everyone else attending.”

He looks at you, making eye contact and you’re immediately drawn into his gaze. Gosh, you’ve really hit rock bottom. But can you blame yourself?

After all, you woke up next to Minho once again, who was clinging his body against your back, skin to skin, and after you met him in the kitchen he pretended as if nothing happened. Perhaps he doesn’t notice. But two mornings in a row? You doubt it.

For a second you wonder if it’s weird that Minho dragged you to this business conference with him but he just told everyone you’re his assistant and he’s not the only one sitting here with another person together. You realise that his company has a lot more female employees than you would have expected and you wonder why that’s the case. Well, you used to work in different fields of customer communication too and usually it’s a women dominated field, but that break-up-business-thing… you only expected men to be so soulless to work for a company like this.

“How’re the statistics going?” the man asks again and starts a conversation. Everyone is handing in their data that’s showing off their huge success—at least that’s what they call it, you still find it pathetic. You don’t care if anyone calls you a goody-two-shoes with a stick up your ass, but you can’t imagine yourself working a job that does more harm than it brings good to this society. Maybe you’re naive, yes, but sometimes you like that about yourself. It’s what’s kept you positive over the years of growing up.

“Mr Lee is once again ahead of all of us, well done,” the man next to him with the squishy cheeks is speaking. He looks a bit like a squirrel and now you can’t unsee it. Dammit.

“Han, don’t make me blush. I’m just very ambitious that’s all.”

And I’m close to throwing up.

You’ve always known that Minho has an ego as big as Antarctica but he could have toned it down a bit, huh?

“Absolutely,” the man in the front, you realise now he might be the team’s leader, replies, “that’s why he’s our best employee. You can all learn from him.”

“Thank you, Chan,” Minho says, sounding actually thankful for once. “We could go out after this, drinks on me?”

Wow, that’s very spontaneous and not very Minho-like.

Wait.

Does that mean you will go with them?

God, you’ve always thought Minho was an introvert just as much as you are. For a second you contemplate texting Soyeon and asking if she wants to spend the evening with you instead, but then you remember she’ll be on a date with her new boyfriend Felix. Shit. If you don’t wanna get bored inside Minho’s apartment—which is at the other side of the city—you’re gonna have to go with them. If he even wants you there.

“What are you waiting for?” your childhood friend asks you.

“What?”

Your gaze darts up, meeting his awaitening eyes.

“You’re coming with us. Here’s your coat,” he explains, handing you the jacket and helping you inside it.

You don’t notice it but Jisung—the squirrel guy—stops in his tracks and observes the sweet little gesture his colleague does for you. Giggling a little, he brushes it off and leaves the conference room.

Half an hour and a limousine ride later, you find yourself inside yet another posh bar—what a surprise—sitting around a huge table with Minho and all his coworkers.

“You’re Y/N, right?” the woman sitting next to you asks. “Minho has told us so much about you.”

She seems nice, hair blonde hair falling over her shoulders and she carries a bright smile on her face. “Yes! O-Oh, really?”

“Only good things, don’t worry,” she reassured you. “I’m Yuqi by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“So, you’re all working for the company?” you ask her and she pours a bit more water into your glass. You thank her, watching her take a sip from her red wine.

“Yes! I’m doing the same job as Minho and Jisung. Jeongin, the guy over there,” she points at a man with fox-like eyes who waves in your direction, “is my assistant, so he’s basically in the same position as you. Oh, and Chan is our boss but I’m sure you already know him.”

You don’t. And you wonder now if it’s weird.

When you hover your eyes around in the room, you notice that the woman sitting on Minho’s other side is caught in a conversation with him. Quite a deep, focused conversation. She’s even throwing her arm around him, pulling him closer.

You’ve never thought about it but… what if Minho is dating someone?

He’s never been the type of relationship kind of guy. In addition, he’s been sleeping in a bed with you for the past two days just because you’re feeling lonely.

Perhaps he just views you as a little sister at this point. You wouldn’t be surprised. He made that very clear that he’s not interested, when you poured your heart out to him and he never replied to your confession years ago.

Maybe she’s his girlfriend. She’s beautiful, almost looks like a doll. You wouldn’t blame him.

He leans over, whispering a joke into her ear and she laughs out loud, covering her mouth.

Fuck this.

You notice the sound of footsteps behind you, as a man is tapping Minho’s shoulder.

“Hey, can I talk to your assistant alone for a second?”

His assistant?

Wait. That’s you.

Minho catches a quick glimpse of you and you nod. “Yeah, sure.”

Fuck. He realises now that Chan must be confused. Yes, they’ve been friends for some time and since Minho is his best employee he usually lets him decide things on his own. However, it’s common that when an employee hires an assistant, this person has to be introduced to the boss first before starting their job.

Minho watches you get up from your seat, utterly irritated from the sudden situation and the flirting session he’s been focusing on for the past five minutes. Yuqi sends you a reassuring look and gestures two thumbs up, before you follow the team leader to a separate room.

“Don’t worry. It’s nothing serious. I just haven’t had the opportunity yet to properly introduce myself. I’m Bahng Chan,” he starts.

You smile, “Nice to meet you, Mr Bahng. I’m Y/N.”

“Oh, please, call me Chan,” he chuckles. “It’s fine. I’m not your boss, you’re working for Minho after all.”

“Y-Yeah, I am. For not that long yet,” you explain. Fuck. You hope you’re not gonna get Minho in trouble for anything you might be saying.

“Yeah, I figured, but you seem to have a big influence on him. At least from the customer reviews of these last few days.”

Shit. Yes, you might have been successful with crashing the wedding but the day before that you… kind of messed up.

“I’m… I’m sorry if something wasn’t meeting your expectations, Sir,” you try to phrase it as sensitive as possible.

“Sir? Stop with the honorifics, Y/N. It’s all good,” he emphasises. “I think that a little backlash and a not so successful experience is good for Minho too. His ego…”

“Oh, yeah. He’s got a lot of that,” you finish his sentence.

Chan laughs along, “You get it. As the team leader it’s my job to organise everything and guarantee that all employees get along, you know?”

“Yeah, I understand that. I used to work in a position similar to you, in customer communication,” you inform him.

He tilts his head, “Oh, what happened?”

“I… quit the job. It’s silly now looking back but I wanted to become a stay at home wife. Until my fiancée called off the wedding not that long ago,” you tell him the short version of how your life broke down to its pieces.

Chan’s eyes are widening, “Fuck, I’m sorry. Truly sorry. My fiancée ran off at the altar a couple of years ago.”

“Fucking hell, that’s even worse, Chan,” you reply.

God, this must be more terrible than the shitshow that you’ve been going through.

“It’s okay,” he says, “otherwise I would have never started this job and found all those wonderful people you know?”

Hm, some type of revenge story? You don’t blame him. Maybe this job they’re doing isn’t as evil as you thought it is.

“You’re right.”

“I mean it,” he repeats. “Even if it feels as if your whole life might be falling apart right now—that’s because your new life is waiting for you.”

Those words stick with you. It makes sense. Your new life is gonna cost you your new one.

“Thank you for this. Seriously.”

“Maybe it’s what I would have needed back then,” he adds, shrugging his shoulders.

“Well, from a neutral perspective, you seem very happy and stable,” you compliment him.

“Thank… you?”

“Gosh, I didn’t mean it in a weird way,” you tell him

Chan chuckles, “I know.”

“Did you… find love again?”

Is it weird to ask him that? Well, this conversation started off strong on the oversharing part on both sides, despite not knowing each other so who cares?

“Not yet. I’m not looking for anything serious right now, as cliche as it sounds,” he explains. “What about you?”

“I’m confused. You know, that man, my ex fiance, I really thought that it was the right decision despite knowing he’s not… the one. This sounds so sad and I’m yapping and–“

“It’s okay, Y/N,” the man reassures you. There’s something about his soothing voice and the glitter in his eyes that gives you comfort. Not in a way that Soyeon or Minho do, but it fits the occasion.

“I’m… utterly confused,” you repeat. “I think… it’ll take time, maybe some distraction to get him off my mind and actually grasp and figure out what I want in life.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Chan says, letting his mouth speak faster than his brain can grasp his proposition.

You raise one of your eyebrows, “An idea?”

“I could help you with the distraction part,” he offers, licking his lips.

“I’m–“

“Oh, God, I'm sorry if I overstepped your boundaries,” he immediately pulls back his words.

Well…

The thing is, you do find him attractive. And maybe that’s what you need right now. A little meaningless intimacy to close that chapter.

“N-No, it’s just, I usually don’t do this casual thing, but maybe it’s a good idea to do it with someone I barely know,” you tell him.

It’s not rational. And it doesn’t need to be. This is future-Y/N’s issue to deal with.

“You wanna come with me?”

“Yes,” you say, placing your hand on his tie and he grins back at you.

“You’re so beautiful, fuck,” Chan whispers into your ear.

He’s got your spread out on the bathroom counter, your thighs apart and his fingers playing with the hem of your very much soaked underwear.

“Don’t… tease,” you tell him, a moan slipping right between those two syllables.

“Be a bit more patient, baby. I’m gonna make you feel good, I promise. Get your little head away from all those worries, yeah?”

He slips his hand under the fabric, only pulling it to the side, not bothering to take it off. Then Chan’s fingers are brushing your wetness, spreading your pussy lips apart. His thumb is grazing over your swollen clit, smooth circles stimulating your bundle of nerves and it works. In that moment, you’re only thinking about the sensation right between your legs.

“Please,” you whisper and he continues with those sweet motions.

“You’re doing well for me, darling. Such a good girl,” he praises you.

When Minho allowed you to live with him for an unknown time, you thought that the two of you would get close again. But you remember how he ruined everything back then so why should things be different now?

Yes, the first thing that came to your mind was the idea of Minho being the next and hopefully last man to touch you, given the fact that you’ve never entirely gotten over him, but you also know that your mind is too much of a mess right now to let that happen.

If you ever get close again then it must come from the heart. No distraction. No revenge. No other motifs thrown in the mixture.

“R-Right there,” you say, when Chan slips two fingers inside your hole at once, curling them a bit to search for that sweet spot and finding it.

He picks up his pace, rutting into you land you’re caught in trance. So much, that you almost don’t notice now your purse falls down and everything inside is now splattered on the bathroom tiles.

“Shit—we can grab that later,” you say.

Chan nods, but when he catches a quick glimpse of all the items that aren’t inside your bag anymore, he comes to a halt—seeing your ID card.

He immediately pulls out, licks his fingers clean and licks up the plastic card.

“Y/L/N? Your full name is Y/L/N Y/N? Fuck, I’m such an idiot and an asshole,” he immediately hyperventilates, “how have I not noticed?”

“W-What do you mean?” you ask, very confused to say the least.

“Your Minho’s childhood friend aren’t you?

“Yes,” you say.

Chan closes his eyes and throws his head back. Regret is washing all over his face. “We should stop this. I’m sorry, I’ll never touch you again.”

“Chan, I don’t get this. Why… what’s going on?” you ask.

Is this some… bro code? But that wouldn’t make any sense. You’re not Minho’s girlfriend and he’s made it very clear in the past that you’ll never be either.

“I can’t tell you much but… it feels like betrayal,” he explains.

“Why? It’s not like Minho and I have ever been anything serious.” It’s not easy speaking those words out loud when your heart still aches after all those years.

He gulps. “Let me help you put on your clothes again.”

You allow him that, still, you don’t stop the conversation. “Talk to me, Chan.”

He sighs, “I can’t, okay?”

“Is Minho in love with me or something?” 

Chan doesn’t answer. He doesn’t answer.

“He is, isn’t he?”

Chan takes a step back, before he scoffs, “The fact that you’re asking this when he talks about you behind your back as if you placed the stars in the sky should tell you to get new glasses.”

“Hey, that was mean,” you laugh out loud.

And then you grasp it.

Is it true? Or is this just some weird way of turning you down?

“I’m right, though,” he repeats. And despite not knowing Chan quite well, you believe him.

“Yeah, you are,” you whisper, standing on your feet again. “Fuck. I… I think I should go back or… go home. With him.”

“Use condoms, yeah?” Chan teases you.

“Thanks for… the talk,” you say, before you reach for the door knob.

“Anytime, Y/N. It was nice to meet you nonetheless.”

© leeknowsallyoursecrets 2024 — copying, stealing or translating my work is prohibited

THE DESIRE OF A KING

summary: The loving king everybody knows is actually a psycho maniac in love with his maid besides being married to Queen Arielle.

pairings: yandereking!hyunjin x maid!y/n

genres/tropes: kinda cringey, angst, smut, mentions of cheating (warnings: rape; threatening to murder)

wordcount: 3129

author's note: I definitely just wrote this on the go and just didn't reread it and I'm sorry about that.. so this story might not make much sense.

The sound reached every corner of the room of the Queen's chamber as the maid on her knees cried after feeling the sting from the queen's slap burning her cheek as the palace guards had their swords pointed directly at her throat as if she were to make any wrong move they would kill her instantly.

"You little slut who dares you to sleep with my husband?!" Queen Arielle yells as she grabs the poor little maid by the neck. The maid sniffles in response and tries to stop her tears from pouring so she can answer her Queen properly.

"I- I'm sorry I didn't have a choice-" she says, which earns a scoff from Queen Arielle as let's go of the girl's neck, making her drop hard onto the wooden floor.

"You really think I would believe such nonsense as to hear from you, a poor lowly maid, that my husband the King would cheat on me purposely with something as pathetic as you?" Queen Arielle kneels down to where the maid is laying and lifts her chin to admire her face. She can admit the girl is beautiful and still has more youth than the Queen herself but far below the social status for even a low merchant to have her.

"My Queen, he forced me to sleep with him-" the maid said in fear as she began to cry again. The Queen looks at her in anger as she slaps her again and grabs her shoulders to yell at her again. "Did you not hear what I said before? my husband would never cheat on me with a poor maid like you!"

The maid looks at her with watery eyes begging her to let her go. "please Queen Arielle-"

The Queen slaps her again and looks at her with dangerous, threatening eyes to kill. "You really think I would believe that the King would cheat on the Queen with a maid and force her to bed with him? no no no you must have but a spell on him you wretched witch," the Queen grits her teeth shaking her head as she stares her down.

"but he did-" the maid says looking up at her but Queen Arielle just laughs at her like a maniac. "Why would my husband sleep with you?" she says as she gets something out of her strap on her leg which holds a gold dagger. The maid looks back at her in fear, shaking her head. "please no-"

"Tell me why? Why did he 'force' you to have sex with him?" Queen Arielle leans towards her pressing the dagger against her neck.

The maid looks at the dagger and starts to feel her body burn. "b-because he-"

"he what?" the Queen starts to lose her patience.

"He confessed to me-" The maid exhales as the Queen gets up in anger throwing the dagger on the floor getting up as she walks paces around the room.

The guards look at the Queen gulping in fear at her sudden action of throwing the dagger across the room and then looking down at the maid there holding on to the floor so she doesn't escape they look back at their Queen and ask, "do we kill her now-"

Queen Arielle turns around with a manic expression on her face as she grabs the dagger from the floor frantically as she makes her way to the maid and smiles and nods aggressively. "yes yes we must kill her," she says holding the dagger up with shaky hands as she puts the dagger against the girl's neck.

The Queen starts to whisper to the girl. "trust me this is for the best if you die,"

the maid closes her eyes, shaking. "please please don't do this," she begs for mercy.

"oh trust me everything will be alright maybe once you're dead the king my husband," she points at herself with a smile mentioning 'my husband'. "will finally love me,"

"please exile me, throw me out of the palace just please oh please don't kill me Queen Arielle,"

The Queen hisses under her breath. "stop being a bitch and just be dead already," she says then finally as she was about to kill the girl in front of her she is met by a hand on her shoulder making her silent.

"Who told you to touch her?"

The voice so calm and collected as if his wife he was arranged to marry ever since he was born wasn't going to kill the woman of his dreams in front of him.

The Queen turns around slowly and looks at him in fear as she still holds onto the dagger. With a smile on his face he looks at her with kind eyes but less kind words as he grips hard on her shoulder if he were to grip harder it would surely break.

"My King," The Queen finally speaks up as she looks at him astonished. He was supposed to be doing his regular routine and his duties- he was supposed to be distracted today. But he's here now and knows her plans.

"H-how did you k-know?" she says looking at him.

"How did I know? A little birdie told me while I was passing laws and documents in my office," he 'smiles'. "but what are you doing?" he asked in return.

She hides the dagger behind her back and hugs him, "I was just-" before she could finish her sentence she gets pushed to the ground and left behind as the King gently grabs the poor maid's hand and lifts her up.

The Queen looks at the two in shock as she sees his hands softly and smoothly grabs the maids chin and twirls her body to see if there are any scars and bruises and with a sigh he grabs her waist and hips and rubs them to reassure her that everything is going to be fine.

As the King adverts his attention from her he looks at his wife on the floor and the guards standing around her. The King looks at the guards and commands them to leave. Leaving only him and his wife in her chamber as the door finally closes he strides towards her on the floor and grabs her neck as she cries. "How dare you try to take the only one I ever loved?!" His voice booms as he starts to choke her.

"but- but I'm supposed to be the one you love?"

he scoffs. "Our marriage is a political one. There is no love there. We just use each other for the title and status and you should know that too. We've been promised each other since birth. You should really let go of this delusional thought of me 'loving' you because you might think I do but I don't love you... but her," he points out there. "I love her with every fiber of my being and if you took her away I would have simply killed you and if she were to die? I kill myself because I can't live without her near me," he says with no doubt in his eyes as his wife cries. "So what now are you going to kill me?"

he stands up dusting himself off as he fixes his sleeves then looks down at her still on the ground crying. "No I can't kill you neither can I divorce you because that would be a bad image for me, Arielle... even though I wish too," he says now not even looking at her as he fixes his sleeves then finally leaves.

He walks out of her chamber and into the hallway searching for his maid. He looks room to room throughout the palace to finally find her in the spare bedrooms resting after such a traumatic experience. He leans against the door watching her try to rest as he looks at her in concern then knocks on the wooden side of the door to get her attention. "May I come in?"

she looks up to the door and sighs. "Your Majesty I-" before she could even finish her sentence he walks towards her and touches her face to see if she's still alright. "Love, don't worry I'll take care of you," he says with caring eyes and a loving smile as he brushes her hair with his fingers. "You have nothing to worry about," as he goes to touch her again she stops him grabbing his hand as she puts it down gently to his lap and after a long pause of silence she speaks again. "Why are you doing this?"

"doing what?" he smiles.

"holding me against my will Hyunjin," she stares at him down with an unreasonable facial expression as if she's lifeless like a paper doll.

he laughs in response to her 'ridiculous' questions as he shakes his head. "I'm not holding you against your will-"

he goes and puts a hand on her thigh and smiles at her as she again pushes it away making him frown. "Hyunjin, you threatened me that if I didn't sleep with you you would have sent me to the dungeon," she says as she continues on. "You also said the time before that if I didn't kiss you on your birthday you would kill another maid or how about the time where I couldn't take it anymore that I almost left the palace? remember you held me by my neck in your bedroom telling me if I were to leave we'll both die-"

He then grabs her by the wrist as if to warn her if she were to go on she'll face max punishment by him and face humiliation from everyone in the palace who knows her from the king's lies. "everything I do is for reason,"

"and what reason could that be?" she says as she glares at him from the bed she lays as he gives her a blank stare and gives her answer that sounds so simple it's like it's supposed to be obvious. "because I love you,"

again she sighs again and rolls her eyes. This is the answer he always gives ever since this agreement happened. In the beginning before they agreed on this contract, Hyunjin would give subtle hints to him liking y/n. like stolen glances, little touches like putting his hands on her waist to 'move' her to the side or when he would 'accidentally' bump into her and hold her by her hips to hold her. But that all soon changed when he got more intimate, wanting more physical contact with her. He got so impatient with playing this game that he was only playing with himself since y/n was too naive to understand where he was hinting at. He soon gave up and started to be direct one day at night he confessed he was in love with her and when she didn't give a response a week later he would start begging. Sometimes he would cry on his knees to her bedroom telling her that he needs her, and loves her to death. And sometimes he would get so tired of having to beg her to just love him that he drugged her one night and forced her to bed with him in his chamber while Arielle was in the other room sleeping since Hyunjin can't stand seeing her without wanting to bulge his eyes out.

Being forced to be with him that night made y/n cry. She remembered how he would hold onto her body and kiss her neck the whole night thinking what he did was for the best to make her see they were meant to be. And even after that traumatic experience he would keep on doing it. Every night when she would be getting ready for bed or finishing her chores a maid or guard would come to her and tell her that the king needed her services and by services he would mean sex. The sweet and strong King the Kingdom knows as was different from the King she knows him as just as far as threatening to kill her family and friends if she said no to him.

She wishes she could say no to him. She really wishes she could but the risk of someone she loves being in danger from her actions will hurt her too much so it's better to just endure the pain for herself and that's why she is in this position right now.

"darling?" he snaps his fingers to get her attention back to him. "Are you okay, my love?" he smiles seeing her attention back on him.

"Yes I'm fine," she says, looking away from him. He looks at her again concerned with eyebrows furrowed as he holds up her chin to look at him. "No, tell me what's wrong, love?"

"Hyunjin just leave me be-" she says as he shakes his head. "no not until you tell me what's wrong-"

she starts to lose her patience forgetting about the risk she's been trying to avoid for so long. "you want to know what's wrong?!"

"really?!" she shouts, "Hyunjin, you threatened the safety of my family and friends just to have me and I almost got killed today by your wife-"

"I saved you before she could, doesn't that deserve a little thanks?" he argues.

she groans. "I just don't want to be with you-" she says, feeling the pressure of his hand behind her neck pushing her down so she can meet him at eye level as she sees his intimidating eyes. "You don't want to be with me, fine," he says, getting up from the bed. "be an ungrateful brat,"

"How am I not wanting to be yours? A sign of me being a brat-" she says glaring at him. "because I'm a fucking king!" he yells back. "What more could a woman want? baby I'm a fucking king I can give anything your heart desires within a matter of seconds,"

"but that's not what I want,"

he squeezes his fist in anger trying to control himself. "yeah yeah I know what you want you just want to leave me right?"

"because supposedly I'm a bad person to you,"

"yeah you are," she says in all honesty.

and with that Hyunjin leaves slamming the door behind him as he strides towards his office in anger. Trying to distract himself he signs off laws and documents. He can feel his anger boil thinking about what y/n said. She doesn't want to be with him even if he's the most powerful and richest man in the world. He tries to distract himself the whole day trying not to scream and yell or throw things across the room and also to not cry and let his emotions sadden him too much. Hyunjin actually manages to distract himself a bit but as he sees across his desk that there is no more paperwork for him to do for today he walks back out of the room. And is reminded by y/n and their argument they just had.

He walks to her door and leans his head on it as he closes his eyes feeling guilty then exhales and knocks on her door. When the door opens he sees her in a nightgown with her hair down with her pretty beautiful face which reminds him exactly why he fell for her the first time her beauty and kindness.

"y/n I came here to apologize for what happened this morning,"

she wraps her arms around herself uncomfortable seeing him here. He is seen having his hands behind his back already looking like he's sorry.

"Hyunjin I'm sorry but I really just don't want to see you right now-" she says about closing the door but is met with his hand blocking it.

"You know something, I'm getting tired of your constant rejection. I've tried to being loving and trying to take things slow but you're really pissing me off," he says as he grabs her wrist harshly.

"stop your hurting me,"

"Good, maybe that'll teach you how I felt with your constant rejection," he snarls as he pushes her to her bed going on top of her as he kisses her neck.

she starts to cry remembering the night of her loss of innocence that was caused by him and started this whole mess. "please stop Hyunjin,"

"Shut up and just take it," he growls as he goes to take off her nightgown then goes to take his clothes off as well.

"Hyunjin please," she begs for him to stop as she feels her naked body shiver from the cold as she meets with his warm body.

The room is filled with silence with just the sound of their body's slapping against each other for a while as he thrusts inside her as she cries. His face goes down to kiss her neck as he whispers against her hair. "I love you baby even though you may not love me yet I only ever desire you to be in my life," he says as he continues to whisper sweet things into her ear as she continues to cry.

As they continue his thrust becomes harder as she feels something build up in her stomach. "i- I'm gonna cum~" she says as he holds her body against him harder as speeds up. "Okay baby cum for me," he says as they cum together.

He collapses on top of her in her bed as he hugs her body. He continues to try and comfort her by saying how much he loves and adores her and when he sees she doesn't respond he simply pouts as he hugs her body as he sleeps in her bed.

She doesn't want to admit it but his body hugging hers as they sleep is comforting it makes her almost forget what all he's done to her almost…

.

.

.

The sun hits her eyes when she wakes up to see Hyunjin standing in front of her bed with an unreadable expression. "wh-what's happening-" she tries to sit up but feels the restraints on her wrist.

he chuckled darkly as he leaned over the bed traps between his arms. "since you been denying me for so long I thought of using a more direct approach then before,"

"You will not be able to leave this palace and you will be accompanying me wherever I go in the palace," he smiles. "I will not let you out of my sight for even a second." he says leaning down to kiss her on the lips.

author's note: I definitely just wrote this on the go and just didn't reread it and I'm sorry about that.. I don't know should I make a part two? probably not...

Help me escape the war and reach safety 🇵🇸🇵🇸

My name is Ibrahim, and I am 15 years old 🧒. I spent my childhood in northern Gaza, where I used to go to school every day, dreaming of a future full of achievements 🏫. But suddenly, everything changed. My home 🏡, where I lived with my family, was bombed, and we were left with nothing. We were living through difficult days, but I never imagined the situation would get this bad. 😞🌹🌹

gofundme.com

Donate to Help Ibrahim's family escape the Gaza war, organized by Safaa Yasser

Hello I am Ibrahim, 18 years old, I seek your help and assistance to save … Safaa Yasser needs your support for Help Ibrahim's family e

After the bombing destroyed our home, we had no choice but to flee to the south. We are now living in a tent ⛺ inside an old school 🏫 along with hundreds of other families. This tent has become our new home, but it doesn’t feel like one. There are no walls to protect us from the heat of the day or the cold of the night. During the day, the sun ☀️ is so scorching that I feel like my skin is burning, and at night, the cold 🥶 is unbearable. Sometimes, I cry because of how cold it is, covering myself with whatever I can, but it's no use.📢🗣️

The school where I now live has become a place that holds all our pain. I no longer go to school as I used to. Standing in long lines for water 💦 has become a part of my daily life.

I stand in line for hours just to get some water for my family. I feel exhausted, but I try to endure it for their sake. My mother looks at me with eyes full of sorrow, and I can't help but feel helpless. I wish I could do more, but I’m just a child. ❤️❤️

I dream of returning to my old life, where I used to go to school and play with my friends. I dreamed of becoming something great in the future, but now I feel like these dreams are slipping further away from me every day. The war has taken everything from us: our home, our safety, and even our dreams. 🇵🇸🇵🇸

I live in this place, not knowing when we will be able to escape this nightmare. I wish I could scream at the top of my lungs, but no one hears. We are here in the shadows, in a world filled with destruction and sorrow. All I ask for now is for this war to end, and for us to find a way out. We just want to live a normal life, far from fear and destruction. 💔🇵🇸💔

A part of our suffering.😞🙏🙏

I ask for your help with anything that could ease the burden on me and my family. We have been greatly affected by the war and are now living in extremely difficult conditions inside a tent after losing our home. We struggle daily to secure our basic needs and face significant challenges. Any help, no matter how small, would make a huge difference in our lives and give us hope to keep going. Please help us if you can hear my voice. We just want safety; we want to live again. 🙏🙏

gofundme.com

Donate to Help Ibrahim's family escape the Gaza war, organized by Safaa Yasser

Hello I am Ibrahim, 18 years old, I seek your help and assistance to save … Safaa Yasser needs your support for Help Ibrahim's family e

!! DONT SKIP !! donations urgently needed They are only at €5,561 out of €50,000 goal

I was contacted by Nader to draw pictures for and help spread his brother Abdulsalam Al-Anqar’s fundraiser to save their family. Nader is a 17 year old boy who lives in Gaza with his family: parents Ahmed (54) and mother Iman (49), brothers Abdulsalam (26), Mohammed (14), and Omar (21) and Abdulsalam’s wife and their one year old daughter Iman. Imagine it was your sibling, your friend, your son, who should be in school or with his friends, who instead has to hide from bombs and ask for help online to save his family. His family have suffered through one year of genocide. All of you are their hope to get to safety.

This fundraiser is vetted by @gazavetters, number four on the spreadsheet here

Abdulsalams daughter Iman is only one year old and has lived most her life in a war zone. She is suffering from malnutrition. It’s every fathers worst nightmare to see their child starve and not be able to feed her. Please help him feed his daughter and get her to safety. No child should grow up hearing the sound of bombs. Every child has the right to food and safety. You can help give Iman the childhood she should have, where she can sleep in a safe bed at night with a full stomach.

Their father Ahmed has cancer and needs surgery and medication. It is not possible to get the treatment he needs in Gaza. every day his illness is left untreated, the cancer will continue to spread through his body, so he very urgently needs money for treatment and travel. If you help them get to their goal, you are saving their fathers life. Don’t let this family who have already lost so much lose their father, husband, and grandfather

Nader has showed me pictures of this explosion close to them, thankfully they were able to get away. Every day they stay in Gaza their lives are at risk from israeli bombs. Every day and hour counts. I know there are compassionate and kind people who are willing to help. every euro helps, YOUR donation will bring them one moment closer to safety. With love and hope I’m asking you to give what you can, I believe in the kind people of the world and I beg you to not let them die. If you can’t donate, please share so it may reach people who can.

Never forget that palestinians are not numbers on a list of deaths. Please think of each of them, think of their names and faces and know that you can help them. I think of them every day. I think of the hopes and dreams they should achieve, I think of their education, their future, and the love they show when they work hard every day to get help. You may feel powerless to stop this genocide, but you have the power to save Abdulsalam and his family. I dream that the day will come soon where they may use their days to rest and recover from what they’ve been through, where they can share a meal and laugh and the children will play, instead of having to use their time to beg the world to listen and help them. We can make this possible.

50 000 euros is a lot of money for one person to give, but for all of us together, it can be done. Please don’t look away.

(drawing above by @neechees)

Thank you for reading their story. Please don’t keep scrolling without sharing

here is the link again to their fundraiser

tagging for reach:

@90-ghost @heritageposts @gazavetters @neechees @butchniqabi @fluoresensitive @khanger @autisticmudkip @beserkerjewel @furiousfinnstan @xinakwans @batekush @appsa @nerdyqueerr @butchsunsetshimmer @biconicfinn @stopmotionguy @willgrahamscock @strangeauthor @bryoria @shesnake @legallybrunettedotcom @lautakwah @sovietunion @evillesbianvillain @antibioware @akajustmerry @dizzymoods @ree-duh @neptunerings @explosionshark @dlxxv-vetted-donations @vague-humanoid @buttercuparry @sayruq @malcriada @sar-soor @northgazaupdates2 @feluka @dirhwangdaseul @jdon @ibtisams @sawasawako @memingursa @schoolhater @toesuckingoctober @waskuyecaozu

STRANGE DREAMS !

CHARACTERS ! incubus/demon!hyunjin, reader

GENRE ! horror, smut [minors dni]

WORDS ! 7.8k [more or less]

SYNOPSIS ! sometimes, you meet a strange man in your dreams. this is one of those times.

THIS FIC CONTAINS ! edible-fueled writing. horror [gore—body horror: descriptions of blood and mutilated bodies. frightening figures and situations. description of drowning. nightmares and sleep paralysis. demons, and thus], references to biblical lore [christianity] and small references to milton's paradise lost [if you squint], and smut [dubcon—sexual manipulation and sex pollen, sorta. d/s dynamics—predator versus prey. possession/corruption. vaginal and anal sex. pussy and face slapping. teasing. fingering. spit. squirting. face fucking. degradation. strength kink sorta. sex with a demon—in demon form. monster cock. lots of cum]

⚠️ if you’re sensitive to gore, be advised before reading. i tried to be tame and brief with descriptions, and although i consider it to be light gore, i understand everyone has their limits. so proceed with caution.

💌 posting this earlier than originally planned cuz why not!! got the idea for this fic a year ago after an edible. it’s very weird n self indulgent but i’m glad i finally finished it !! i hope someone enjoys it <3 i always appreciate feedback !!

You’re certain that it’s the sky you’re gazing into—though, you’re unsure because your vision is unclear, a milky haze clouding your pupils—but the longer you look at it, the more it spins and distorts, bringing on nausea that rises in waves from the pit of your stomach to the top of your head. The nausea brings on a discomfort; dryness in your mouth and a straining in your eyes, and because of that, you’re left with no choice but to close your eyes and let your other senses take over. Darkness surrounds you, and it feels like you have risen into the sky, despite grass being beneath you, and it’s soft, comfortable; almost like you could sink deeper into it before reaching the hard, frigid dirt. You grab the blades of grass with a tight fist, tugging on it, but still unwilling to pull it out as if you would cause harm. Then, the grass all around you becomes apparent—alive—moving against your skin in a response back to you. It tickles all over, building the realization that you lay naked in the grass, though unwilling to get up or cover yourself; lost within the pure contentment of the situation. 

There is a wave that sways over you—hot, heavy, and harsh, yet not too overbearing in its nature. You don’t know why, but there’s a sense of familiarity about when you are. It’s as if you’ve been here before, a distant memory that both chills and warms you. 

Along with the burbling sound of water pouring into itself, the smell of water whisks in the cool breeze—slightly sweet, green and alluring; whistling your name, calling out for you to come over. The whispering is intriguing, full of temptation but slightly melancholic; no words need be said, yet you understand the language of the waters. The whispers are loud, blaring; not in the sense of volume, but by how jarring it is—unlike anything you’ve heard and yet, it’s something you feel so acquainted with, like a long-time friend. The water cries, begging for you to bathe within it or drink from it and promises a sweet taste that could be comparable to honey and lemons. 

When you open your eyes again, everything is clear. The plants around you are breathing, communicating through the whistles of the wind; and just like the water, the plants cry out as well. Though, the cries of the flowers and trees are far different from the cries of the water. The cries of the water nearby sing a great harmony of promise and belief, whereas, the cries of the many trees screech of terror and agitation. They warn of what horrors can be witnessed here, of what great dangers are lurking within them. A sweet song of catastrophe. The flowers, however,—with captivating colors unlike anything you’ve ever seen, yet familiar; like the names of them are on the tip of your tongue, begging to be acknowledged and praised—cry differently. It’s a murmur most comparable to the feeling of silk against your hands, but also the feeling of goosebumps after a close encounter with something you shouldn’t have crossed paths with. A comfortable discomfort. 

You look around, fully taking in the picture of what presents itself around you. There are butterflies varying in size and species—they sing as well, something similar to a war cry; morbid and haunting, though still beautiful and in great faith. Dragonflies buzz around, securing their place and status within the area. So much life here—at peace in this paradise. There’s some kind of haze or mist in the air, silent and still, tranquil. The sun is bright, blazing hot and practically piercing, yet despite the warmth, the air is slightly cool. The sight of your surroundings further cements your previous feelings of familiarity. Yet it also uncovers sheer discomfort. Yes, the area is familiar, but there’s something unsettling and distinctly different about it. A discomfort layering in the air, horribly beautiful and homely, but pandemonium is lurking, lurched and hidden within the shadows of this seeming paradise. 

You roll over in the grass—laying on your stomach and lifting your head to see beyond what you could before. Not too far from your current position is a waterfall, continuing its whispers. The spring below is surrounded by unusual pink flowers and huge rocks covered in thick, green and yellow moss. Before you can process it, you’re on your feet and moving towards the spring. Once there, you kneel, gazing at your reflection in the waters. It’s almost too much to process but it’s you. It is you and yet it’s like the face you wear does not belong to you. Uncanny and off putting. 

Movement. On your left, deep in the periphery of the spring. Your eyes shift, tracking whatever chooses to present itself. A swan. Elegant and pristine. It cranes its neck, beak pointing towards you in acknowledgment. You make full eye contact, and a chill runs up your spine causing your hair to stand on edge. An inflamed feeling of danger sparks within you, and before you have time to fight or run as far away as possible—“There you are!” 

The voice comes from your right, but when you look in that direction, there’s nothing there.  “So this is where you ran off to.”

The physical energy of the presence behind you is familiar, but strikingly overwhelming—it crawls up your skin like sharp nails, giving you goosebumps—you don’t need to turn around to recognize it. It’s Him. You’re unsure of what he is, exactly, but sometimes you meet him in your dreams. Though deep down you know that his existence and connection to you reaches well beyond the odd worlds of your dream realm. When he touches you, your surroundings change. The waterfall that you were once at is yards away, tiny in perspective. Despite having not moved an inch, it seems that every time you blink, you’re further and further into the woods; trees surrounding you and most certain to bury any noises emitted within their leaves.

The rustling of the tree leaves sounds like a screech, almost like sharp nails against a chalkboard—sinking deep and clashing, scraping out the porcelain enamel. The sound alone affects your brain, echoing in your mind, blaring enough to make you hold your hand against your head. The sound stops once he presses his hand against your cheek—so cold it feels like burning fire, almost scalding enough to melt off your skin; but you do not flinch, nor do you back away, frozen in place. The feeling of his skin against yours evokes an emotional aching so deep, you can feel it festering in the pit of your stomach, spreading to your organs and seeping into your veins—and somehow there is comfort in that. 

He’s speaking, and while you’re unable to make out the words he is saying, you can tell that his voice is soft, pillowy like a cloud. Honey-laced words dipping from his tongue as if he’s trying to convince or ask something of you. You avert your gaze, unsure of if you actually want to meet his eyes. 

His presence scares you just as much as it calms you. Intriguing, and homely but also frightening and domineering despite simply just standing there. Something about his demeanor feels off, or distorted, at the very least, as if he’s not actually in front of you. As if he was a result of your imagination instead of directly in your eyes view. He’s real, a hand against your skin, almost close enough for you to feel his breath lightly against your skin; and at the very least, he knows you. You know him, too, you think; of course, you’ve seen him in your dreams, but you’re inclined to believe you know him from somewhere else. 

“Where are we?” You ask him, avoiding eye contact, shaking away from the contact his hand makes with you. Jarringly, it doesn’t feel like you said anything at all. Your mouth was moving and the words presented themselves in your mind and yet you can’t hear a single thing you’re saying. The familiar fire within your throat when you speak is no longer there. 

“The Garden. It’s perfect here, isn’t it?” He gives you a small smile, seemingly understanding your indistinct confusion. Then, as he speaks up again, his voice drips with something resembling woe. “You and I used to live here a long time ago. I visit every so often, dip my legs into that spring back there, and then I reminisce on how pure life was back then before…” 

You think he’s talking again, but once again, you’re unable to hear him. You’re too busy lost in his face. The urge to press your lips against his gets stronger as you’re next to him. Then you realize he’s naked as well, and your entire body gets warmer. There’s a budding ache inside you that’s all too familiar, growing at a rapid pace. It’s almost like your body is on fire as a result of being within his presence. Hormones floating, hair standing on edge, your more sensual and raw instincts ready to unveil and latch onto him at any time. Head hurting the longer you’re in his presence until it all just stops. 

Everything stops. The trees are no longer rustling, birds no longer humming. There’s no splashing of the waterfall nor whistling in the wind. Just pure silence. The silence is uncomfortable, and causes you to stand still in your tracks like a deer, scared that if you make any sudden moves a predator might attack within the blink of an eye; jumping on you and tearing you apart in a bloody mess of flesh and organs flying everywhere, painting the fallen deep green leaves a perfect contrast of crimson. 

“Run,” He says. There’s nothing in his voice; no emotion nor a slight hint at what he’s thinking. But the word echoes in your mind, and sends a chill down your spine, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on edge in either curiosity or total blood curdling fear. 

“What do you mean?”

“You need to run,” His voice drops lower. “And don’t get caught.”

So you turn your heels and you run, not willing to ask him twice. Unsure of the direction you’re going in, but the further you seem to travel, the more that discomfort begins to settle in the pit of your stomach. You pick up the pace—one foot in front of the other, careful not to trip over yourself—but a small part of you isn’t sure if the danger that you’re sensing is real or just a part of a sick and twisted game. Instead of running away from the source of your terror, it seems as though you’re running towards it, no matter the direction you run. Twigs and leaves snapping and crunching beneath your feet, but it causes you no pain. In fact, the only thing you can feel in the moment is the thumping of your heart and every single milliliter of blood marching through your vessels.

You admittedly don’t make it too far before you’re cowering, ducking against a large tree. Heart racing with such speed that you’re almost positive it would break free of your ribcage, piercing its way out of your chest. The tree, however, as quickly as you found it, is no longer a place of solace, as you hear a long, loud, and deep growl to your left. The deep guttural sound echoing, slicing through the trees like machetes. You’ve got to move, but you fear that if you do, whatever it is that made that sound, might attack, ripping you to shreds before you’ve even got a chance to exhale. There’s a roar once again, this time uncomfortably closer to your hiding place. You stand still, and the surrounding area of the forest is suddenly extremely silent. No rustle of leaves or echoes of birds, but a loud silence accompanied by a buzzing noise; like a horde of flies marching their way towards you. 

“Hyunjin,” You call out. The name slips from your mouth with ease, as if you’ve been calling him by that name all along. In the blink of an eye, just as you exhale his name, your surroundings change; suddenly submerged in water. 

You emerge from the cold water, barely having time to register your surroundings before you’re being forced back into the water; claw-like hands scraping into your scalp, sharp and heavy against your skull. It’s hard to make your way above the water because of the forceful weight and before you know it, attempting to hold your breath is useless due to the water infiltrating your lungs. You’re flailing and thrashing around, arms lifting—hands curling into a claws, attempting to grab onto something, only to slash through the water—and legs kicking mindlessly, trying to escape what is uncertain; heart rate accelerating as panic fully sets in. This seems to go on for nearly fifteen minutes, being edged by death over and over; blacking out then awakening time and time again. Vision blocked by the salty darkness of the water, ensuring to agitate you with fright, unsure of when it’s all going to end.

Abruptly, you’re dragged upwards by your hair, back falling harshly against rock, helping you cough up the water in your throat. It feels like it takes minutes for you to learn how to breathe again, attempting to do that and calm down enough to assess your surroundings. You’re coughing so much you think you might cough up an intestine, throat burning with each assault, chest sinking and expanding and then sinking again. It takes many moments of coming back to yourself that you notice that there is no rough hand against your scalp. Alarmed, moving around frantically, backing up toward the closest stone wall. Scanning the area, there’s no human nor animal, nor creature of any nature in sight. Not even a single insect. Not even Hyunjin.

You lean over, though not too far in case history repeats itself, to peer into the water; there isn’t even a single fish, as far as you can tell, the waters quickly descending into a vast, black pit of the unknown. Overhead, the sky that was once shining brightly now dimming rather quickly, accompanied by dark, angry clouds. The winds pick up, swirling atop of the trees, emitting a drawn out whistle comparable to wind chimes; of which you can surprisingly hear over splashing and sputtering of the nearby waterfall. Large roars of thunder stomping in, but no lightning accompanies it. You begin to curl into yourself, attempting to shield yourself from whatever is out there, nature or otherwise.

You close your eyes for five simple seconds, and when you open them, Hyunjin is right next to you. He doesn’t notice you’re awake at first until you shift, catching his attention. He turns to you and you avert your eyes from him. He’s talking but it’s all inaudible, unimportant. Something about his presence in this moment is unsettling. Slightly off from the initially odd behavior he’d be exhibiting. You just nod to his words. “Found you like this about an hour ago. You shook so hard until you stopped and fell asleep.” 

Hyunjin holds out a hand for you, which you’re hesitant to grab, but the next thing you know, you’re standing slowly; legs shaking as you attempt to regain strength. You hold onto his arm for extra support, slightly struggling in your steps as he leads you, hand in hand, towards a small cave hidden behind the pour of the waterfall. It’s hardly a hike, but Hyunjin makes sure you get to the other size carefully. “The rocks are slippery. You’ve had a few accidents here before.”

A lot of Hyunjin’s words are vague. Referrals to past events involving the two of you, all of which you cannot remember. There’s a feeling that you’ve been here before, but you’re unable to prove it, or make those connections other than your gut feeling and Hyunjin’s comments. 

You’re hesitant to walk into the cave, the inside being pitch black. Hyunjin walks in before you, completely fearless, as if there is no potential danger. At the snap of a finger, there’s suddenly a fire going on within the cave. From you place you can see how the fire illuminates Hyunjin’s figure just a bit, and as you walk closer—finding a bit more comfort now that you can see, and because you know Hyunjin is there waiting for you, willing to guide you into and protect you from the unknown—you admire how the flames of the fire accentuates Hyunjin’s facial features. He was made by God, sculpted from the finest clay and molded into an individual with otherworldly beauty. Hyunjin holds a torch-like stick, fire blazing at the tip of it, used as momentary safety. “I know somewhere we can go.”

He then points into the deep darkness of the cave. You don’t want to go deeper into the cave. Right where you stand is just fine, and most importantly, it’s safe. Hyunjin reads the hesitant look that’s displayed on your face, but he urges you. “You’ve got me, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” 

And his smile, as beautiful and perfect as it is, seemed crooked, faked for just a moment. He holds out his hand, and without even thinking about it, you take his hand in yours as if you had no choice despite the unease boiling inside of you. His smile curves up again and he turns his head, now guiding you down the cold, dark cave. 

The entire time you’re walking, there’s nothing. Hyunjin doesn’t speak and neither do you. The walls on either side all appear the same, dirt colored and oddly smooth, with not even a small crater to make a difference. No matter how long you walk, nor how far, the dark pit continues into nothingness, an upsetting kind of emptiness. Despite Hyunjin being next to you, despite holding his hand, he’s like a stone wall. He makes no effort to speak, nor to even acknowledge you in the slightest despite leading you somewhere, it’s like you’re nothing but a mere bug, nothing to stress about or keep entertained. You feel nothing but loneliness at the pit of your stomach; the only things keeping you company are the thumping of your feet against the ground and the flickering of the flame Hyunjin holds. 

It’s a long time of walking before you realize that this cave is actually a tunnel. The tiny white dot of light grows bigger and bigger with every step taken. It feels like forever until you and Hyunjin reach the end of the tunnel. When you do, you’re happy to see light again. The sky now bright and blue, prohibiting any angry clouds of heavy rain. Air fresh and inviting, free of any worry and apprehension. Whatever doubts or dreadful feelings once felt before are now completely an afterthought. 

“C’mon let’s go.” Hyunjin discards the torch, dragging you with him by your hand, grip tight against you. 

He leads you over to a flower field where flowers ranging in color, size, and species reside. The field is colorful, bright and happy, like a source of glee. Inviting you over by whisper—maybe it’s a honey-filled hum—so sweet and kind. The deeper you walk into the flower field, you notice how enticing the air smells—sweet like a pastry, yet fresh like petrichor. The longer you and Hyunjin walk, hand and hand, the more at ease and loose you feel, almost drunk, mouth welling up with excess saliva. The two of you eventually reach a point to rest, laying on the grass, no words exchanged between you two. Simply just basking in the sun, deeply breathing in the fragrance of the nature that surrounds you. 

There’s a passage of time before you start to feel it; an itch that’s tempting you to scratch; a sudden burst in fire. A fire that begins at the pit of your stomach and continues to your core, flaring; spreading further throughout your body in static-like jolts. Your breaths change from relaxed and soft, quiet, to heavy and noticeable; and suddenly the atmosphere feels hotter, small beads of sweat collecting against your forehead. You shift, rubbing your thighs in effort to satiate your sudden cravings, wanting to grind your hips up in search of friction. Growing more desperate and needy by the second. 

This is when you look towards Hyunjin, rolling onto your stomach, head resting in your hands as you gaze up at his sitting form; and you actually notice him. You notice his nakedness, every single inch of him on display. He’s like a god, with his honey-like skin that glows and glistens in the sunlight. Toned and defined arm and thigh muscles that flex with nearly every movement he makes. He was meant to be admired, made to be worshiped—having men and women alike kneeling at his feet and imploring him to fuck and defile them. If only you knew how much he agrees. These thoughts almost embarrass you, yet they feel so natural. And your eyes drip lower to admire Hyunjin’s more intimate parts. Cock hanging low, thick, and you’re not too sure if he’s hard or not but he’s big. Mouth watering as you admire his dick: the natural curve to it, how there’s three thick, prominent veins that disperse along his shaft (at least from what you can see at this angle) that are pulsing, just begging for your tongue to roll over them. 

You’re pulled away from your fantasy when Hyunjin clears his throat. With an eyebrow raised and a glimmer in his eye, he gives a small smile to you, softly, “You need something from me?”

“Maybe,” You wink at him. You sit up to face him, hand making contact with his knee, fingertips trailing up and down his thigh in a teasing matter. You get a little closer to him, skin against skin, eyes fixated on his cock as your fingertips dance against his inner thigh.

That’s when Hyunjin kisses you, lips soft and plump; and when he presses them against your lips you feel like you're in heaven. At first, your lips barely touch, meeting in small pecks, sweet kisses that eventually deepen into something desperate. The kisses are open mouthed, wet and sloppy, Hyunjin’s tongue makes its way into your mouth naturally, exploring inside of you. The kiss only breaks a few times; when you place your hands flat against Hyunjin’s chest, pushing away slightly just to get air. Each time the kiss breaks, Hyunjin smiles with a small chuckle, licking his lips before leaning in again, forehead pressed to yours. 

You break the kiss once more, now focusing more on Hyunjin’s cock. Spitting onto your hand and wrapping it around his shaft, squeezing lightly. Tight fist working up and down Hyunjin’s length, biting your lip when you feel him twitch within your hand. He bites his lip, holding back a moan. Hyunjin stops you before you get too deep into it, instead choosing to take the lead. 

Hyunjin plants another kiss to your lips before kissing down your neck, trying his best to take his time to really savor you, but he soon grows impatient. Pushing you down flat against the grass. Quick, wet kisses in several places down your body before he plants one last kiss right above where he really wants to be. There, he wastes no time getting to work, tongue slithering out almost snake-like to lick against your cunt. He really takes in the first taste of his meal, wetness sitting against his tongue, practically melting in his mouth, he moans. He dives in once again, lips and tongue against your cunt, licking and sucking and moaning; fully savoring you. 

“Taste so fucking good,” He breathes once to come up for air, not that he actually needs it. Continuing to lap at your cunt, lips kissing and sucking at your clit, moaning into your heat. Hands coming to your thighs to grip, fingernails piercing, spreading you open wider for him. 

You grind against his face, hands instinctively going to his hair, fingers tangling within it and pulling with eagerness. Hyunjin groans into you at the slight sting of you pulling at his hair. Tongue not letting up against your clit, following your cunt with every movement you make, not letting you get a break from the feeling of him against you. His mouth domes around your clit, sucking you in, teeth lightly grazing against your bud, momentarily making your back arch. Mid arch, Hyunjin slips two fingers into you. Slight sting as he stretches you out, long digits buried to the knuckles inside of you upon initial thrust. 

Soon planting open mouthed kisses against your cunt, fingers working their way in and out of you at an obnoxious pace, curling naturally. Between Hyunjin’s tongue and fingers, in combination with his lips planting kisses against your cunt in between sloppy licks, it’s all too overwhelming. Cunt clenching around his fingers, pulling them in to beg for more, which Hyunjin promptly gives. Fingers fucking into you faster, his other palm pressing down directly against your pelvis. 

It’s all too much, but you don’t want it to stop. The feeling of your impending orgasm has you shaking, practically vibrating, unable to brace yourself for it. Tears pooling down the side of your face as you moan out for him. The tips of his fingers repeatedly hit the soft, gushy spot deep inside of you, biting his lip as he watches your face contort. Body stiffening within his hold, unallowed to thrash around, only able to take what he’s giving you. Though unable to completely relax into it, fighting off the feeling of eventual bliss. 

Hyunjin lets out a breathy moan at your defiance. Thumb massaging your clit, slowly but surely dragging you further off the edge. Hyunjin finally gets you to relax into his touch, into the feeling of temptation fully engulfing your soul. That’s when it takes over. Your vision blurs, almost going black, mouth agape as you let out cracked moans. Chest getting hot, tightening as you cum, releasing all stress and tension, absolutely melting into this state that makes you feel like you’re floating. Yet your body is only laid out in the grass, legs spread wide for him, as your cunt spills all over his fingers, wetness squirting all over Hyunjin’s forearm and thighs. Tongue desperately trying to lap up whatever he can as his fingers slip away from your cunt. The palm of his hand coming down against your sore cunt once, making you moan out and close your thighs, back arching, pain stinging in the best possible way that leaves you aching for more. Not fully satisfied. 

Hyunjin is kneeling over you now, a large hand around his cock. Angry red tip all pretty and glossed with precum that dares to fall onto your skin like delicious raindrops. His cock twitches in his hand, blood rushing, pulsing in the veins that decorate his shaft. It all just makes you think about finally having his cock in you. The burning of the stretch, the feel of him reaching places that haven’t been accessed before, not to mention the feeling of his warm cum filling you up, ounce by ounce. 

When Hyunjin pushes into you, you nearly lose your breath, caught in a long inhale. He’s nice enough to push into you slowly, but it’s only because he wants to savor the feeling (though, Hyunjin fully intends to use you however he wants for as long as he pleases). His cock is thick, stretches you beyond anything you’ve experienced before; though instead of being painful, your body is laced, wrapped in pleasure, and the sensation of thrill rushes through your veins. You spread your legs further apart, welcoming more of Hyunijn, hoping that he pushes into you deeper; overcome with desire and want. 

“So fucking wet,” Hyunjin pins his cock deeper into you, pulling out quickly, teasingly. “Need more of me?”

You nod frantically, bottom lip slipping away from the clutches of your teeth. When you look up at Hyunjin, his eyes are fixated on your cunt. Tongue peeking out of his mouth, swirling over his bottom lip, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead and into his eyebrow. He’s concentrated, breathing so heavily that he almost begins emitting an inhumane growl, but he dials it back quickly. Instead of pushing all of his length inside of you, Hyunjin pulls out completely, tapping the head of his dick against your cunt, sliding his cock from left to right against your clit. You watch as he does this, listening to the pornographic sound of your wetness, cunt clenching around nothing, just begging to finally be filled. 

“Please…” You find yourself begging. Eyebrows strung together as you rock your hips up and down, trying to catch Hyunjin’s cock only for him to move away, preventing you from chasing your pleasure. His hand comes down harsh against your cunt in succession, serving as a warning. 

“So cockhungry, can’t you be patient?” Hyunjin continues his tease, repeated light slaps against your cunt with his dick. His cock is replaced by his hand, two fingers dragging down from your clit to your slit, thrusting them into you quickly. Two fingers are replaced by three, and three, by four. He moves quickly, tips of his fingers curled and hitting exactly where you need them. He fucks your moans out of you, reveling in the way that your cries spill out just like the wetness of your cunt, and he’s barely doing anything but fingering you. And you’re this fucked up, melting into his fingers, giving him nearly everything he wants. “Always so pathetic and slutty.”

Agreements slip from your mouth, just in hopes that he’ll give you what you need if you’re good for him. Hyunjin just laughs at you, you’re certainly the cutest plaything he’s had—he knows he’s got to take his time with you. Almost wanting to slip his thumb inside of you as well, Hyunjin decides against it, continuing to fuck you with four of his fingers, still unrelenting in his pace. You, however, are lost for words; taking every ounce of what Hyunjin is giving you. A burning sensation rising in the pit of your stomach, hips rising from the ground, but Hyunjin never stops. Even when you’re leaking all over him, thighs shaking and threatening to close around his arm, he doesn’t stop fucking his fingers into you; not until he’s sure he’s got every ounce from you. Cum dripping down his arm as he takes and takes from you, forcing you to squirt all over him and yourself once again. Sliding his fingers out of you with yet another slap against your cunt.

His hand is around his cock again—wet with your cum, smearing it all over his cock—squeezing at its base as he brings his tip to your entrance. But he teases again, merely slapping his cock against your cunt. You arch into him, grinding your hips against his cock but Hyunjin makes no notice of you and your antics. Eventually getting bored, pulling his cock away from you. 

“Kneel,” He speaks curtly, standing. However, you do not move fast enough for his liking. “Don’t make me have to do it for you.” 

He does anyway. Grabbing you by the hair, dragging you up and forcing you onto your knees, skin grinding into the grass, sure to have bruises on them. Hyunjin’s hand stays in your hair, tugging as his free hand wraps around his cock. He yanks your head to the side, proceeding to slap his cock against your cheek, precum oozing from the tip. 

“Open.” He says, and you promptly follow his instructions. “Looks like I’ve got a smart one.” 

Hyunjin spits into your mouth, globs of saliva coating your tongue. His cock closely follows, dipping the tip in and out of your mouth quickly. He shifts, though, choosing to slide his entire length into your mouth, lips closing around him; but Hyunjin doesn’t allow it. Cock sliding out of your mouth, resulting in Hyunjin slapping you on the cheek with it again; saliva and cum sticking to your cheek. “Keep your mouth open wide.”

You adjust for him, just wanting to be able to take him and satisfy his cravings. He slides his cock back into your mouth, fully, giving minimum time to adjust to neither his speed nor his size. Mouth stretched to capacity, jaws aching and burning but Hyunjin is completely relishing in all the gagging and choking you do. You’re getting dizzier the longer his dick is in your mouth, tip kissing, nearly ramming, the back of your throat due to Hyunjin’s pacing. You feel like you’re on fire but yet you’re still able to relax into it. It isn’t long before you start moaning around his cock, absentmindedly rocking your hips back and forth whenever you taste a hint of the salty sweet substance. Hyunjin then pulls out, saliva spilling all over your chin and connecting in tiny stings to his cock. Smacking your cheek with his cock another three times, erupting in a full belly laugh, smiling at the way you’re just a completed fucked out mess, barely registering a thing he’s doing or saying to you. 

“Look at that,” Hyunjin releases you from his clutches. He pushes you back by your shoulder, making you catch yourself from falling back with the palms of your hands. When you look down, you’re completely soaked, wetness dripping down your thighs and onto the ground, pooling messily onto a leaf, spilling off of its edges and soaking into the dirt beneath it. “Fucking filthy little mess you’ve made. Cunt just begging to be fucked, huh?” 

The question is rhetorical but you still nod; even going as far as to whine a little bit, hips moving seemingly without your control. Hyunjin takes pleasure in this small action, kneeling down to your level. He licks his fingers, noting that he doesn’t need to at all, and swipes them over your clit, one, two times before his ring and middle finger are sliding into your cunt. Fingertips meeting the exact place you need them each time he slides them into you. You’re clenching around his fingers now, and Hyunjin licks his lips, pulling away from you.

“Turn around.” You obey, turning on your hands and knees, swinging your ass in the air. He continues with his teasing, and at this point you’re nearly sobbing, wondering if he’ll ever actually give you what you want. Pathetic chants and whines spilling from your mouth as you push your ass against Hyunjin, unable to control yourself; thinking with your cunt instead of your brain. 

Hyunjin spits down onto you, and you can feel the glob of spit slide down from your asshole to your cunt, tickling its way down your clit. Hyunjin, though, slides the head of his cock from your clit, upwards, collecting his spit and your wetness in the process. He teases the tip at the rim of your tight hole, teasing at it. But when you push your ass towards Hyunjin, he pulls away, tsk-ing in the process. 

“Silly little play thing,” Hyunjin gives a cold, almost threatening laugh. “I think I need to teach you a lesson on patience, hm?” 

The threat has you pleading with him, repeated apologies dancing off your tongue, ultimately not acknowledged. Hyunjin loves to hear the sounds of your begs and pleads, but ultimately, the words you say do not matter to him—it all means nothing. Hyunjin marches at the beat of his own drum, and in situations like this, when he’s got a perfect piece of flesh like you beneath him, everything that he says, goes. And right now, he’s perfectly fine with teasing you over and over and over again. 

Slapping his cock against your cunt once, twice, Hyunjin slightly pushes the head of his cock against the rim of your ass. He continues applying pressure, fixated on stretching out the perfectly puckered hole. You whine at the feeling, slowly inching away from it, but Hyunjin holds your hips still. Pushing and pushing, slowly, until finally he slides the head of his cock into your tight hole. Hyunjin moans out at how your hole tightens around him, welcoming him inside. He does nothing, just stays like that, moaning and ignoring your pleas for him to do something. It’s not until you feel the side of his hand brush up against you cunt that you realize Hyunjin has got a hand around his shaft, getting himself off while the tip of his cock is in your ass and you’ve got nothing to do except for lay there and accept it, with your ass in the air and your face against dirt. 

His moans increase as he fucks his hand around his cock faster; and if it werent for his other hand holding you in place, you’d at least try to fuck back on him through the stretch of the pain. As Hyunjin exhales, letting out a deep groan of a moan, you feel the rush of warm liquid shooting into you. You moan in response as Hyunjin makes a mess of you with his cum, filling you up, trying to keep it all inside until he pulls out and it all, inevitably, leaks out of your hole, pooling around your cunt. 

Hyunjin wastes no time, cock sliding into your cunt with ease due to your wetness and his cum; but the stretch is intense, more than you initially expected. You tighten up a bit, resisting, though you want to relax. You can’t hold your arch perfectly any longer but that’s the least of your worries—the only thing on your mind being cock. Hyunjin slides another inch into you. Maybe it’s because of all the teasing, or the fact that you’ve already cum twice, but he’s not even halfway inside of you and it feels like he’s reached the depths of your soul already. His hand reaches around, fingers coming in contact with your clit in hopes of helping you ease up. 

“Created just for me,” Hyunjin breathes out, voice rough with possession. “Made just for me. Only me.” 

He continues with his ownership of you, voice dipping deeper as his words become mostly obscenities. You don’t hear it. Or perhaps you can’t hear it. Maybe you don’t want to hear the vile things he’s saying. You’re overtaken, caught up by the intense, high pitch ringing that is worming its way through your ear canal, planting and fertilizing clashing waves of static all around your brain. 

His hand wraps around your neck. It feels nothing like the soft, once heavenly hands that had been massaging all over your skin. These hands are rough, calloused and rigid palms that venture into freakishly long, boney fingers; with nails like claws that pierce into the side of your neck right behind your ear. Your eyes remain closed, fearing that if you open them that you’ll see something you shouldn’t, something that your mind would be unable to comprehend visually. A feeling of spiritual discomfort crawls up your back, causing you to arch, shivering at the same moment Hyunjin works his cock deeper into you, stretching you further; mentally and physically—of which he insists on doing, wanting to bend you to his will and break you beyond anything you’ve experienced. 

Hyunjin pulls you back to him, hips unrelenting. Teeth, sharp like razors, piercing down into the flesh of your shoulders; nearly enough for blood to start trickling down your skin, but that does not occur. His teeth, however, do leave indents in your skin; that, if he’s lucky enough, will be permanent. His lips meet your ear next, a brief kiss planted to the lobe before whispering in a rather gruff voice, unlike that of his usual. “Inferior to me. Mine to claim.” 

When he cums there’s an immense amount of it, sticky and warm. Hyunjin makes sure to be fully buried inside of you, cock seemingly swelling in size as he forces you to take all his cum inside. Hyunjin is selfish, not waiting a single moment, and barely pulling out before he begins to thrust back in. Cum coats his cock, almost daring to drip onto the ground in raindrop-like shapes. He refuses to allow that, however, fucking all of his cum back into you. His thighs, which originally felt like the silkiest, softest flesh, now coarse and dry—except for the sticky cum running down them, connecting in slightly thick, white lines against your thighs—and fuzzy; thick. “Mine to possess.”

You slowly come to realize that Hyunjin has taken a different shape completely. No longer possessing the body of a man, he has turned into some kind of beast, something inhuman. He’s grown abnormally in size and you can tell because he’s holding you up as he fucks you, toes barely scraping the dirt. 

And as filthy and as frightening as it is, the line between fear and arousal is a very thin, blurry line. It leads you to come crashing down, partially due to the overstimulation, cunt spasming around Hyunjin’s cock, sucking in all his cum. You’re elated, completely delighted, mind elsewhere as you experience your high with Hyunjin fucking you through it. Hardly registering anything other than the feeling of Hyunjin’s cock stretching you out and the warmth of his cum—a sticky mess that’s leaking out both of your holes and staining your thighs. 

When you come to, you’re laying on Hyunjin’s chest. It’s still daylight out, the sun beaming as bright as ever, nearly blinding when you open your eyes. It takes a few moments to shake away the pure, drowsy euphoria you’re feeling, completely ravished by bliss; almost hypnotized. You prop your head up to look at Hyunjin, and the moment you do, it’s like there are trumpets sounding off all around you. You have a realization—no, a revelation—that things aren’t as they seem as you peer up at the brown-haired man. As queasiness makes a home in the pit of your stomach, all within two mere seconds, the wind picks up; howling in the distance, bustling within the branches of trees. 

“This is a dream, isn’t it?” For what might be the first time, your eyes meet his.

What words can be used to describe what you saw when you looked into the eyes of that thing? Petrifying? Nauseating? Surreal? It makes you want to close your eyes, however, when you do, the images you’ve seen seem as though they’ve been permanently printed against the black of your eyelids. Perhaps you can attempt to run away—and hide, praying to God that you’re not stalked and caught—but your muscles don’t respond to the neurons being sent by your brain. Perhaps you can find a way out of this dream, but your physical body seemingly refuses to acknowledge the call to wake up; only processing the utter fright in the images it created. The only thing you can do is stare into Hyunjin’s eyes, continuing to receive visions of which you hope you’ll be able to forget. 

His irises are a deep pool of black, displaying a particular flavor not only of loneliness but utter wickedness. The longer you stare into Hyunjin’s eyes the longer you are disillusioned, fully snatched away from all delusion of this former fairytale. Vision clouded by a thick, murky fog; fully spotlighting the shocks of visions you see in his eyes. 

A beast, creature unlike anything you’ve ever seen or imagined. The face of a man only oddly elongated with empty eye sockets and horns—covered in blood that only makes a mop of its fine hair—curled up into two spikes atop his head. A smile so wide it’s like it was carved in with a razor blade and charred, blackened and blood stained fangs hanging from its mouth. Its body, with its abnormally long limbs, is completely drenched in blood, dripping in pools all around the entity. Pieces of what you can only assume is a human—or even worse, you—discarded and littered around it without much thought or care. 

Flesh. Human meat. Limbs and bones and the insides—intestines, livers and hearts and muscle—all around you as this vision becomes reality; suddenly finding yourself within one meter of this monstrosity. The pool of blood coming up to your ankles, rising steadily. Pieces and pieces of the now deceased all around you, entirely mangled and minced. The creature holds pieces of meat within its claws, sharp nails piercing into the gray flesh, bits of meat stuck between its teeth as it tears into its victim. 

It is feeding. 

The situation becomes all the more frightening when the creature raises its head towards you. Despite it being eyeless, you know that you’re making eye contact, getting lost within the empty abyss that seems to be staring into the corners of your spirit. It’s wide smile never fading as it lurches, sprinting towards you faster than the blink of an eye. 

The transition from the dream world to the waking world is surreal, almost jarring. Especially since when you awaken, you’re paralyzed, body stiff with static crawling all over your skin. The darkness of your bedroom surrounds you, both familiar and completely unknown. You attempt to move around a little, opening and closing your eyes multiple times, attempting to raise at least a finger; though falling short of progress to escape this feeling, left to stare straight up at your ceiling. 

Then there’s the boom. A loud, static-like noise; deep as if something really heavy had dropped—but you’re unsure if it’s coming from the dark corner on your right or elsewhere within your home. A thing that simultaneously occurred and did not happen. The speed at which fear rises within you is faster than the speed of light. Heart racing as the physical manifestation of dread drops to the bottom of your stomach—fear making its home in the back of your throat, tightening as your swallow, seemingly making it difficult to breathe. It consumes you, a heavy burden, too insufferable to support, unable to put up a fair fight against it. 

Don’t Look. 

Curiosity gets the best of you. You shift your eyes to the right and in the far corner of the bedroom is a space that’s significantly darker than anything else in the room; like a void. Perhaps it’s because the light from your plug-in air freshener doesn’t reach that area of the room. And perhaps you’re tired and still reeling from that strange dream, but you swear you see movement as you glance over. You want to look away, you have to look away, but curiosity sinks its claws into you. Hypnotizing and you're paralyzed with fear of what could happen. Then, the darkness in the corner grows, getting larger as if whatever it is has been expanding, standing up to greet you. 

Then it disperses. Leaving you alone, shaking and sweating in the cold, unwelcoming darkness of your room, finally able to move and process things. 

© PLANETDREAM 2023