"Forever"

the letter pt. 2

han jisung x fem!reader

synopsis: after a devastating breakup over the future you couldn't agree on, you and jisung are left unraveling in the aftermath. you wanted a family. he wanted freedom.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, (unplanned) pregnancy, jealousy & miscommunication, emotional cheating undertones.

wc: 8740

[the letter part. 1, the letter part. 3]

Acceptance didn’t come with a sudden epiphany.

It came slowly, quietly, like water wearing away at stone.

At first, the silence nearly destroyed you. The ache of waiting for a call that never came, the sting of every passing day that confirmed what you didn’t want to believe: Jisung wasn’t going to show up. He wasn’t going to reach out. He wasn’t going to be there. It was a hard truth, one that settled into your bones like winter, cold, heavy, impossible to ignore.

But slowly, with time, you began to understand something else: you didn’t need him to.

You didn’t need Jisung to make this real. You didn’t need his permission to move forward. You didn’t need his love or his regret to love this child growing inside of you.

That shift didn’t happen overnight. It took tears. Sleepless nights. A million conversations with Jia and Lana, where you said the same things again and again until the words lost their sting.

“He’s not coming back,” you had whispered one night, curled up on your couch, the blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders like armor. “He read it. I know he did. And if he wanted to be here, he would be.”

Jia nodded, her expression soft but steady. “And that’s on him.”

Lana, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of snacks in her lap, added, “You don’t owe him anything. He made his choice. And now you’re making yours.”

Their words didn’t fix everything, but they helped you breathe a little easier.

You started to remember all the things you used to dream about when you were younger. The things you whispered to yourself late at night when the world felt too loud. You’d always wanted a child. Always wanted a tiny person to love, to protect, to raise into someone kind and strong. Your reasons weren’t grand or poetic, they were simple and honest.

You wanted someone to call yours.

A little hand to hold. A sleepy head to kiss goodnight. A home that echoed with laughter and quiet footsteps. You had always dreamed of family. Of stability. Of unconditional love.

And Jisung had once felt like a part of that dream.

But dreams change.

And now, though it was different, though it wasn’t the picture-perfect family you’d envisioned, complete with a partner who held your hand through morning sickness and doctor appointments, you were still going to have that love. You were still going to have someone who would call you theirs.

A child who would look at you like you were their whole world.

You began talking to your baby more. Not out loud at first, but in thoughts. Little whispers as you lay in bed, hand splayed over your stomach. You imagined what they’d look like. What kind of laugh they’d have. Whether they’d like music like Jisung, or books like you. You tried not to think about him much, but sometimes the thought crept in of him holding your baby, of him realizing what he’d walked away from. It still hurt.

But the hurt wasn’t as sharp anymore.

More of a dull ache. A scar instead of an open wound.

Jia and Lana were your constants, showing up with groceries, dragging you out of bed when the nausea wasn’t too bad, helping you put together a list of things you’d need. They kept reminding you that this child was already loved. That you were loved. That you hadn’t done anything wrong by wanting something Jisung couldn’t give.

“You’ve wanted this your whole life,” Jia said one morning as she rubbed your back while you heaved over the toilet. “This baby? This is your dream. Maybe not how you pictured it, but it’s still yours. That matters.”

You cried after she said it, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming sense of yes. Yes, this was yours. This life you were building, even if it was cracked around the edges, was real. It was happening. And it was going to be beautiful, even in its broken places.

Eventually, you stopped checking your phone for his name.

Eventually, you stopped wondering if he’d show up.

You started making lists, cribs, baby names, pediatricians. You started reading articles, watching videos, planning. You let yourself feel excited. Nervous. Hopeful. Because as lonely as it sometimes felt, there was something growing inside of you that had nothing to do with Jisung anymore.

This baby was yours.

And you were going to love them enough for the both of you.

At first, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The letter.

That goddamn letter.

It sat in his office desk drawer like it had claws, like it had buried itself deep into the wood, refusing to let go. Jisung had tried to forget it. He told himself it didn’t matter, that whatever you had to say was too late anyway. That if you really cared, you wouldn’t have walked out of his life like it was easy. Like he hadn’t fallen apart the moment the door shut behind you.

The drawer was closed, but his eyes kept drifting toward it.

Every time he sat down to write, to work, to practice, his gaze would flicker. Brief, but persistent. He told himself it was just curiosity, not hope. That it was normal to wonder. Normal to think about you. About the things you might’ve written.

Maybe it was an apology.

Maybe it was a desperate plea to get back together, to undo the fight, to rewrite the ending.

He convinced himself that’s all it could be. That you wanted him back, that you missed him like he missed you, except he wasn’t going to let himself believe you were sorry. Because then he’d have to forgive you. And Jisung didn’t want to forgive you.

He was angry.

Still heartbroken, sure. But underneath all that pain was anger, real, raw anger that scorched through his chest like wildfire every time he remembered how quickly you’d walked away. How you'd looked at him like he was the enemy for not wanting the same things. Like he was less because he hadn’t pictured the same white-picket-fence future you did.

So no, he didn’t open it.

He refused to.

The letter sat unopened for weeks, untouched but never fully ignored. It became part of his daily life, a silent weight in the back of his mind. A temptation. A wound. Something he both despised and felt tethered to.

He moved around it. Literally.

Every time he sat at the desk, his movements became sharper. He'd slam drawers harder, avoid resting anything near that one. He reorganized his workspace to make sure he wouldn’t have to reach near the envelope, as if proximity alone might make him cave.

Sometimes he’d linger there at night, just staring at the drawer. Fingers twitching. Wondering.

Not about you. He tried not to think about you anymore. But about what you thought you had to say. What gave you the nerve to write to him after leaving the way you did. After choosing a future without him.

Because that’s what it had felt like, hadn’t it? Like you’d made your choice. You wanted a family. A child. A life of stillness. And Jisung… Jisung wanted freedom. Music. The quiet, sacred simplicity of not being tied down, not yet. Not now. He hadn’t lied to you about that. He hadn’t pretended he wanted things he didn’t.

And yet, somehow, it still hadn’t been enough to make you stay.

So why write?

What could possibly be in that envelope that mattered now?

He started forgetting about it eventually. Or he told himself he did. The drawer stopped calling to him quite so loudly. He buried it beneath a stack of old receipts and tour paperwork. He told himself he didn’t care anymore.

And he didn’t.

Not until he started dreaming about you again.

Not until he walked into his apartment one night, bone tired, body aching from rehearsal and saw your old hoodie draped over the back of the couch. Something you must’ve left behind. He didn’t remember it being there before. Maybe it had fallen out of the closet. Maybe he’d just missed it. But the sight of it twisted something deep in his chest.

He sat down and held it for the first time in weeks.

Brought it to his nose, hoping for the faint trace of your perfume. The scent was long gone, but the memory of it was enough. He closed his eyes. Saw your face. Heard your voice.

“I just want something real, Jisung. Something stable. You don’t get it.”

He’d fought back that night. Screamed things he didn’t mean. Told you that stability wasn’t everything, that you were suffocating him with your picture-perfect expectations. He didn’t mean that either.

He never meant to lose you.

He just didn’t know how to give you what you wanted.

The dreams came harder after that.

Nights filled with half-remembered moments. You, crying. You, laughing. You, walking away. The drawer became heavier again. Not physically, but in the way it felt, in the way his chest grew tight every time he sat down at that desk.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he wondered if maybe the letter wasn’t what he thought it was.

If maybe you hadn’t written to beg, or plead, or apologize.

What if it was a goodbye?

What if it was closure?

The thought made him sick. And yet it stayed. Brewing. Spreading. Curling like smoke around the corners of his resolve.

Still, he didn’t open it.

Not yet.

Because once he did, there’d be no going back. Once he read what you had to say, whether it shattered him or made him ache to run back to you, it would mean something. It would change something. And he wasn’t ready.

Not to feel that kind of heartbreak all over again.

Not to face the truth of whatever words you'd left him with.

Not to know if the dream he’d been trying to forget… had already come true without him.

-

He hadn’t planned on checking his phone again that night.

It was late, past 1 a.m. and he should’ve been asleep. He was exhausted, not just in his body, but in a way that seemed to linger deep in his bones. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from long studio hours or back-to-back rehearsals. No, this was the kind of tired that came from missing something that used to feel like home.

But still, he scrolled.

A quiet habit now. Not for his fans or updates or even entertainment, just to feel connected to something, anything. Something that wasn’t the silence of his too-big apartment or the ache of everything you’d taken with you when you left.

His thumb stilled mid-scroll when he saw it.

Jia’s post.

A carousel of pictures, captioned with something casual, “good company, good weather, good wine.” But he didn’t read it right away. He couldn’t. Not when he saw you.

Laughing.

Head thrown back, leaned gently against someone’s shoulder, a guy, unfamiliar, laughing just as openly. It was a candid shot, clearly taken without warning, but it was beautiful. Painfully beautiful.

You looked happy.

And it hit him like a punch to the ribs.

He stared at the picture, unmoving. It was the first time he’d seen you in months. Jia and Lana hadn’t posted you in so long that he’d started to wonder if they were keeping your face off on purpose. Maybe they knew he still looked. Maybe you had asked them not to.

And yet, here you were. In the open. In color.

Smiling.

And not at him.

Jisung dropped his phone like it burned. It landed screen-down on the desk in front of him, but the image was already scorched behind his eyes. You, in that cream-colored cardigan he always liked. The same soft one you’d throw over your shoulders when it got cold, even inside. Your laugh, he could hear it in his mind even if he hadn’t heard it in months.

The drawer creaked.

That drawer.

He didn’t mean to open it, but suddenly, it was. His hand moved before his mind could catch up. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve. The envelope was still sealed, still clean, untouched despite all the time it had spent hidden beneath ignored things.

He stared at it. Again. For the hundredth time.

You’d written his name on the front in your handwriting, he’d always liked your handwriting. Neat, but a little messy in that cute way. It was the kind of thing you didn’t think people noticed, but Jisung had noticed everything.

He lifted it slowly, as if even that movement required more strength than he had left.

The letter rested in his hands.

And then the picture came back to him again that guy, the way your eyes crinkled at something he said, how natural it looked, like it had always been him and not Jisung. Like Jisung was some ghost from another life you didn’t think about anymore.

A rush of something hot surged in his chest.

Anger. Jealousy. Bitterness.

It was a mistake, picking it up. He knew it was a mistake.

You probably wrote this before you met that guy. Before you moved on. Before you laughed like you had never cried over him. So what was the point now? What was the fucking point?

His grip tightened.

The edge of the envelope bent in his palm.

He was going to rip it.

Tear it into a thousand worthless pieces.

He didn’t need your words. He didn’t need your explanation, or apology, or whatever twisted kind of closure you thought this would give him. If you were so happy now, if you had someone else's shoulder to lean on, someone else to laugh with then he didn’t need to carry your ghost anymore.

The paper creaked as it began to fold beneath the pressure of his fingers.

But something stopped him.

Not guilt. Not even curiosity.

Just a question. Soft, poisonous, and small.

What if it wasn’t what I thought it was?

It came quietly. It always did.

Jisung closed his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His heart thudded unevenly in his chest. His fingers didn’t release the envelope, but he didn’t tear it either.

Because something was wrong.

Something about that picture. As much as it hurt to see you with someone else, as much as it made him want to break something, there was a tiny flicker of something off. He didn’t know why it stood out, but it did.

The guy’s arm, he wasn’t touching you. Not possessively. Not the way Jisung used to.

And your smile, while bright… had a weariness to it. Something in your eyes. A tiredness he recognized.

Maybe he was imagining it. Reading into something that wasn’t there.

Or maybe he wasn’t.

The letter pulsed in his hand like it had weight now. Like it always had, and he was only just feeling it.

And for the first time in six months, Jisung wondered, really wondered what you had said in those pages.

And whether not knowing would haunt him more than the truth ever could.

At six months pregnant, the exhaustion was more than physical, it had dug itself into your spirit. You felt heavier than your body should've allowed. Not just with the child growing inside of you, but with the weight of silence. Of unanswered letters. Of unreturned phone calls that were never made. Of dreams you'd once held so tightly that now felt like strangers to you.

You had done everything right, or at least you tried to. You took your vitamins. Went to appointments. Listened to the doctor. Ate better. Slept when you could. Cried only when it was too much to hold back. You were being responsible, measured, careful, everything a mother should be.

But no one told you how lonely it would feel.

How much you’d mourn someone who was still alive.

And lately, even Jia and Lana noticed. They tried to smile extra wide around you, tried to pull you into silly conversations, binge shows with you in bed, paint your nails, cook your favorite meals. But the spark in your eyes, the part of you that lit up when you laughed, had dimmed. The grief was quieter now, but more permanent. More settled. Like it had accepted you as its host.

You weren’t bitter.

You didn’t cry over Jisung every night anymore. You didn’t ache the way you used to. But something had changed. You weren’t sure if it was the pregnancy, or the acceptance, or just time doing what it does, softening things while hollowing others out.

It was Jia who brought it up.

“I’ve been thinking,” she’d said carefully, whispering to Lana one afternoon as she watched you doze off mid-conversation.

“That’s never a good sign,” Lana had replied, side-eyeing her from across the room.

“No, seriously,” Jia said, sitting forward. “I think we should bring someone over. Someone who used to make her smile. For real smile.”

Lana’s brows furrowed. “Like… a therapist?”

“No. Chan.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Lana stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Chan? As in, Christopher Bang? High school boyfriend Chan? Australia Chan?”

Jia nodded, lips tight. “She was happy with him, Lan. Like… really happy. He’s back in town. He messaged me a few days ago and asked about her.”

“She’s pregnant.”

“I know that.”

“And emotional.”

“I know, Lana.”

Lana crossed her arms. “And what if this backfires? What if seeing him makes her feel worse?”

“She hasn’t smiled in weeks.”

“She’s tired, Jia. She’s not depressed, she’s just—”

“I know what she is,” Jia had said, her voice breaking slightly. “And I know she’d never say it out loud, but she’s hurting. She feels like she’s being erased. Everyone sees her as a pregnant woman now, not her. Chan always saw her. Maybe she needs that.”

Reluctantly, Lana agreed.

So now here you were.

Sitting in a small cozy café that smelled like fresh lemons and sun-warmed pastries, a glass of lemonade sweating on the table in front of you, your hands resting protectively on your belly without even realizing it. Jia and Lana sat across from you, exchanging nervous glances every few seconds, which you were just about to comment on when—

A tap.

Soft. On your shoulder.

You turned.

And there he was.

Chan.

The boy who used to give you rides on the back of his bike after school. The boy who’d written you poetry in margins of your notebooks. The boy who once told you, so casually, that if he had a time machine, he’d go to the future just to see if you still ended up together.

He looked different, but not in a bad way. Taller, a little more filled out. His jaw was sharper. His hair shorter. But his smile? That was the same. Gentle, warm, slightly crooked on the left like it always had been.

You blinked in disbelief.

“Chan?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He grinned. “Hey, trouble.”

The old nickname made your chest tighten in the most unexpected way. You laughed before you could stop yourself, quiet, but real. The kind of laugh that had started to feel foreign.

Jia and Lana, now grinning like guilty conspirators, stood up quickly. “We’ll be back in a few. Just gonna, uh, go… admire the dessert case,” Jia mumbled, grabbing Lana's arm.

Lana gave Chan a wary look before disappearing with her.

You turned back to him. “It’s… been a long time.”

“Years,” he said. “Too many. You look… amazing.”

You snorted. “I look like a watermelon.”

He chuckled. “A beautiful watermelon, then.”

That made you laugh again, genuine. His eyes lit up, pleased, but not smug. Just soft.

He sat across from you, and for a few seconds, neither of you said anything. Just… took each other in. There was comfort there. The kind that doesn’t go away just because time passes. He didn’t feel like a stranger, even after all this time.

“Tell me everything,” he said finally. “How’ve you been?”

You looked down at your lemonade, then at your belly. “It’s been… hard,” you admitted. “But I’m okay. I’m getting there.”

He nodded. “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

And that, that was what got you. The way his eyes didn’t immediately flicker to your belly. The way his questions weren’t laced with obligation or curiosity about the pregnancy. He saw you.

Not the bump. Not the situation. Just you.

You smiled again, softer this time. “You still make people feel like the world slows down when you talk to them. You know that?”

Chan looked surprised, almost bashful. “I missed this,” he said. “Us. Talking like this.”

“So did I,” you said quietly.

He asked about your family, about your writing. You asked about Australia, the music scene, the food he missed. It was like dusting off a record you hadn’t played in years but still remembered all the lyrics to.

And for the first time in months, you didn’t feel like just someone carrying someone else’s child.

You felt like you again.

And that… that felt like breathing.

Jia elbowed Lana gently as they both turned back from the dessert counter and peeked toward your table. You were laughing, really laughing. It wasn’t the kind of hollow, polite chuckle you’d forced out over the last several months. This was the kind that made your shoulders shake a little, your eyes squint, the kind that used to come so easily to you.

Jia grinned, whispering under her breath, “See? I told you. Look at her.”

Lana crossed her arms slowly, watching the way Chan leaned forward a little, listening intently to whatever you were saying. You were twirling the straw in your lemonade as you spoke, and he was smiling like it was the best story he’d ever heard.

“Why do you look like that?” Jia asked, brow raised. “You’ve had that same suspicious face on since he got here.”

“I’m not against it,” Lana muttered, still watching. “I’m just… not all in either.”

“Why not?” Jia nudged her again. “She’s finally laughing. Isn’t that what we wanted?”

“I do want her to smile,” Lana admitted. “I just… don’t want her to get hurt again. She’s not just her right now. She’s carrying someone else’s future. It’s not like she can afford to be reckless.”

Jia softened at that. “I don’t think this is reckless. It’s just… a moment. She deserves to feel normal again, even if it’s just for an hour.”

Lana sighed, quieting her voice. “You remember her that night after she found out she was pregnant. She shattered. She thought she was going to do this with someone by her side. And even now, she hasn’t let herself be happy, not really. What if she starts hoping again? What if she sees Chan as a fix, as comfort, and then it goes wrong?”

Jia frowned, but her gaze shifted back to you.

You were resting your chin on your hand, eyes locked on Chan, laughing again at something he said. You looked… lighter. Like someone had finally taken a backpack off your shoulders.

“I get it,” Jia said softly. “But sometimes it’s not about what might go wrong. Sometimes people just need to feel something good before they fall apart again.”

Lana didn’t respond. She just nodded slowly, her arms still crossed, but her eyes stayed on you.

Fifteen minutes later, the four of you exited the café together, the late morning sun spilling over the street. The air smelled like strawberries and warm bread, thanks to the farmers market set up just around the corner. You turned your head at the scent, curiosity blinking in your eyes.

“Hey,” Jia said brightly, pretending she hadn’t just orchestrated your emotional healing. “Why don’t we walk the market for a bit? It’s nice out.”

Chan glanced at you, his hands casually stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah? Up for it?”

You nodded. “I could use the walk.”

“Pregnancy-friendly pace,” Lana added quickly, ever the protector.

“Obviously,” Chan said with a small smile.

The four of you wandered into the hum of the market, past flower stands, stalls full of honey jars, baskets of citrus and summer tomatoes. You and Chan naturally fell behind, veering slightly into your own space as Jia and Lana moved ahead.

Chan told you about the time he accidentally joined the wrong university club and ended up on a competitive rowing team for a semester without realizing it. About the hostel he lived in that turned out to be a rebranded former psychiatric facility. About the tiny restaurant he worked at on weekends that had a cat as the official “manager.”

He told you about homesickness. About how certain days would feel longer than others, and how he’d sit at the edge of his bed and think of home and sometimes that meant a place, but more often it meant people.

It meant you.

You told him about how quiet things had become lately. How you’d taken up journaling again, mostly to try and remember who you were. How you sometimes put your hand on your stomach at night and talked to the baby even though you weren’t sure if they could really hear you. How Jia and Lana had kept you grounded when you couldn’t see past your own fog.

But you didn’t talk about Jisung.

You didn’t need to.

Chan didn’t ask about the father. He didn’t need that context to care.

Instead, as you both slowed at a stand selling little handmade toys, he asked something else.

“Have you thought of names yet?”

You looked at him, surprised. “Kind of… Nothing set in stone.”

He tilted his head. “Wanna tell me?”

You hesitated. “Promise not to laugh?”

Chan held up a hand solemnly. “Swear on the ghost cat manager.”

You smiled again. “For a girl… I really like Ari. And for a boy… maybe Leo.”

“Ari,” he repeated softly. “Leo. I like those.”

You looked down at your stomach, then back up at him. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Because I asked,” he said simply. “And because you’re allowed to tell me. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

That made your eyes sting, unexpectedly. The words were too kind, too easy. You weren’t used to someone offering comfort without strings. Without history. Without expectation.

Just care.

And when he smiled at you again, you believed it.

You felt like someone again. Not a burden. Not a story to explain. Not just a woman waiting for a baby to arrive or a ghost of someone’s past.

Just… you.

And in that moment, under the sun, surrounded by flowers and laughter and warmth, you realized maybe just maybe you could breathe again.

Jisung had forgotten what quiet felt like.

Not the kind of quiet where everything was still, peaceful. No, this was the kind that rang in your ears. A silence so loud it made you clench your jaw without realizing. It had followed him like a shadow since the breakup, lurking in the corners of his apartment, in the spaces between rehearsals, inside his chest when he tried to sleep.

He thought he was finally past it. Past you.

It had been six months. Six months of distraction and denial. Six months of forcing his focus into studio sessions and interviews. Six months of telling himself that he hadn’t needed you in the first place, that wanting something different wasn’t a crime.

But then he saw the photo.

You. Laughing.

Leaning into another man’s shoulder, someone unfamiliar. Someone he couldn’t recognize. The post was from Jia’s account, just a regular scroll moment that hit harder than it should’ve. His thumb hovered over the screen. He’d stopped breathing for a second.

You looked so… okay.

That was what struck him the most.

You looked healed. Soft. Effortlessly content. The man beside you wasn’t even touching you, but it was the way you leaned toward him. The comfort in your posture. The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

Jisung had stared at the picture until his vision blurred.

He wondered if you were moving on, if you had someone else, if you were that carefree with someone else and that maybe that letter had never been about coming back. Maybe it had been about leaving for good.

The possibility made his stomach twist.

He sat down at his desk. The drawer was already open a crack. Just wide enough to reveal the corner of the envelope.

His hand hovered over it.

Six months.

What if he’d missed something important?

The image of your face flashed in his mind again, the smile that wasn't his anymore. The softness in your eyes that had once only been meant for him.

And then, without warning, that sick feeling rose again, sharp, bitter, ugly. What if it wasn’t something he wanted to read? What if it was about the new guy? Or worse, what if it was closure?

He could barely breathe.

“I’ve always wanted a family.”

It echoed in his head. Quiet, wistful. It had been one of your first deep conversations. You’d looked at him like he was the future you’d been planning for since you were a little girl. And he’d brushed it off with a joke, even though part of him knew, knew you meant every word.

And he hadn’t listened.

He rubbed his face with both hands.

He’d been trying so hard to be okay, to let it go. But now all the pieces were coming together in his head, twisting into something heavy. The sickness you mentioned to your friends online. The way Jia and Lana stopped posting about you. The letter. The vanishing act.

The man in the picture.

And that look on your face.

He thought about what it meant.

What it could mean.

And slowly, like a creeping storm, one horrible, world-shifting thought started to root itself in his chest.

What if the letter wasn’t about getting back together?

What if the letter was about the family he never wanted and you were giving it to someone else now?

He stood up so fast the chair scraped the floor.

His heart thundered.

The letter was still unopened. Still waiting. Still sealed.

But it didn’t feel like it was waiting for him anymore.

-

The morning air was crisp, just cold enough to bite at his fingertips as he tucked them deeper into his jacket pockets. Jisung had barely slept the night before. Again. Something about the silence in his apartment felt louder than usual lately. He’d left early, headphones in, cap low over his face, hood up. Just another early morning walk to the company, hoping maybe the movement would shake the insomnia out of his bones.

He was halfway down the street, eyes fixed on the pavement, when he heard it.

A laugh.

But not just any laugh.

Your laugh.

For a split second, he froze mid-step. His heart stuttered. He thought he was imagining it. It was familiar in a way that twisted his insides, light, effortless, like wind chimes in spring. It was the laugh he used to live for. The one he hadn’t heard in six months.

It echoed again, closer this time.

He turned instinctively, almost violently, pulling his headphones out and scanning the street behind him. His pulse shot up as his eyes locked on the source.

And there you were.

Standing just a few meters away. Real. Laughing, radiant, glowing in the soft morning sun and unmistakably, visibly pregnant.

Jisung’s breath caught in his throat.

You weren’t alone.

The man beside you, the same one from the picture stood close, one hand resting at the small of your back. He was smiling too, looking at you with the kind of tenderness that made Jisung’s fists clench.

You were leaning toward him, hand protectively on your belly, like the whole world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

And it hit Jisung like a truck.

Not only had you moved on… you had started the family he never wanted. With someone else.

Someone who wasn’t him.

Something cracked deep in his chest.

It felt like betrayal. Like acid and broken glass.

You had left him and this was why?

You wanted a family so badly you found someone else who would give it to you?

His vision tunneled. He was walking before he even registered his feet moving.

Rage. That’s all it was now. Rage that clawed at his skin. Rage that you had laughed like that, that laugh for someone else. That this stranger had touched you in a way that had once belonged to him. That you had trusted someone else with that part of you. With your future.

He didn’t even know what he was going to say. Didn’t care.

All he knew was that he needed answers.

Jisung stopped in front of you, chest heaving, eyes narrowed beneath his cap.

You froze instantly, the color draining from your face the moment you saw him.

The man beside you shifted immediately, subtly protective, arm tightening at your back as he assessed Jisung.

For a second, no one said anything.

You stared at each other.

The tension was unbearable like a rubber band pulled too tight.

You looked tired. Paler. But still you. Still the woman who once laid beside him in bed whispering sweet nothings. Still the woman who broke his heart when she said “you can’t love me if you don’t want my future.”

But now, your eyes weren’t soft. They were sharp. Furious.

The same fury he remembered from your worst fights. The kind that made your voice shake, not from fear, but from pain.

“What the hell do you want?” you said first, voice quiet but hard, defensive.

Jisung’s hands twitched at his sides. “That’s funny. You’re asking me that?”

Your mouth pulled tight. “I have nothing to say to you.”

His voice rose before he could stop it. “No? Nothing at all? Not even a heads-up that you’re carrying his kid now?”

The stranger tensed, but didn’t speak. You shot him a glance, placing a hand gently on his arm to stop him. He backed off slightly, but he didn’t move far.

“It’s none of your business,” you said, teeth gritted.

“I was your business,” Jisung snapped, voice cracking. “You left me—just to turn around and give everything I couldn’t to someone else?”

Your eyes blazed. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” He gestured to your stomach. “Looks pretty damn obvious to me.”

You inhaled sharply, chest rising, as if trying to calm the storm inside you.

“I’m not doing this here,” you said coldly.

“Then where?” he hissed. “When were you going to say anything? Or were you just going to play happy family and pretend I never—”

“Stop,” you snapped, voice shaking now.

He faltered. The venom in your voice hit him like a slap.

“Just… stop.” You shook your head. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to disappear and then show up six months later acting like I owe you an explanation.”

“I didn’t disappear—you left—!”

“Because you made it clear you didn’t want what I did!” you shouted now, and people were starting to glance over from across the street.

Your hand was on your stomach again, protective, trembling.

“I begged you to see the future I wanted. And you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. So don’t come here now trying to rewrite the story.”

Jisung’s throat tightened. His anger was bleeding into something else, confusion, desperation. Doubt.

You stared him down, eyes full of heartbreak and steel.

“Stay away from me,” you said, voice low and final.

You turned without another word. The man beside you didn’t look at Jisung, just kept a steady hand on your back as he helped you walk away.

Jisung didn’t follow.

He stood there, rooted to the sidewalk, heart hammering in his chest, ears ringing.

You didn’t mention the letter.

You didn’t say anything about the truth he had ignored.

And he still had no idea what he had missed.

All he knew now was this:

You had moved on.

And he… was still standing in the wreckage of what he couldn’t give you.

You hadn’t slept well the night before. Again.

At six months pregnant, your body was exhausted all the time, your back ached, your feet throbbed, and no matter how many pillows you arranged around yourself, you could never get comfortable enough to rest. But today, something felt… okay. Maybe not good, but manageable. The sun was peeking through the curtains when you felt a small flutter inside your belly, a gentle reminder that you weren’t alone.

You smiled softly, your hand moving instinctively to rest over the small bump. It had grown noticeably in the last few weeks. Strangers had started to offer you their seat, shopkeepers smiled a little more gently. It felt surreal, this thing you had always wanted, happening now, just not in the way you imagined.

You were still thinking about that when Chan texted you.

Chan: You up for a walk this morning? There’s a little bakery I want to show you. My treat if you let me win the who-pays war today.

You had chuckled at that. His texts were always light, warm, full of memories you hadn’t realized you missed. So you texted back:

Y/n: You’re on. I still say you cheat when you distract me at the register.

You met outside your place, and he greeted you with that big, boyish smile you remembered from high school. He asked how you slept, how you were feeling, how your cravings were, and he didn’t even flinch when you joked about the weird food combinations you’d been eating lately.

The walk was easy. Gentle. The kind of peaceful you hadn’t felt in a long time. Chan was telling you about this ridiculous story from his last few months in Australia, something about a bird, a tourist trap, and his friend almost getting chased by a kangaroo and you were laughing. Not the polite kind of laugh you’d been forcing around others lately, but the real kind that made your cheeks ache.

It felt good. Almost normal.

You reached the bakery and he told you to pick anything you wanted. You eyed the warm pastries behind the glass and finally settled on a croissant and a hot chocolate. He tried to sneakily pay for it while you were busy looking at cookies. You caught him, of course, and the two of you bickered playfully at the counter, your laughter bouncing off the walls of the quiet little shop.

“I swear you’re worse than my grandma,” you teased as you walked out, bag in one hand, and your warm drink in the other.

“Well, she is a lovely woman,” he grinned. “Smart too.”

You rolled your eyes, and just as you were about to say something else—

You heard your name.

That voice.

That damn voice.

Your body went cold.

It felt like the sidewalk shifted beneath your feet.

You turned around slowly, your stomach twisting as you saw him.

Jisung.

It felt like the air had been sucked out of your lungs.

You hadn’t seen him in six months, not since you dropped the letter under his door. Not since you waited days, then weeks, and finally months for a reply that never came.

And yet here he was. Storming toward you, fire in his eyes and tension in every step. Your heart pounded so loud you could barely hear anything else.

He looked thinner. Harsher. The softness in his face, the one you used to touch so lovingly was replaced with tight lines and something bitter.

Then his eyes dropped to your stomach.

And you saw it.

The flicker of realization.

He said your name again. Sharper this time. Full of something ugly and raw.

The confrontation happened in a blur after that. Words thrown like knives, his accusations loud and cutting. Accusing you of moving on, of starting a family with someone else.

You hadn’t even told him it was his.

You didn’t want to.

Not like this.

Because he didn’t deserve to know, not after months of silence, after choosing to ignore your letter, after making you believe you and your baby weren’t worth a single word.

The worst part? He looked like he hated you. Like your happiness was an offense. Like your child was some betrayal.

And you hated yourself a little for still caring what that look meant.

You didn’t answer most of what he said. You couldn’t. The anger inside you was too heavy, too dangerous to let loose. You told him to stay away from you. To leave you alone.

And you meant it.

When you turned around, Chan’s hand found the small of your back again, steady and warm, and you let yourself lean into it, even if just slightly.

You didn’t look back at Jisung. You didn’t have to.

Because if you did, you knew it would break you.

You walked for what felt like forever. Past the bakery, past the quiet street, into a shaded area just outside the little market. The adrenaline had worn off, and you were suddenly so tired.

Your steps slowed, and Chan noticed immediately.

He gently tugged at your arm to stop. “Hey,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”

Your lip trembled.

And for a moment, you tried to lie. To nod. To say you were fine.

But then the tears came.

Without warning.

You dropped your head, unable to hold it in anymore.

Chan didn’t say anything. He just stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you carefully, protectively.

You cried harder than you had in weeks. Into his chest, into the quiet morning air.

All the pain. The heartbreak. The fury. The sadness.

The betrayal of being forgotten.

The fear of being a single mother.

The ache of still loving someone who had let you go.

You clung to Chan like he was the only steady thing in your world.

And in that moment, maybe he was.

He rubbed your back gently. Didn’t rush you. Didn’t ask you to explain.

He just held you. Like you needed.

Like you deserved.

Like Jisung never did.

It took a while for you to calm down after the confrontation. Your tears had stained the front of Chan’s shirt, but he didn’t seem to care, he just kept holding you gently, rubbing slow circles along your back, quietly murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” like he was trying to patch over the cracks in your heart one word at a time.

Once your breathing evened out, and your tears slowed into hiccups, Chan finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes warm and sincere.

“You ready to go home?” he asked, his voice soft, without a trace of pressure.

You nodded, but you were still silent. Raw. Shaken.

He didn’t push you to talk. He didn’t ask what had happened, even though you knew he had his guesses. That restraint, his patience made your throat close up with a fresh wave of emotion.

The walk to your apartment was quiet. Not awkward, not stiff, just comfortable silence. A kind of silence you could sit in without feeling like you had to perform or explain or fix anything. Chan carried your little bakery bag in one hand and kept the other gently on your back, his fingers barely brushing the fabric of your dress near your shoulder blade. Just enough to let you know he was still there. Still with you.

When you reached your building, he held the door open, then helped you up the steps when your ankles threatened to protest. Once you were inside, he toed off his shoes at the entrance like he used to back in high school when he came over to study or hang out, only this time, the setting was so different.

Chan didn’t seem to mind.

He followed you in, still holding the bag of treats.

“I still paid,” he said casually, turning just slightly to glance at you over his shoulder with a teasing smile.

You blinked, caught off guard.

And then… you laughed.

Just a little.

Soft and tired, but real.

You reached out and playfully swatted his arm. “You’re so annoying,” you muttered, your voice still raspy from crying.

“I’ve been told,” he said, beaming now, clearly proud of himself.

You padded over to the couch and eased yourself down, one hand resting instinctively on your belly. Chan followed, setting the bag down on the coffee table. Then, without asking, he sat down beside you, close enough that his warmth pressed into your side, but not close enough to make you feel crowded.

You leaned your head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling for a while. There was a dull ache behind your eyes. Your body was tired. Your heart was even more tired.

He nudged your shoulder gently. “Want to tell me what happened?”

You exhaled slowly. “Jisung.”

That was all you needed to say.

He was quiet for a moment. And then, “Thought so.”

You turned your head slightly to look at him.

“Yeah?”

Chan nodded. “The way he looked at you… back there. Like he was about to explode. I don’t know what happened between you two, but... he doesn’t look like someone who’s over you.”

You scoffed. “He’s the one who left.”

Chan frowned but didn’t comment right away. Instead, he leaned forward, grabbing the croissant from the bakery bag and tearing off a piece. “Well,” he said after a beat, “you don’t need someone who can’t see what’s right in front of them. Especially not now.”

You looked down at your stomach.

The guilt crept in again, slowly.

The heaviness of everything. The choice you made. The silence after the letter. The confrontation that left you shattered all over again.

“I didn’t tell him,” you said, your voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

Chan looked over.

“About the baby,” you clarified. “I sent him a letter... six months ago. Told him everything. That I didn’t expect anything from him. That if he didn’t want to reach out, I’d leave him alone. He never said anything. Never texted. Never called. Never replied.”

You could see the realization settle in Chan’s expression, how all the pieces clicked into place.

“I thought he made his choice,” you said softly. “So I made mine.”

He didn’t try to justify Jisung’s silence. Didn’t say maybe he didn’t read it. Maybe he didn’t know.

Because that didn’t matter. Not now.

Chan nodded slowly and offered you the other half of the croissant. You took it with a shaky breath, your fingers brushing his.

“You did the right thing,” he said. “You gave him a chance. He chose to ignore it. That’s on him.”

You looked at him. At this person who had been absent from your life for years, only to come back like no time had passed so seamlessly, so naturally. You weren’t in love with him. Not now. But there was still something safe about being with him. Something soft and familiar. Something you hadn’t realized you needed.

And when he smiled at you again, nudging your elbow with his, you let yourself lean into him just a little more.

He made you feel like you weren’t broken.

Like this new version of you, mother-to-be, heartbroken, healing was still worthy of comfort.

Still worthy of being held.

Still worthy of being chosen.

It had been hours since he saw you.

Hours since your laugh pierced through the city noise like a haunting melody he wasn’t supposed to hear anymore.

But it was still echoing.

Jisung had barely made it home, barely remembered how he got there, just that he’d walked, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. His heart had been pounding in his ears. Rage, confusion, betrayal, every emotion bleeding into the next until he could barely breathe through the noise.

You were pregnant.

And not just pregnant, you were glowing, smiling, leaning into that guy like he was your anchor. Like you were his. Like the future you once begged Jisung for had already found its way to someone else’s arms.

And all he could think about was how cruel it all felt. How fast it seemed like you had moved on. How wrong it looked for someone else to hold your back like that when that used to be his place.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights when he stumbled into his apartment. The air was cold, untouched. Work, studio, drinking, studio again. That was his pattern now, suffocating himself with anything that could drown out the silence you left behind.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, your laughter followed him. Your eyes. Your voice when you told him to stay away. The venom in it. The hurt.

He collapsed into the armchair near the window, his coat still on, cap still tugged low over his head like he was still out there hiding. With a groan, he reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor beside him. No glass this time. Just desperate gulps from the bottle itself, the burn in his throat not nearly enough to mask the ache behind his ribs.

He barely noticed when his hand moved on its own.

Opened the drawer.

Pulled out the envelope.

The envelope you’d left nearly six months ago.

He stared at it, the way he had a hundred times before, only now it looked like a mockery. Like a ghost of something he didn’t want to admit he’d left unread out of sheer spite. It had his name on it, in your handwriting. Soft, familiar.

For a moment, his hand trembled.

He could read it.

He could finally read it.

But then his mind flashed back to earlier.

The way that guy leaned close when you laughed like it was his favorite sound. The way you looked like everything Jisung had never been enough for.

And then came the anger.

All-consuming. Reckless. Bitter.

His lips curled into something half-snarled, half-exhausted.

“She didn’t even wait,” he muttered, the words slurring slightly. “Just threw us away like it was nothing.”

He didn’t care if it wasn’t true.

He needed it to be true.

Because the alternative? That you had waited. That maybe you'd told him something important in this very letter, that he’d ignored something that mattered, that affected both of you…

No.

He couldn’t think about that.

Couldn’t handle it.

So before his hands could betray him and open the letter, Jisung crushed it in his fist.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he tore it in half.

The sound of ripping paper was louder than it should’ve been in the silence of his apartment.

Once.

Twice.

Three times, until it was nothing but scraps in his lap, your handwriting torn down the middle, illegible, unreadable.

And only when he’d destroyed it completely, only when there was no going back did he feel something crack inside him.

The sound that left his throat was ugly.

Somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

He didn’t know why he was crying.

He didn’t even feel like he was crying.

But the tears slipped down anyway, hot and fast, tracking along his cheeks as he tipped back another gulp of whiskey and let his head fall into his hands.

You were gone.

You had moved on.

And now, he had destroyed the only piece of you left that might’ve explained why it all ended the way it did.

And still… he didn’t know the truth.

Still, he was blind to everything except the ache of missing you and the poison of thinking you belonged to someone else now.

He sat like that for a long time.

The ripped letter pieces scattered at his feet like confetti at a funeral, the bottle nearly empty in his hand, and his heart sinking deeper into a guilt he didn’t yet understand.

Because the truth, the real truth was gone now.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

[the letter taglist: @kenqki @mbioooo0000 @bearseuming @alisonyus @justjxnniie @chungdol @captainchrisstan @stilesks @banana-bread-thread @linosgrape @chaosandcandies @energyjuice4life @st4rv3lly @hanniebunch @nchhuhi @changbin-wife @felixleftchickennugget @psychobitchsthings @puppymsworld @silly250 @uyyoyyu @beppybeesnuggets ..]

What do you MEAN their hair stylist made Lix’s bun into a BOW

Always You

Pairing: Best friend! Bangchan x Afab! Reader

Summary: It’s hard to enjoy a party when your best friend who you’ve been in love with for years turns up with his girlfriend…

Warnings: MDNI, dom!chan, sub!reader, possessive!chan, unprotected sex (don’t be like them) dirty talk, cum eating, multiple orgasms (f!rec) fingering (f!rec) mentions of mastubation, spitting (chan spits on it yk..) tummy bulge, creampie

Wc: 2.7k

a/n: did I write and edit it this in one sitting? yes I did,,, is this also my return to writing fics after 5 years bc I’m so attracted to chan idk what to do?? Also yes 🤪

‘‘Lixieee watch my drink, I nearly dropped it’’ You roll your eyes and smile at Felix as he practically jumps on you. His parties were always rowdy, especially when Jisung wormed his way into the planning. Colourful lights strewn around every pillar and doorway, countless bottles and cheesy red cups littering the granite countertops in the dorm kitchen, the air thick with smoke and the sickly sweet scent of liquor.

Part of you loved how committed the boys were to throwing the most stereotypical frat parties, the perfect way to unwind from the stress of uni life. You scan the room for that all too familiar face but find no sign of him, your shoulders dropping slightly, the disappointment in your chest too strong to ignore.

You and Chan had been best friends since you were 12, your parents pushing you together as an unlikely duo. You'd immediately become inseparable,spending every second with each other. People had always questioned your relationship, everyone thought you must be dating if you were so close, but you and Chan were just friends, at least that's what you convinced yourself it had to be.

You first started having feelings for Chan at 18, you were university freshmen starting the next big chapter of your lives together and you couldn't get him out of your head. His deep brown eyes that sparkled when he spoke about the things he loved, his soft curly black hair that you loved ruffling to annoy him and his dimples that became impossibly deep when he smiled. Being around him was both torture and comfort. Three years later and you were still completely in love with someone who views you as his best friend, nothing more. In other words, you're utterly fucked.

‘’Lix, have you seen Chan tonight? I thought he was coming’’  Felix still clinging to you in his tipsy state. His messy blonde hair slightly covering his eyes and freckle-dotted cheeks, a pink blush dusting his skin thanks to the many drinks he’d already knocked back.

‘’Nah not yet, he said he's coming later after his date’’ he slurs his words a little, all giggly and happy, not knowing the ache his words cause you. You hum in response, suddenly feeling less sociable than a few minutes ago.

‘’Ahhhhh speak of the devil’’ Felix laughs and nods toward the doorway, Chan's broad shoulders making it look tiny. His hand interlocked with hers, observing the room and briefly locking eyes with you before looking away.

Chan had been dating Euna for a few months, but it never got easier seeing them together. 

They'd met in one of your classes, Euna was sweet, pretty  and very popular with both the students and teachers. It hadn’t taken Chan too long to fall for her and spend less and less time with you. He swore nothing had changed between you two but you knew better. It wasn't long after they started dating that Chan began cancelling your plans because ‘Euna planned something’ or he ‘just couldn't make it that day’ You wanted to believe that it would all go back to the way it was soon enough but that day never came, Chan drifting further as time passed. 

You missed his smile, the way he would make you laugh, the way he would bring you your favourite food when you were tired or upset. You thought that maybe one day you would be together, that Chan would see you as more than just his best friend. Sometimes it felt like more between you two. 

He and Euna weave their way through the crowd, her trailing slightly behind, Chan looking back at her every so often with a smile, the sight of them making you nauseous though you wish it didn't. Chan lets go of her to pull Felix into a hug, Euna eyeing you awkwardly as the two of them catch up. Euna had never been rude to you, never made a snarky comment about you being friends with Chan, but she never really said much around you if you were honest. 

‘’Your dress is super pretty’’ you squeak out attempting to break the silence between you two, She offers up a small thank you and a tight smile and turns to Chan as he pulls her into his side, his attention now on the two of you instead of the tipsy blonde Aussie

 ‘’Hey y/n’’ Chan smiles as he lets go of Euna and pulls you into a quick side hug, letting go as quickly as he’d pulled you in, his soft musky scent filling your senses. The four of you make small talk, Chan's eyes catching your own as Felix rambles to Euna about his current pc build. The air starts to feel suffocating, his glances making you feel trapped. You quickly make an excuse to leave, Chan's smile faltering as you excuse yourself from their conversation and disappear into the crowd of bodies. 

It was impossible to think while Chan was standing there, his arms wrapped around Euna unapologetically. The jealousy burning more than the straight tequila sloshing around in your cup, you start to sway to the music begging yourself to forget about him and enjoy your night. You feel a pair of eyes follow your silhouette but you continue to drink and dance, the alcohol making its way through your system and drowning out every thought.

 You feel a figure behind you grabbing your hips and swaying with you, turning your head to see the blurred outline of Hyunjin, his hair in his eyes, a pair of red sunglasses perched on his nose. You let yourself melt into him, you'd always found him attractive anyway. You and Hyunjin move together perfectly, his smooth movements guiding your own as he whispers the lyrics to the song in your ear, his plump lips catching your skin slightly. You finally move your eyes to Chan still feeling someone watching you, secretly wishing it was him. You’re met with a sharp glare, his eyes never leaving you and Hyunjin, his jaw locked in annoyance, you roll your eyes at him and turn around to face Hyunjin winding your arms around his slender neck. 

You turn back to glance at Chan to find him charging your way, ripping you from your dance partner's embrace and towards the stairwell. 

‘’Chan what the fuck are you doing?’’ you yell, trying to wriggle your wrist from his strong grip as he pulls you upstairs and into one of the empty bedrooms.

‘’What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck are YOU doing y/n? Grinding all over Hyunjin like that’’

‘’We are not doing this right now, why does it have anything to do with you, Chan? Why do you even care?’’ venom coating your words, attempting to open the door and leave but being stopped short when he stands in the way, eyes burning into yours. Chan had never been like this with you, what had gotten into him?

‘’What? Are you suddenly into Hyunjin?? We both know he's not right for you y/n’’  his eyebrows knitted in annoyance.

‘’And how would you know what's best for me Chan? We hardly talk anymore!’’ you run your fingers through your hair, easing the tension building up behind your eyes. 

‘’Of course we still talk, you know i've been busy’’ he fires back, disregarding how much space really had built up between the two of you. 

’Give it up Chan and go back to Euna, what I do with Hyunjin has fuck all to do with you’’ you can't deal with the confusion, why is he acting like he's jealous of you and Hyunjin? Why does it matter to him? 

‘’’I’m your best friend y/n of course it has something to do with me, he's not right for you’’ 

‘’Oh my god get your head out of your ass chan, just like you said, you're my best friend not my boyfriend. You can date but I can't? I'm not gonna wait on you to notice me for the rest of my life’’ You turn your face away from him, your confidence and fire slipping as Chan studies you intensely, the room silent apart from your breathing. 

‘’My god you’re an idiot’’ Chan mumbles before grabbing your chin and smashing his lips onto yours, you melt into the kiss at first before snapping out of it and pushing him away

Chan what are you doing?’’ You feel dizzy as you maintain your balance, your hands still pressed against his toned chest. your lungs heaving in time with the thud of the music coming from below. 

‘’You really have no idea, do you? I’m fucking in love with you y/n, why do you think I even started dating Euna in the first place, I wanted to get over you, why else would I jump into a relationship with a girl I hardly knew??’’ The annoyance in his voice evident as he goes on, he runs his hand through his hair repeatedly,  messy waves falling in his face. 

You stare up at him stunned, your lips parted in surprise, he pulls you back in, his lips covering yours as he presses you into him with fervour. He deepens the kiss and walks you backwards, his hands pressing into your hips, his hold nothing like hyunjins. He pulls away his eyes searching yours for something, anything. 

“Tell me to stop, if you don't want this I’ll walk away” his voice is breathy and pained, evident that the last thing he wanted was for you to say now.

You've waited too long for this, for him to need you, touch you. You know it's wrong, his girlfriend just a floor below but you’ve wanted and waited too much to stop and walk away, you can deal with your moral shortcomings tomorrow. 

‘’Please, Chan’’ you whisper, desperate for him to touch you again, clenching your thighs together as heat pools in your lower stomach, your insides on fire for him. He watches how desperate you are for him, your answer clear.

‘’Fuck you’re perfect’’ you look at him pleadingly and he can't hold back anymore, he’d thought about you like this too many times to count, in dreams and when awake. When he can't sleep and he fucks his fist wishing it was you, how pretty your moans would sound as he rocked into you, how tight you'd be around him, how his cum would leak out of your fluttering hole. He was too far gone, a man possessed. 

You gasp as he pushes you back on the bed, his weight pressing you into the mattress perfectly, he licks and nips at your jaw, his hand finding your soaked underwear under your skirt, circling your puffy clit through the slick fabric. 

“You’re so wet for me baby, bet Hyunjin could never have this effect on you. Gonna fuck you so good you'll forget he exists’’ his words making you tingle, his fingers exactly where you need them.

‘’Only want you’’ Your voice comes out breathy and fucked out even though he’s barely touched you and it sends a rush of blood to Chan's already rock-solid cock, straining against the tight fabric of his black jeans.

He sinks two fingers into your tight pussy and you scream in pleasure and pain at the intrusion, his fingers so much thicker and longer than yours, the stretch taking your breath away 

‘’Yeah be a good girl and take my fingers in that tight little cunt, I know you can’’ The way he whispers as your pussy stretches around his fingers and wet squelches echo through the room has you throwing your head back, Chans other hand finding your tits as he stretches you out for him. You shake as he moves his fingers in and out of you, the stretch now dissolved into intense pleasure. He can tell you're close, your eyes closed in pleasure as you sigh out his name.

‘’cum for me pretty, cum around my fingers’’ You moan his name over and over as he rubs your soaking clit and plunges his fingers into your sopping hole,  your back arching in pleasure as he works you through your high. Shouting his name as you cum on his fingers. He pulls his fingers out, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean. The sight alone already making you needy for more 

‘’Need you so bad baby, need to feel you milk my cock’’ he breathes out as he undoes his belt, desperate to be inside of you. You spread your sticky thighs, your glistening pussy on full display for him. His cock springs free from its confines, his pink tip leaking down onto the rest of his thick veiny length. It was no surprise he had the prettiest cock you'd ever seen. He gives it a few pumps, slapping your clit with his bulbous tip, and you moan in pleasure at the sting. 

‘’Take it, baby. Gonna stretch you out so good, gonna make you mine’’ his voice shaky as he presses into you, your pussy spasming around his hard length splitting you open, he slowly bottoms out with a moan stilling inside you. His cock making your stomach bulge with his size 

‘’Fuckfuckfuckkkk you're still so tight, such a perfect pussy’’ his words coming out more like a mantra, the feeling of you around him making him pussydrunk. He fucks in and out of you grabbing your thighs, spreading you wider for him, watching where you’re joined as he takes you. 

 ‘’talk to me baby girl, tell me how I make you feel’’ 

‘’Love it when you fuck me Channie, love your cock so much’’ your voice strained and whiny, writhing against the sheets as he sets a rough pace. He spits on your pussy, the liquid dripping down to where you meet, the sight only aiding his pleasure. 

‘’Bet you thought about this huh? Thought about how good it would feel when I ruin you, hmm baby? Bet you’d touch this little clit thinking about how good I would fuck you?’’ His thrusts become sloppy as he nears his orgasm, his fingers coming to circle your clit. Your moans getting louder as you get close for the second time.

‘’Cum with me baby, wanna cum in this pussy, fill you up with my cum’’ his thrusts getting more erratic and desperate as you orgasm together. You scream his name, your nails digging into his toned back muscles. Chan stills as he spurts his hot release into you, his cum painting your insides a milky white. He collapses onto you, his muscled chest pressed against your fucked out form, both of you breathing heavily. 

‘’Fuck you're mine, just mine’’ he whispers, his cock still inside you, both your release leaking out around his still hard dick.. 

‘’Yeah just yours, Channie’’ you breathe out dreamily, still coming down from your high  

You both lay like that for a while, Chan's face tucked into your neck, leaving gentle kisses, his cock stiffening again inside of you, the party coming to an end downstairs. Things had happened so fast you hadn't realised Chan brought you to his own room, the purple lights giving his skin a lilac hue. 

‘’Chan. What happens now?” You hesitate not wanting to ruin the moment, praying you didn't just fuck everything up with him with a simple question.

He sighs into your skin snuggling closer ‘’I meant it when I said you're mine y/n, Euna knows she and I are done, she knew I was in love with you. I want this, I want you’’ his voice soft and sleepy. 

Your heart nearly explodes, ‘’I love you too Chan, I want you too’’ you kiss him passionately, his tongue fighting yours for dominance, smiling into the kiss as he begins moving inside you again. It feels like a dream and you can't believe he's in love with you too, that he wants you like you want him. Now you have him you'll never let him go, you have always been his, even if he didn't know it. 

‘’It's always been you y/n’’

-ty for reading!! Alr working on more hehe

like ink on paper, like red wine on white silk ( the taste of honey chapter 4 )

pairing: young aristocrat hyunjin x f!reader | wc: 32.4k | genre: 19th century au, arranged marriage, romance, smut | warnings: period-appropriate themes & customs including sexuality and beliefs ; virgin!reader ; mutual pining ; slow burn ; heavy angst ; anguish and dark thoughts ; view all compiled warnings here. This work is for adult audiences only. This work portrays explicit sexual content and themes & actions that might trigger some, reader discretion is strongly advised. @cb97percent, dearest, this one's for you.

You had seen a tiger only once in your life but it was quite memorable. It might have been domesticated but it was still the largest cat you had ever seen. You wouldn’t forget the look in its eyes as it descended to devour the carcass the circus workers had left for him. A beautiful beast, too thin, locked in a cage. Hyunjin had the same look in his eyes tonight. What a beautiful beast he was, too, only his prison did not have bars. 

The morning of your thirteenth birthday, you found yourself barefoot on the back porch of your family’s villa, throwing nuts on the ground for your favorite squirrel. You liked all the squirrels, of course, but this one had a special place in your heart because its tail was missing. Not only did it stand out, but he was also noticeably less dexterous. He moved slowly and rarely reached the same spots as the others that sometimes roamed the property. 

You named the squirrel Henry. And it wasn’t that big of a deal either. It was just that your family could most definitely spare a few nuts here and there and this tiny rodent could use them. It made you smile, though, to see him and his unusual hopping as you went on your days. It gave you a thing to look forward to—and you had very few of those.

You were nervous that your mother would find you here. Like that. Because of Henry and because of other things, too. At that point, it was the second year he spent around the villa and your mother was well aware that you had taken a liking to him. There were things, like Henry, that she tolerated. The beehives, for example. She let you spend some time every other day with the old beekeeper, Mr. Ito, and you had no idea why. She was so strict and unyielding about everything else that it made no sense to allow you something as beautiful as that. 

Sometimes, you wondered if it was so that you would not hate her. Perhaps she thought that if she let you have the beekeeping and a garden, it would keep you strong for the rest of it. For the endless lessons—etiquette, manners, dance, embroidery, reading, sewing, singing. 

In a couple of years, you’d be learning about politics—a woman, especially not a lady, did not need to be very knowledgeable on the matter, not to the point of forming an opinion about any of it. 

However, she would need to know enough to entertain some conversation with her husband, and maybe even some of his business partners, while the men sat around a table to discuss such things. A lady would not be at her place sitting at the table but she would be expected to make a brief appearance—it gave her husband a good reason to show her off, especially if she made one or two witty remarks and was generous on the wine or liquor they drank. 

Your mother made you write that down. All of her lectures. All of her lessons. She said it made you practice spelling and your calligraphy at once, and that written words are engraved deeper into the memory of girls. In your bedroom there was a large dresser made of cherry wood and one of the drawers was almost full to the brim with sheets of paper. The words your mother made you write down. The standards she expected of you. 

Like, a lady should know better than anybody how to run her house—including her husband. For that, your mother regularly made you join the staff in their chores. You had learned how to wash, dry, and fold laundry. You had learned how to store food, and how to make preserves. More lessons would come. Your middle drawer was full of loose sheets with everything and anything on them. Recipes for soups or cakes or venison. Lists of the best brands of specific products, from cleaning supplies to liquor. Reputable clothing brands. 

There were a few songs among those sheets, too. These, you didn’t mind. You liked music. Out of all the lessons, singing was your favorite one, partially because it bore your mother enough that she never stayed around for the entirety of it. But also, and most importantly, you were good at it, and music made you feel alive. You stood near the piano while your teachers played, and you sang along while working on your pitch. Sometimes, the teachers even let you play a few notes on the piano.

You often sang to the bees. The hives and Mr. Ito were your usual audience, and they were easy to please. You were too young to execute some of the harvesting steps, Mr. Ito said, but you were welcome to watch as closely as you wanted. He said that you enthralled the bees, that they remained calm when you were around.

The morning of your thirteenth birthday, you woke up before the rest of your family, although you could hear the staff already at work. The night before, it had been Lillie, the Head Housekeeper, who put you to bed. Your parents were hosting a big dinner to celebrate your sister’s engagement to the son of a wealthy man and you had to be excused from the festivities due to a stomach ache. So it had been Lillie who put you into your sleeping gown and brushed your hair. She pressed warm towels on your belly to make the stomach ache go away. You liked Lillie. She was kind and always treated you with tenderness and love, the way a mother would, the way your mother never had. You only figured the belly ache came from all the stress you had that day, in anticipation of your birthday. It seemed like thirteen was such a big number, even if it was just one more than twelve.

Your sister was seventeen. She and her fiancé would get married soon after she turned eighteen.

You questioned your mother about that one afternoon. “Mother, you said that we would begin our journey to Hwang Estate not before I turned twenty, maybe after.” Already, at your age, you were aware that it was unusual. “Why is Kimi’s marriage at eighteen, then?” 

Your mother liked it when you asked direct questions. “Because your marriage is more important,” she told you. “When he is of age, Lord Hyunjin will become a more powerful man than Mr. Hughes, so I want you to be more prepared. More… ripe. When I send you over to him.”

But you had visited the lumberyard owned by the Hughes with the rest of your family. It was huge. The whole place smelled like freshly cut wood, but it was very dusty. When you pointed out to your mother that it looked like this place was rather busy and that it must be important, she shook her head. “Hwang Estate is one thing, my daughter. The estate itself is large—I told you, it is surrounded by a beautiful pine forest. But the Hwangs own the land beyond that forest, too. More acres than your brain can comprehend without seeing it. There are farms on it. He also owns a factory.” 

In any case. You weren’t exactly sure you understood what importance was, not in the context related by your mother. Because to you, none of these things were important. Not the size of the Hughes’ lumberyard, not the size of Hyunjin’s estate or the farms around it. To you, all that mattered was that one day, you would go over there and get married to your friend. Your only friend.

You turned thirteen today. 

That morning, you woke up with something sticky and warm between your legs. For the first few seconds you assumed you peed the bed, which seemed properly impossible, and yet. Then, after frantically pushing the covers off you, you found yourself in a small puddle of your own blood. You stared at it for a long time, tears running down your face. You tore the sheets off the bed and realized that it had stained the mattress, too, but you wiped it as well as you could and put fresh covers back on. Nobody would guess, and your bed wasn’t due for a change for two more days, so it would give you time. 

It was too soon. You had been told to expect it a few years from now.

Your mother had prepared you for that day. The day you would become a woman. You knew what that entailed. Your mother had prepared you for that, too—the consequences of it all. The monthly bleeds were part of the cycle that would allow you to have a baby inside you one day. It would be Lord Hyunjin who would put it there. The baby. And your mother had taught you all about that too, saying that Lord Hyunjin was like a gardener. He would plant his seed inside you on the days when you did not bleed out of your entrance. She called it like that. An entrance—a garden. 

The act is a lot more pleasurable for men than it is for women, she also said. They sometimes have special demands or requests—it is expected of you to comply. You are pretty, you are young, you are a maiden, and the most precious thing you have is this purity that you keep between your legs, that your husband is waiting to break. For this reason, it is expected of you to keep your garden unsullied until your husband plants his seed inside it.

Unsullied. 

But that morning, you washed yourself up and hid your soiled clothes underneath your bed with the bedsheets. You shoved your least favorite cotton shirt into your undergarments and put another nightgown back on—this way, nobody would know what happened. You needed time to process.

You had never had much of it. Freedom. But from the moment your mother would find out you were bleeding from between your legs, you would have none.

You hated the feeling of it. The dampness, the sharp pain, the nausea spells taking over you. But you stayed outside nonetheless because you were waiting for the mail. 

Your heart jumped at the mere thought of it. If you were lucky enough, you would be able to intercept Mr. Greene—the villa’s Head Steward—before he brought the mail back into his office, and he would give you Hyunjin’s letter. 

Year after year, it was the only thing you ever looked forward to. Your birthday, and the words Hyunjin sent you. 

However, that morning, it wasn’t the mail that you intercepted, but rather a conversation between your parents. They hadn’t seen you on the back porch because the curtains of the parlor were drawn, but one of the windows had been left open to let some fresh air in. It very soon became obvious that you weren’t supposed to hear that conversation at all but you could not move without the risk of the creaking of planks to betray you. 

“Are you seriously going to refuse Lord Grover’s offer?” your mother scolded in a tone that was usually reserved for you. “An Earl, Ian! An Earl! Are you out of your damn mind?” 

A silence followed during which you heard your father let out a long, tired sigh. “We made a promise and I intend on keeping it,” he said in the end. “I’m a man of honor.”

“You may be a man of honor, but Hwang is no longer of this world to complain about a broken promise,” your mother retorted with disdain. “Because he had no honor at all and it caused his demise. Do you really want your daughter to marry into that family?”

Your heart sank to your stomach as your brain was working at inhuman speed to process everything you were hearing. You may have been only thirteen, but you weren’t stupid—you knew what this conversation was implying. You knew of Hyunjin’s father and the shame he had brought on his family—Hyunjin had sent a letter that year, telling you he would understand if you no longer wished to marry him. But to you, his father’s wrongdoings meant nothing. 

Because it was him that you liked. Hyunjin. And you knew he wasn’t like that, like his father. You knew from the letters he sent, and because you were very much unlike your mother. 

“I want our family to be able to keep its head held high,” your father said. “It would bring dishonor to us if we were to annul the betrothal. What Hwang did doesn’t change the fact that our daughter will marry into a wealthy, comfortable life, and we still keep our word.”

“Your word. It was your word, not mine.” Your mother clicked her tongue. “I don’t think it would bring us dishonor at all. I don’t think the Hwang boy would have much trouble finding himself a wife. With his mother’s connections, he could probably marry some royal relative, even. For all we know, it’s what he’s going to do anyway. He’s getting older now, an orphan, and he’s responsible for himself. Who’s to say he won’t wed some girl and impregnate her, completely disregarding our arrangement?” 

You pressed your hand over your mouth to muffle the sound of your sobs, which you could not control. The inside of your body felt cold like a winter day. You felt so little all of a sudden. Insignificant. Stupid. Unsightly. Revolting. With blood sticking to your thighs and tears rolling your face and your hair tangled and unwashed, with the scent of nuts and corn on your fingers after feeding Henry. 

She was right, your mother. 

Hyunjin was your friend. Your only friend. He was all that you had and you didn’t even have him yet. He was kind and sweet in the letters he sent you, but nothing about it promised you a happy marriage to him or a marriage at all. Even if he said he couldn’t wait for you to come live with him. 

He was reaching an age where boys wanted certain things and thought a lot about girls and their gardens. 

“The exact same could be said about Theodore,” your father retorted. “He could impregnate two or three princesses by the time our daughter is of age.” 

Theodore—Lord Grover’s son. You did not know him but he and his parents had been guests for the dinner last night, their family being close with the Hughes. It was an honor, your mother said, to host an Earl and his family for a meal, and it had been why she had been so quick to send you away last night when you felt ill. She’d rather you disappear than embarrass her with your childish pain, which, in the end, had been caused by something that was anything but childish. 

He was sitting a few seats down from you during dinner—he had been seated by your mother, not too far from your brother. Surely, she wanted him to become friends with the future earl. Theodore was a tall boy of almost twenty years old, with dark eyes and chestnut-brown hair that had a touch of cinnamon in it, which you could only assume came from his mother, whose hair was the color of copper. He was very outgoing and talked to everybody with just the right amount of respect and politeness expected of him. He was handsome even, in the way a boy his age could be. Not quite a man yet but no longer a child.

“He wouldn’t do that! He’ll be an earl,” your mother insisted. “Don’t you want your daughter to marry an earl?” 

You could no longer control yourself—the nausea hit you so hard you became dizzy and fell to your knees. You cried, just waiting for the lightheadedness to pass, unable to help your sobs. The pain in your lower abdomen was so sharp it felt like a knife but the pain in your heart was sharper. You didn’t want any of that. You wanted Hyunjin. You had known all your life that you would be his wife someday. And you didn’t want it any other way.

“What is this?” You heard your mother as she approached the nearest window. You couldn’t stand in time, but you managed to wipe some of your tears and your mouth before her face appeared through the glass. 

A strange expression, one that you had never seen on her, appeared on her face. It crept up slowly, almost like she was resisting it. Your father appeared by her side—you heard him talk to her in a very irritated voice but couldn’t make out the words as you were too taken up by the mere effort of stopping your cries. Your mother hated it when you cried. 

She stormed outside but by the time she was on the porch, you had run away, not minding the destination. All that you wanted was to go far from here. You wanted to be yesterday when you weren’t a woman yet. You wanted to be years from now when you wouldn’t live here anymore but on a pretty estate surrounded by a pine forest.

If Hyunjin wanted you at all. 

Your mother caught up with you when you tripped over a rock and fell face-first into the soft grass growing around the property. The soil absorbed most of the shock but none of your shame or your sorrow. 

“Get up! Someone will see you!” She grabbed at your gown, attempting to pull you up. “What have I told you about eavesdropping? What have I—”

Her sentence was cut short when she saw blood in the process of tugging at your gown. It left her speechless long enough for you to stand on your own and escape her grip. “I don’t want to marry him,” you managed through your tears, but it was difficult to speak with how tight your throat was. “Please, Mother. Not him, not Lord Grover’s son,” you begged, and you had never begged before in your life. “Please, Mother, I don’t love him, I don’t want to, please, please—”

She raised a hand in the air and used it to strike you in the face hard enough that you almost lost your balance again. It effectively caused you to stop crying as you stared at her, bewildered. It wasn’t the first time you got a strike to the face, but it had never been this hard before. The pain spread underneath your skin like spilled ink on paper. 

There were tears in her eyes, but that happened when she was really angry. “How dare you speak to me like this! How dare you show yourself in such a way when we have guests in our home!” 

The sting became an ache on your cheek. You knew it would become red and swollen, which meant you would spend the next several days locked in your room, away from prying eyes.

“You’re not worthy of the Grovers, clearly,” your mother commented with disdain. “The wife of an Earl does not act like a spoiled child.” She scoffed. “I doubt they will retain their marriage offer after they hear of your little tantrum.” 

You did not know what kind of life you would live. But if you ever had a child, you would not hit them, not even if they misbehaved.

“You said I was going to marry Hyunjin,” you muttered, averting your gaze. “He’s my friend.”

“Friend? He’s your friend?” She lowered herself to look at you from up close. “You know, they say he has his father’s demons in his eyes.” 

“No,” you said. Then, “I don’t care. I love him.” 

Your mother broke into a burst of hysterical laughter—it echoed in the quiet morning. You noticed Henry nearby, alarmed by the sound, scuttling away. 

“Mother,” you murmured. “Please, stop.” She looked scary. You just wanted to return to your room. “Please. Stop.” 

She didn’t stop yet—instead, the laughter slowed down, punctuated by deep breaths. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, following your gaze. “Were you feeding that vermin again? What did I tell you about this?” 

“He’s not vermin! He’s… he’s my friend.” Henry had reached a tall oak tree and disappeared among the branches. 

“He’s your friend,” your mother repeated, her eyes filling with angry tears again. “Let me guess. You love him, too? Have you ever had a fondness for something whole? Why is it that whenever you love something, it’s broken, or crippled?”

She grabbed you by the nape of your neck and dragged you back home, lecturing you about the responsibilities of a girl who became a woman and how you had to be stronger than this, stronger than your willingness to help out a squirrel that didn’t have a tail, stronger than the strange feeling brought by your first bleeding. You had to be stronger than those stupid little childish feelings of yours. “You’re a fool for loving him, child.”

The year you turned thirteen, your mother was so angry at you—or at your father, or both—that she did not allow you to read Hyunjin’s letter. She burned it in front of your eyes, and if a gift had come with it, she never told you. “You will learn to behave like a woman. Like a lady,” she said as the paper turned to ashes. “You could have been the wife of an earl, but instead you will be the wife of a deranged man. Maybe he will be despised by all—maybe that is what you want. To be stained by him.” 

He was all that you had. Hyunjin. He was all that you ever wanted, because all this time, he had been the only thing that made you feel like a person and not a lump of clay to be fashioned into something. And you loved him—as broken as he might be.

The sky was blue and clear and the air was cool, the breeze carrying the scent of fall with it. The grass you lay upon was cool too, but soft and comfortable, heating up slowly under the sun as the day advanced. There was nothing around except for the pine forest on one side and a secluded corner of the lake on the other. You could hear the gentle waves flapping on the shore. You heard a few birds, too. 

The scene may have been beautiful and serene, but it was the last thing on your mind at the moment.

Hyunjin, your Hyunjin, towering over you, his shirt half-unbuttoned and his hair undone, occupied every molecule of your brain, of your soul. He looked like a feral thing like that, but perhaps it was just because you couldn’t wait to feel him even more.

“Open your legs for me darling, will you?” 

His voice echoed through you like an earthquake, starting from your scalp, running all the way to your extremities, but not without coating your core with something warm and heavy. Your lips were raw and swollen from the past hour spent kissing him. On the mouth, in his neck. His hands, his jaw. 

You locked eyes with your husband. You never wanted to look at anything but him. He was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. 

His fingers dug themselves deeper into the plush flesh of your thighs, waiting, eager. He didn’t need to ask you to do it—if Hyunjin wanted, he could open your legs at any moment he wished. He was stronger than you were, and you wouldn’t resist him anyway.

But he liked asking. And you liked it when he asked. When he begged.

His honey skin was warm, warm enough that you did not feel the wind. You only felt him. And his hands on your thighs, so close to your pussy that you swore he could feel how wet you were.

Slowly, you parted open your legs, just for him, and met no resistance. Hyunjin’s expression changed, turning grave and contemplative as he watched. As you offered yourself to him.

He bit his lower lip. “Oh,” he murmured, his voice low, evoking the same honey as his skin. “Baby, you’re soaked…”

You would never get used to it. 

Hyunjin lowered himself between your legs, wasting no time before he left wet kisses over your thighs, holding you still. He had hitched up your skirt a while ago already and the contrast between his body and the cool air gave you goosebumps. 

It never quite felt real. When he touched you. When he held you. When he looked you in the eyes and called you darling, at any time of the day. You kept waiting for the moment you’d wake up from this dream and return to reality where Hyunjin avoided you like the plague. Yet, months passed, and it never came, allowing you to make a home out of this dream-like life you were in. 

You did awaken in the morning but the dream kept on going because you were in your lord husband’s bed and his arms were usually wrapped around your body. If they weren’t, you were holding him, and if you weren’t, he was pressed so close to you that you could feel him, all of him, over all of you. His scent, masculine yet delicate, now lingered on you always, following you wherever you went like a reminder of his love. 

You liked it. When you woke up like that, in Hyunjin’s bed, his hard, straining cock pressed on your lower back. You liked it so much that you usually made a point of not waking him up to make the moment last longer. You let it permeate you like ink on paper. Like red wine on white silk. Keeping your eyes closed, you usually registered every little detail you could. Where his hands were. The rhythm of his breathing. His pulse. The little sleepy noises spilling from his lips. 

But came a time when it was no longer enough, when your soaked pussy ached for him in a way that could not be put into words. Sometimes you woke him up by taking him into your mouth. You liked it so much. His deep, bitter taste, stronger in the morning. His musky scent. You rarely felt as connected to him as when his heartbeat pulsed through his cock onto your tongue. He watched attentively as you sucked him off, as you massaged his balls just the way you knew he liked. You loved feeling him resist the urge to fuck your throat—the restrained thrusts, the whimpers, his fist in your hair. 

Sometimes, he’d tell you that he loved you as he emptied himself in your mouth, and you were certain that this was as close as you’d ever get to a miracle.

This morning, it had been Hyunjin who was up before you. He woke you up with a kiss on your bare shoulder, pulling you back against him. “Let’s have breakfast by the lake, darling, while the weather still allows it.” Some trees were losing their green and turning yellow—you knew that soon, what wasn’t a pine or a spruce would be bright orange or red, and that days would be cold, and nights even colder. 

This was Hyunjin’s secret place, he called it. It was quite a walk from the manor but worth every minute of it. It was private and comfortable and pretty. He liked being with you here.

He liked eating your pussy here.

Your breakfast—fresh bread, cheese, and autumn strawberries was left untouched in the basket you carried it in. Hyunjin had decided he wanted to feast on something else. 

You shuddered when his hot breath caressed your glistening folds, but you arched into him when he used one of his hands to part your pussylips open. You never reacted gently to him—every little contact felt like a thousand kisses, or a thousand little flames, or both at once. 

Heat rushed to your core when Hyunjin gave your pussy three kisses. One on your mons, one on your entrance, and lastly one directly onto your clit. You moaned, biting into your fist, knowing that you were out of sight but not necessarily out of earshot. 

“Darling.” He did not need to say anything more—one word, this one word, was worth a lifetime of waiting. 

Hyunjin gave your cunt a few tentative, bashful kitten licks, moaning when your taste melted on his tongue. He accentuated the pressure he applied by bobbing his head, licking and lapping at you. 

Your hand found his hair. So that you could anchor yourself to something. So that you could keep it there, right there, and rub yourself all over his face. “Yes, yes, yes…” Your voice was no more than a desperate whine. Hyunjin responded by moaning louder into your cunt, reacting to how needy you were. 

“My darling wife,” he murmured, pulling away just a little to breathe. He looked at you from there, his gaze piercing and heavy, his pink, pillowy lips coated with your slick. “You become such a wild thing when you get your pretty pussy eaten, don’t you?”

You clenched at that, at the sound of his voice, at his hooded eyes. Propping yourself on your elbow to make sure you’d see as much as you could, you watched as Hyunjin returned to your folds, licking at you with fervor, as though he was running out of time, or patience. It was sloppy, and the sounds of his mouth as he tasted you were making you dizzy. 

He slurped and slurped, his smooth tongue running all over your folds before he lingered at your entrance, teasing you, then pushing it within you. A stronger wave of pleasure took over you every time. And he knew it. Hell, you could feel his pleased smile against your pussy as he fucked you with his tongue in long, slow licks, savoring you, swallowing every drop of you that he could. It was too much. It wasn’t enough. 

You wanted him in every way one could have somebody. If it had been possible, you would have woven your soul to his so that the two of you were never apart. He belonged there. Between your legs. In your heart.

And you belonged there too, in his embrace, in his heart. You belonged to him.

You wanted him. To feel him, to feel him against you. You tugged at his hair and yet Hyunjin did not budge—he moved from your hole to your clit, flicking his tongue gently all over it, bringing you closer to the edge. You moaned with your mouth wide open, your voice echoing over the lake, disappearing into the pine forest. You moaned again, louder, pulling harder at your husband’s silky hair so that he would come find you here. “Please,” you pleaded, your face contorted with pleasure and impatience alike. 

He was handsome in the purest way possible. In the most sinful, depraved way. His mouth remained agape as he caught his breath, his lips and cheeks and chin wet with your juices. His breath smelled like your cunt. Some of his hair stuck to his temples—you pushed it behind his ear as you caressed his flushed cheek. 

He was so hard—his trousers did very little to conceal the bulge his cock formed in them. He rubbed himself onto your cunt, staining his pants with your cream. 

You took his face in both of your hands, pulling him into a kiss. He took your lips and kissed you hard with his pussy-infused mouth. You loved your own taste, especially like this. He whispered your name and you breathed it in, whispering his in return. 

Hooking your knees on his waist, you rolled Hyunjin until he was on his back and you straddled him. He was even more beautiful like this, sprawled onto the soft grass, lips swollen, the tent in his pants beckoning you. You took no time pulling his pants down, exposing his length. Finally.

You loved his cock. You just loved it. The way it looked. The way it tasted, the way it smelled. The way it felt under your tongue or in your hand or anywhere else on your body. You wrapped your hand around his base, eliciting a hiss from Hyunjin, his head falling back to rest on the ground. 

You loved your husband, you loved his cock. And you wanted him badly. You wanted him in ways he would never take you—how often did you desperately rub your clit at the thought of him fucking you? Of him claiming you by stuffing your tight cunt with his cock, filling you with his cum? You often wondered what it felt like. To be made whole by your husband’s seed, dripping slowly out of your fucked out hole after he was done with you. 

He throbbed in your palm. You secured yourself on top of him, guiding his cock at your pussy but not at your entrance. He moaned when you coated it with your creamy slick, grunting at the sensation of his smooth, hot cock rubbing onto your soaked pussy. He touched it, grazing his fingertips on the places where his length touched you, your pussy, the soft, pillowy skin there. One morning you woke up to him sketching you, using his dominant hand to draw you naked on his bed and the other to stroke his leaking cock. He refused to let you touch him—you weren’t to move, he was drawing you. To practice. He really wanted to learn. He drew you well, down to your slick sticking to the soft trimmed hair of your pussy. And then he made you cum with his tongue two times, and he blew his load all over your face just to watch it drip onto your tits. 

You loved him. You rubbed your soaked pussy all over his length, using him the same way you sometimes used a pillow to relieve your urges. He was so hard. God, so hard. For you. Just for you. 

He tugged at the shirt you were wearing, undoing enough buttons to free your tits. He kissed them, he caressed them, he twisted your nipples until he felt your pussy throb at that. 

His eyelids fluttered when you found your rhythm, rutting against him with your hips rolling in ample waves. “Baby—” he let out with a strangled voice. “Use me. Like that.” 

And you were using him a little. Once you felt his cock, nothing could stop you. It drove you crazy when he was this hard, when he was looking at you as if you were the most beautiful thing in the world. It just felt so good. Him, there, between your folds, throbbing against your clit. You leaned over to kiss him again, harder this time, your tongue following the same tempo as your hips. You knew that Hyunjin would cum soon because his breathing was shallow,because his fingers were digging themselves into your waist. 

You were close too. You wanted to appreciate the moment, the feeling of your cunt on him, your slick dripping onto him, but your mind kept wandering to your most profound desires. You wondered what it would feel like if you were riding him like that but with his cock inside you. How deep it would reach. 

You could. Fuck, you could guide him inside you right now—you were so wet it couldn’t possibly be difficult for him to stretch you open, but you’d love it if it hurt. You wanted it to hurt. You wanted Hyunjin to drill into you. You wanted him to use you, to fuck you so hard it brought tears to your eyes. You wanted to be used and loved and fucked by him. 

The ripples of pleasure in your core became waves and then a monsoon—surging from within, warm and intoxicating. You could no longer control your moans as they spilled from your lips in loud, staccato breaths. You moved faster, rubbing yourself harder on Hyunjin’s cock, like an animal would. It was too good, too warm, too wet—you couldn’t hold yourself up. Collapsing onto his chest as you chased your high, you buried your face into his neck. Just fuck me just give me your cock… please please I want you to cum inside me—

You realized you were speaking out loud when Hyunjin put his hands on your arms, pulling you away so that he could look you in the eyes.

You had never seen this look on his face before. A glare. Something worse. 

For a second—just a second—he frightened you. Like he was a lion and you were a gazelle in the moments before he ripped your throat open. And yet you did not love him, or want him, any less because of it.

His grip on you tightened and before you knew it, you found yourself pinned on the ground underneath him, his cock dangerously close to your hole. You couldn’t move. You could barely breathe underneath the weight of him, dazed from the manhandling.

Time came to a stop. Hyunjin took in the sight of you and you of him. A strand of hair fell in front of his face. You could hear nothing except your own panting. His hand rose slowly and he reached for you. It looked, almost, like he was going to caress your cheek. 

Instead, he grabbed your face, holding you like that. He spoke to you then, his voice low, more a snarl than a sentence. “Stop. Fucking. Tempting. Me.” He gave one powerful thrust, his length buried not into your hole but within your folds as he rubbed himself onto you so hard it made you sink into the soil a little. 

Sparks ran under your skin—you were too close to the edge, trapped underneath Hyunjin’s weight. Your eyes rolled back. “Please,” you heard yourself say but your mind was being separated from your body, your consciousness leaving you. “Please,” you said again, fire taking over your insides, your cunt dripping. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not that he scared you. Not the ache in the places where his hand held you in place. For an instant, you wondered if the imprint of his fingers would remain on the skin of your face.

Hyunjin let out a noise that was something between a growl and a moan. “I know.” His face was flushed and angry and beautiful. He held your face still as he kissed you hungrily, as his rutting became erratic. “Give it to me, just cum, just fucking cum.”

Something sank within you—an ache spread from your lower back to your pussy under the relentless rubbing of Hyunjin’s cock onto your clit. Your hips stuttered as your release finally reached you and you dissolved into pleasure, moaning uncontrollably. You arched onto Hyunjin and he was all over you—biting your neck, your shoulder, the soft flesh of your breasts. His free hand was groping and squeezing you everywhere while the other forced you to look at him while you came. 

The flutters of your pussy reached his cock in shockwaves—he throbbed so hard that you felt it, and his expression changed—his fury melted as deep, low moans escaped from his parted mouth, and you did not think he could really see you, not with his eyes glazed over like that. He was murmuring words that you could not make out, and as your aftershocks hit you, he flooded your mons and your inner thighs with his cum, hips bucking as he emptied himself all over you. It was so wet, so lewd, that it prolonged your orgasm almost painfully as you clenched around nothing, your vision blurred. 

Hyunjin collapsed onto you, spent, finally letting go of your face. The ghost of his grip remained as your bliss faded. You slid your hands under his unbuttoned shirt, embracing him like that. You gave his temple a little kiss. Then another. His cock was softening, locked between your two bodies, resting on your lower stomach. 

Shame took over you. Like ink on paper. Like red wine on white silk. 

Lips trembling, you caressed Hyunjin’s thick, soft hair. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice evading you. 

He said nothing and it made you want to disappear. You had come to realize that Hyunjin’s silence was far worse than his rage. 

“I’m sorry Hyunjin,” you repeated. 

He pulled himself off you but his face was turned away so that you could not see him. And you felt so little then, so stupid, laying half-naked on the grass, your cunt sticky with your husband’s cum. 

“I’m so—”

When you went to apologize for a third time, he did turn to you then—his expression was solemn and he silenced you with one look. Then he gave you a kiss, a soft one. 

“Don’t,” he spoke against your lips before kissing you again. “Please, darling, don’t.” 

He reached for one of the handkerchiefs you had put into the basket along with the breakfast. It was one of those you had embroidered with Ha-ri and her daughters, an activity you found a lot of enjoyment—and peace—in. It had little bees on it, with Hyunjin’s name just below.

He used it to wipe his cum off you. You flinched—being caressed by him could never leave you unfazed, not even in this situation. You were still sensitive from his licking, his rubbing, from him. Your handsome lord husband, the only thing you had ever wanted. 

The only thing that could make you soar as high as a bird and fall as hard as the coldest downpour. He was much like a storm, with violent winds, with darkening skies, with menacing thunder. Beautiful and intriguing enough that you wholeheartedly ran outside, bare and uncovered, and let the rain drown you one or a hundred times.

He said nothing—he left you there as he rose, buttoning his trousers back up and making his way to the lake so he could rinse out the handkerchief. His hair floated in the breeze and a couple of ducks floated by, their quacks echoing over the water. The pleasure between your legs mutated into something else—you were sore, and the cool weather was affecting you a whole lot more without Hyunjin’s body to warm you up. You brought your knees close to your chest, hugging your legs as you sat there, watching your husband ignore you.

You realized now the mistake you had made—it wasn’t even that you lost control today and said certain things. It was that a few months ago, after the whole ordeal at Lord Jeon’s place, you and Hyunjin hadn’t really talked. Not about this. Never about the specifics of it. He ate your pussy often, and you rubbed or sucked his cock just as often. He’d say things like careful there, it’s going to leak after he spilled himself a little too close to your entrance. But then he’d usually just lick his cum off you, and it normally ended with you having a second or third orgasm, so you weren’t going to complain. 

He showed the affection he had for you, not just in bed. He was visibly more comfortable around you. He’d often say that he loved you. He’d make little surprises for you—flowers picked around the property, more thread for your embroidery, or a freshly painted scene he made for you. 

He called you darling. Almost all of the time now. Even around others. You still remembered the first time he did so in the daytime with an audience—you were visiting the Bangs, whose property was on the other side of the lake, for Lady Bang’s birthday celebration. It had been a small, intimate affair—unfortunately, Lady Bang’s health issues had been making her life more difficult, but she seemed to enjoy her birthday anyway. Changbin and Ha-ri were there as well as Lord Han and his wife, who was also rather close with the Bangs. 

The celebration began outside with light snacks and beverages. You were having tea with the other women while the men were a little farther, standing by the lake and discussing real estate—a topic that bored Hyunjin to death, so you knew he would try to divert it sooner rather than later. You had become accustomed to it—no more than that, you loved it. This little habit of his. When he came to you to help make his current conversation—business or not—more interesting.

Darling, he’d said from across the yard, his voice loud enough that you—and everyone else—heard him. What are those plants that grow by the water on our side of the lake? The ones that smell so good? I’m trying to convince Lord Han that he wants some for his new cottage home.

The fragrant herb grew naturally in a few places on Hwang Estate, its scent made stronger on days where it rained right before the sun warmed up the earth. You remembered warmth spreading on your cheeks as you fumbled with your words—and your needle. Mugwort, my love, you replied, and Hyunjin raised his cup of coffee at you with a smile before turning to the others again. You remembered even more the lightness in your chest and Lady Bang’s knowing smile. Ha-ri’s, too. Not a word had been said about it, except for Lady Bang’s gentle remark, Your husband seems healthy these days, Lady Hwang. It looks like having you around is good for him. You look well, too.

So you knew that what had happened at the Jeons’ place had done something to soften his heart. Except you had thought that it was open. And that it would keep opening over time, like the petals of a flower unfurling slowly under the sun as spring became summer. 

But you realized now that instead of opening, his heart had cracked open—just enough to let some of his love trickle out and spill, to allow some of his light to warm you up, but not enough that he would ever be yours. Not in the way you wanted him to be. And it went so far beyond the act of him putting his cock inside your pussy. It was the thought behind it, his will to never, ever do so was a symptom, a manifestation of something that was festering within him. Like one who had the flu would have a fever and a cough—he recoiled if the tip of his cock even grazed your entrance. 

Or at the sight of a newborn baby, an event that happened two weeks ago in town when a mother—the wife of a farmer who worked on his lands—approached him to present him her daughter. A beautiful little girl, soundly asleep in her mother’s arms, all pretty and snug in a bundle of blankets. He barely acknowledged the woman before running away, leaving you with her. You had been more than happy to chat with her and to praise the little angel in her arms, but when she asked if you wanted to hold her, you realized that you just couldn’t. You froze in place, finding yourself unable to take the baby in your arms. 

Like a manifestation of something festering inside you. A testimony of everything you didn’t have, and never would.

That morning, as the autumn breeze caressed your hair and the places where your skirt did not cover your legs, as you watched your husband soak a cum-stained handkerchief in the lake, you thought of your mother. And of all the ways in which she had warned you.

She had been right all along. Your heart was drawn toward anything that was broken, and the worst part was that you couldn’t help it at all. Out of all the wretched, damaged things you had loved, though, Hyunjin was by far your favorite. 

Hyunjin helped you up when he came back. It seemed that his hand lingered on your forearm a little longer than he needed it to, but perhaps it was just your imagination. 

He did not say a word, not one word, as you walked back to the manor. He disappeared into his bedroom, locking the door behind him. You knew he would wash up before joining Changbin and others in the parlor, where they would hold a meeting about Hyunjin’s upcoming business trip. In the city.

Some things just never changed. You hated it, still, when he left for that place where he used to be so acquainted with the brothels. 

Some things just never changed. You had been a fool for loving him before, and a fool you still were.

That day, Ahnjong came to help you with your bath and your gown but you refused her—you told your maid that you were feeling sick, that your stomach was a little upset, and that you wished to rest for a few more hours. She believed you, mentioning that she had seen the breakfast return completely whole after your walk with Hyunjin. 

You did bathe—in water so warm that it burned your skin. Yet it was not enough to cleanse the shame off you. 

You only went outside in the afternoon to check on your beehives. With winter approaching, they weren’t very active and no longer produced enough honey for you to harvest it. Instead, you just made sure that everything was clean and in order so that they could keep getting ready for the cold season. You envied them. They could not know it, but their setbacks would be temporary. The snow and the ice would thaw and spring would bring with it new flowers and warmth for them to enjoy. But for you, it seemed, the cold would be everlasting. 

When Ha-ri mentioned she was going to visit the town for a few errands, you immediately asked to join her. Just to put some distance between you and Hwang Estate. Between you and Hyunjin. You hadn’t even seen him after returning home and yet you needed to be away. 

“My lady,” Ha-ri said, keeping her voice low to make sure that the coachman wouldn’t hear her. “What is troubling you like that?” 

You kept your head turned toward the small window, watching the scenery outside. The soft, green grass, the trees and their coloring, the clouds floating in the sky. It was all too beautiful—it did not make sense to be witnessing it when your heart was in such a state of disarray. 

Not giving her an answer would be worse. You took a deep breath, and as you did, the feeling of Hyunjin’s rage came back to you. His firm grip. And you, the stupid fool who did not want to escape it, who relished every moment of it. 

“It always worries me when our husbands leave for more than a day or two,” you responded. “You know that, Ha-ri.”

She leaned over so she would be a little closer to you, observing you. “Is that really it?” 

“Yes.” You nodded, turning to her. She was studying your face carefully, looking for hints that you were hiding something from her. You could only hope that all of your mother’s lessons hadn’t been useless, that you could still make your face tell something other than what was in your heart. 

Ha-ri sat back on her bench, crossing her arms over her chest with a frown on her brow. She did not believe you. “Changbin came to see me during a recess. He told me that Lord Hwang was particularly short-tempered today.” 

You ran your tongue over your teeth, inhaling as if to give yourself some time to think this all over. Ha-ri was a friend now, a true friend. The kind of friend you never had except for Hyunjin through his letters when you grew up. She knew a lot about the things that went on between you and your husband. She knew enough to properly humiliate both of you if she ever wished, but you knew she’d never do such a thing. You knew you could trust Ha-ri with your secrets. She didn’t even tell them to her husband. 

A heavy silence fell between the two of you. Ha-ri was, also, the kind of sister you never had, despite having been brought up in a household with two of them.

You felt tears in your eyes as you were choosing your words. You didn’t even know what to say to her, and yet you couldn’t possibly not tell her. You would go crazy if you didn’t. It seemed like you couldn’t see ahead, like you were stuck in the middle of a field on a foggy day, and you didn't know where to go to reach home. 

When Ha-ri caught sight of your tears, she covered her mouth in surprise before handing you a handkerchief. This one was also one that you had decorated with her, and the sight of it was enough to make the tears roll down your cheeks. You hid behind your hands as you wept. 

“Oh, my lady…” She put her hand on your thigh, patting you there gently. Lovingly. “You don’t have to tell me—I think I know anyway…” She pushed a strand of hair away from your face and you removed your hands to look at her. 

She was right—you didn’t need to tell her, because she knew it was about Hyunjin, and also probably guessed it had something to do with the distance he insisted on keeping between you and him. 

So, that afternoon, Ha-ri brought you with her on her errands, making sure to occupy the silences when they went on for too long, talking about this and that. Nothing too interesting and nothing too boring either. She decided, on the spot, that she would be making new dresses for you for the winter and made you choose your fabrics and colors. Ha-ri was a good friend, and you only felt worse for not being comforted by all her efforts. As though you didn’t deserve her—and maybe you didn’t. Maybe you didn’t deserve any of this. 

Your mind was too busy with memories from the morning to properly appreciate Ha-ri’s friendly chat as she explained to you her ideas for the dresses she wished to make. In your mind, all that existed was Hyunjin and his fingers sinking into the delicate skin of your face, his weight on your body, keeping you pinned down on the soft soil. His skin hot and feverish and his beautiful face contorted with fear and resentment. And lust. And love.

After the fabrics, Ha-ri informed you that she needed to stop by the Apothecary to replenish her stash of fever cures—she knew that in the winter months, her little girls would surely need some, and let you know that she always hoarded as much as she could during the fall. You made a few purchases yourself, a little distractedly, mostly to reassure Ha-ri. To give the impression that you weren’t in fact hearing in your mind Hyunjin’s feral groans as he aggressively rubbed his cock on your pussy. Like he couldn’t resist it. Like he wanted to be done with it—with you—as quickly as possible. 

You thanked the apothecary and followed Ha-ri outside, answering her questions about honey even though both of you were very much aware that she already knew how beneficial honey could be for a sore throat or even a light cough.  

She was already seated when you stopped in your tracks, your gaze going blank as you went to climb back into the coach. Suddenly, it was no longer Hyunjin's desperate release you were thinking of, it was Lee Minho. 

And a promise you made to him—and your husband—several months ago already. 

“I’ll be right back, Ha-ri,” you heard yourself say. You even felt a smile appear on your lips. And you knew it was convincing by the face your friend made when you spoke to her. “I forgot something—some oils, for my hair.” 

Of course she believed you and it made you feel like you were the worst person alive, taking advantage of Ha-ri’s good heart.

“My lady,” the apothecary, an older gentleman, said when you reentered his shop. He had just concluded a quick sale with a young man who had been waiting in line after Ha-ri and yourself. “Is there a problem with your purchases?” 

You had always been burdened by the thing between your legs, whether it was about the bleeding or the piece of flesh inside you, the one that you so badly wanted to keep whole so that Hyunjin could claim you. You remembered the day you became a woman and the feeling of the blood dripping from you, the smell of it, too. It had been so violent, especially for a child of that age. And yet, you had come to see it as a blessing. Every month, your body reminded you that one day, it would welcome within it Hyunjin’s heir.

But that was before knowing it would never be the case.

“No, no, there isn’t a problem,” you replied, crossing the small room to meet the old man at the counter. “I’ve forgotten something that I’d like to buy, if you have it in your possession, of course.” 

This seemed to unsettle the apothecary a little. He tilted his head to the side, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean, my lady?” 

You took a deep breath but that did very little to stop your lips from trembling. “Can I trust that our conversation will remain private?” When the man went to respond, you raised a hand, insisting. “Truly private. At any cost,” you added. “You may not tell my lord husband, or the doctor in our employment, or anybody.”

The apothecary’s gaze lingered on you for a few seconds, then he bowed his head low. “Of course, my lady. I am at your service.” 

Maybe you trusted him, maybe you didn’t—the truth was that in the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because you simply wanted to have a bottle or two of it in your possession just in case. Perhaps it could be some sort of safety net. A hail mary. 

It was Sookie who told you about it, many years ago. At the time, it had appeared to you as one of the highest offenses, as one of the worst things a woman could do. But Sookie had insisted that you would understand one day—you just didn't believe her.

But that was before.

You cleared your throat and did your best to look like you weren’t wildly nauseous. “Sir, do you remember the… the tea you sold me, a few months ago?” 

The apothecary’s posture changed immediately, and so did his facial expression—he stood straight, looking very solemn, crossing his hands on the counter. “Yes, my lady. I dared not ask, of course, but I noticed you stopped buying it.”

You nodded. “Yes. Of course, I’m sure you understand.” 

He nodded, too. “I understand.” 

In your chest, your heart fluttered and it felt, for half a second, like you were freefalling. “I’d like to purchase something like it, only stronger, more potent. I was told of such a product by somebody who I trust, who was familiar with it.” Because she used to work in a pleasure house—but you didn’t need to tell him that. A man his age must have seen all kinds of things. “I’m sure you understand,” you said again.

He did not avert his gaze, staring at you in the eyes with a mix of surprise and sadness, which you did your best to ignore. “I understand,” he echoed, his voice a little more faint. “Stronger, you say…” 

Some poisons were just strong enough to eradicate a life growing inside a woman’s body without harming her too much. But, according to Sookie, it could destroy her womb if there was nothing to kill inside of it, so one should be absolutely certain to be pregnant before starting the treatment. 

You felt tears returning to your eyes but you fought them. “Yes. A bottle, please.” 

The man sighed. It took a few seconds before he finally disappeared at the back of his shop. You took this opportunity to wipe the corner of your eyes while he was searching for what he needed. 

You wondered if god existed, and if he did, if he would ever grant you forgiveness for what you were doing. 

All that you had ever wanted was to be a good wife to Hyunjin. All your life you had waited for it, for the day you would marry him and then for the wedding night that would follow. 

And now it just felt all like a big failure. You understood him and his wishes and his fears, yet it did not stop you from wanting to be his wife, really his wife, without him being ashamed or afraid. 

It was all that you had ever been allowed to be—Hyunjin’s betrothed. You owed it to him and to yourself to try and make this marriage whole. 

The apothecary returned, putting a small bottle made of dark glass on the counter. “A woman should take a few capsules as soon as she notices her monthly bleeds are late,” he said in a low voice, barely audible even in the quietness of the shop. “She should take a few more a day or so later while she is still bleeding. To… ensure the job is finished.” 

You took the small vial and stored it safely in your bag, exchanging it for a generous amount of gold coins. But the man did not touch them, he only stared at them.

“I would prefer if you did not pay me for this, my lady.” He pushed the gold back toward you. “I do not hold judgment—I do not need to know the reasoning, but I won’t accept payment, not for this. I simply can’t.” 

His words were just like blades, each of them sinking into your chest deep enough to draw blood. You collected the coins with shaky hands and left the store without a word.

The days were shorter now—the sun disappeared faster than you expected it to. It seemed like you saw less and less of it, noticeably so, every day. You went for a walk around the estate after your errands with Ha-ri, letting it drag much longer than you needed to, more than you should. It just felt good to be alone with the exception, occasionally, of a small forest animal. 

At dusk, you came across a squirrel who looked a lot like Henry, except this one had a tail. The bottle was tucked in the inner pockets of your jacket and it felt as though it weighed a ton. You remembered Henry and how he had simply stopped visiting you one day. Lillie had told you he might have found a partner but you just knew he was dead.

It didn’t matter that it was dark outside—no matter where you went, the lights inside Hwang Manor shone bright enough for you to see in the distance. All you had to do was walk towards them and hope not to put your feet in the wrong place. Only, maybe it was exactly what you wanted. Maybe you didn’t mind slipping and falling into a creek and hitting your head. Maybe you didn’t mind tumbling into the lake and being swallowed by it, only to never be seen again. 

You used to believe that nothing could be as painful as that, as difficult as that. To be Hyunjin’s wife and not knowing whether he loved you or not. How foolish of you.

This was much worse. Knowing that his heart, indeed, beat for you, and yet he kept a reasonable distance between you two. On purpose. According to his wishes. You had done nothing to soothe his wounds, because, in fact, you had made them worse, like rubbing salt onto them instead of kissing them softly. Because you were a stupid little girl, and your mother’s relentless teaching had done nothing to prepare you for this. It had done nothing to make you enough for him, for Hyunjin.

After all, he wasn’t just a lord. He was Lord Hwang, but he was intelligent—very, very intelligent. He knew much about the world and about literature, or art. He took good care of the business he oversaw. He had refined tastes—he liked beautiful things, complicated things. Things like him. An intricate meal, a detailed painting, an interesting conversation. He liked silk sheets and lavish wine. He liked unusual books. 

And you… 

He loved you. But you were too simple, too uncomplicated to permeate him the way he did for you. To hold any weight where it mattered.

He loved you.

But marrying you had not been an option. He had not chosen you. 

You heard them calling out for you sometime after sunset. You quickly made your way back as you did not wish to draw any attention to you. It was Seonghwa who welcomed you, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders. “My lady,” he said with concern in his eyes. “Supper will be served shortly, I… Are you alright?” 

You hadn’t cried—the sorrow you felt was too deep for that. The tears would take longer to make an appearance. You felt like a beehive in the winter. Alive somewhere inside, but sluggish, inactive. You wondered what exactly Seonghwa was seeing in you to inquire about your well-being. You wondered if the shadows haunting you had begun spilling from your eyes, or perhaps your lips. They, for sure, had spilled from your heart, hurting Hyunjin in the process.

“I’m alright. Don’t let them wait on my behalf, Seonghwa. Have the chef serve dinner whenever he wishes and I’ll join as soon as I can.” 

You let Ahnjong take you to your bedroom so she could brush out your hair for dinner. You remembered, then, that the Bangs were visiting tonight. It happened often and those dinners were usually rather spontaneous. Normally, you were delighted.

She brushed out your hair and put it in a braid and you felt nothing. Your mind was elsewhere. “My lady,” the young maid mentioned, “there’s mud on your gown.” And there was. You let her undress you, removing all the layers that had been soiled by the damp autumn soil. You let her choose your new gown and she went for the deep red one. “His lordship’s favorite,” as she pointed out. 

When she wasn’t looking, you took the small glass bottle from your jacket and hid it underneath your pillows. Your hands were still shaking and you realized it was because you didn’t want to face Hyunjin again. You didn’t want to see the bitterness in his eyes, didn’t want to feel his resentment behind the facade that he would surely put up. 

You stared into your mirror, taking in the sight of you. Your parents were wealthy but you had never owned beautiful clothes such as this gown before you came here. You hadn’t been allowed that—for soirées, your mother would borrow a gown from someone else. She didn’t want you turning ungrateful, she said. She wanted to remind you of what you were worth. You could see it now—all of it. In a way you never had. You could be wearing the queen’s dress but it wouldn’t make a difference. It wouldn’t change you as a person, wouldn’t add to your value. It wouldn’t complicate you. 

Not once before had it occurred to you, not in a way that reached you so deep within your bones. That you weren’tHyunjin’s choice. You were his father’s choice—or rather, a way for him to settle the matter quickly. After all, when he and your father made the arrangement, he was already engaged in his extra-marital affairs. Perhaps he knew that it would end badly. Perhaps he could sense that he was risking a lot and that his family was likely to lose its reputation sooner rather than later, so he just took the first offer he got. And you were that. The first offer, or the more convenient one.

It had never occurred to you before because you had never, not once, felt like Hyunjin would have wanted it any other way. Until now, it had simply felt like fate had brought the two of you together. Maybe, in some vain, arrogant way, you had believed that he would have picked you if given a choice.

But he had not chosen you.

Dinner was already ongoing when you descended the stairs. You heard your guests first. Maybe Hyunjin had decided not to attend. Maybe he didn’t want to see you. Maybe—

“We shouldn’t be gone for more than three or four days,” you heard him say in the dining room. “I’m thinking, after we’re back, we should go on a hunting trip. The three of us.” 

Your heart dropped. At least now you knew he was at dinner, so he wasn’t completely disgusted with the idea of eating at the same table as you.

But he wasn’t even gone yet and he was planning to leave again once he returned. 

“What an excellent idea!” Lord Christopher exclaimed, after which you heard a thump, as though someone had punched the table.

“What, me too?” Ah, so Changbin was there as well. Which meant…

“My lord, are you planning on stealing my husband away from me?” Ha-ri asked playfully. Only you knew she sort of meant it. And you knew, maybe, that she thought having Hyunjin close would comfort you.

“Of course not,” Hyunjin responded, and you heard wine or liquor in his voice. “It’ll be just a few days.” 

“Maybe I could meet with you in the city the day after tomorrow,” Lord Chris offered. “The land on the West has quite a lot of deer, or so I heard. Should we ask Lord Jeon to come along, too?”

A short silence followed. By then you had made it to the dining room but waited behind the door before you entered. 

“Maybe we could,” Hyunjin said in the end. “I know he’s rather busy, but asking would, at the very least, be polite.” 

You chose this moment to make your entrance, hoping that the conversation between the men would be engrossing enough that you wouldn’t be noticed. However, naturally, every head in the room turned to you, all five of them, and also the maid who was pouring wine into everyone’s glass.

“Oh no, stay seated,” you told them when they went to stand for you. You walked around the room—they had given you a chair next to Hyunjin’s. Of course they would—the housekeepers didn’t know any better. A million thoughts were going through your mind and yet you somehow managed to remain composed, even trying to smile. “It’s lovely to have supper with such friendly guests. Please excuse my tardiness.” 

“Oh no, the pleasure is ours, my lady.” Lady Bang was glowing tonight with her hair held at the back of her head and a stunning periwinkle gown. “I was afraid you were ill.” 

You went towards your seat as you tried to come up with a believable lie, something that would be neutral, something that would not hint at anything. You knew the maids were listening, and even though they had no bad intentions, it seemed that they liked to analyze everything that was said between you and other guests of the manor. If you lied about where you had been, they would know, and it meant everybody would know you were hiding something.

But how could you make them understand that it wasn’t a tangible thing that you were hiding? Not an affair or criminal activity. It was your sorrow that you wanted to keep secret. Because you didn’t want anybody to know. And above all, you didn’t want Hyunjin to know that you were gloomy. It would only make things worse. 

As you reached for your chair, Hyunjin pushed himself up rather abruptly, and for an instant, you believed he would leave dinner and your heart skipped a few beats. Instead he pulled your chair for you, dipping his head. “My lady.” He did not look at you when he spoke, but you sat down anyway, doing your best to keep your breathing steady. But the truth was that your head was much like an apiary in the summer—buzzing and lively, with every part of it sparking and working. 

You wanted to cry. You wanted to sit down with Hyunjin and talk to him calmly. You wanted to slap him in the face maybe. You wanted to tell him that you loved him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to watch him paint. You wanted to have a nice dinner with your friends and get drunk on wine and you wanted your heart to be lighter than the petals of a rose. You wanted to cry. You really wanted to cry. You wanted to ask Lady Bang and Ha-ri to follow you to your bedroom so that you could tell them everything. 

Yes. Yes, that was it.

The burden had become too heavy and now it felt as though you were suffocating. As though you were drowning in it.

You were given a glass with wine in it as well as a bowl of soup. The others were halfway through theirs—you tasted it, partially to warm yourself up and mostly to delay the moment you’d have to talk. Nobody had said anything after you sat down—but it was obvious that Lady Bang was still expecting a response.

“I went for an evening walk and lost track of time,” you told her. “I always get a little confused at this time of the year. The days are getting so short.” 

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Lord Christopher said with a frown. “Especially at this time of the year—the wild animals are looking to feed in ample amounts to prepare for the winter.”

You took a large sip of wine—it was good, sweet but still strong and tangy. “Oh, I doubt I would become anything’s dinner, my lord.” 

“I must insist. There have been sightings of wolves in the mountains nearby. I would hate it if anything happened to you, my lady.” 

You almost choked on your wine but it went largely unnoticed when Changbin echoed Lord Christopher’s advice and the attention was all turned to him. You managed to swallow the wine and ate some soup to soothe your throat, but now your mind was tainted with Christopher’s words. He was right—something could happen to you out there. Anything. You could come face to face with a bear or a wolf or a hunter could mistake you for the game he'd been tailing for a day. You could slip and fall and crack your skull open on a rock.

You felt it all happening—you became aware of the danger and you waited for the moment you would be afraid, only, it never came. Instead you were invaded with the urge to return out there and walk blindly into the forest, waiting for it to decide your fate. Maybe it would be a relief for Hyunjin—maybe he would get to choose who sat next to him for supper and who woke up in his bed in the morning. 

“Thank you for your concern,” you told Lord Christopher, hoping he wouldn’t notice how weak your voice was. “I’ll keep that in mind should I want to be out again after dark.” 

Ha-ri went to say something but she was interrupted by the loud knock it made when Hyunjin put his empty wine glass back on the table—a lot harder than he needed to. 

“No. You will not anymore. Never again.” He spoke at low volume but he enunciated every word very clearly, making himself heard. His voice was coated with quiet rage, turning your stomach to lead. He did not look your way but he went on. “You will not venture away from the manor after dusk. Never again. It isn’t safe. There’s nothing to gain from it. And if you must do it in the daylight, you will do so in the company of someone else. Is that clear?” 

The silence that filled the room following Hyunjin’s statement—or rather, command—was so heavy that you could almost feel it permeate your lungs as you breathed in. You dared not look away from your bowl of soup, wondering what you ought to do next. That had never happened before, not like that at least. Hyunjin had never been the kind of husband to exert his manly rights—quite the contrary, in fact. You could tell he always tried to be anything but whatever his father had been like. 

You did raise your head then, at the same time as Hyunjin did—the guests were very interested in their own soup all of a sudden—and you saw them. In his eyes. You saw those demons you had always heard about, those you had been warned against most of your life. You had never been frightened of Hyunjin until today. Until this morning, when he lost himself. Until now, when he didn’t look like himself. 

And yet you could not look away. And yet you could not love him less.

You stared into them, into his eyes, searching for the ones you had come to know. The ones that were like molasses on a slice of pound cake. They were still somewhere in there, weren’t they?

Hyunjin tried so very hard not to be like his father. As for you? 

You—you were the result of years of coaching from your mother. She had taught you all about that—what to do when your husband would give you a command, whether it was to get him a glass of liquor, to help him change his clothes, or to get on your knees so he could have his way with you. Your mother might have forced these thoughts into your mind, but she was far from being the submissive wife she had tried to fashion you into. Tonight, if she were you, she would have snapped at Hyunjin for his comment, in front of their guests. Things would have escalated later. You used to hide your head under your pillows so as not to hear your parents yell at each other. And other things. 

You tried so very hard not to be like your mother, too.

You took one deep breath, then another. You reached for Hyunjin—he recoiled at first, a faint scowl adorning his brow, but you simply took his hand in yours and squeezed it gently. 

“Of course, my love.” You gulped, but the knot in your throat remained. “You’re right. It was reckless. I shall be more cautious in the future.” 

He stared down at the hand you were holding as though he couldn’t believe what you were saying. You figured the moment might have lasted a thousand years if it weren’t for the maids who came to swap the bowls of soup for dinner plates, which were filled with a roast that looked and smelled fantastic. 

Lord Christopher commented on it, echoed by Changbin, and dinner went on. It went on around you but you took no part in it, simply responding to questions when you were talked to and smiling when someone said something humorous. 

They spoke about politics. Lady Bang inquired about Ha-ri’s dressmaking. Changbin asked Christopher about the renovations that were taking place on their estate. Lord Christopher asked if you had any plans to go and visit your family back home sometime soon and you made up some lie about it. 

Ha-ri suggested that everyone went outside before dessert—just to get some fresh air. You followed her as she took your hand and invited Lady Bang to come with while the men could go wherever they wanted. But really you knew she just wanted to get you away from Hyunjin. 

Only you didn’t really. He was angry at you—more than he had ever been. And you were his wife and you were supposed to make things right. 

Ha-ri led you and Lady Bang to her sewing room, where she opened the door of the balcony to let in the night air. You stood there for a moment while she was showing Lady Bang her new fabrics for the winter, but your mind was wandering elsewhere. Your thoughts had been sent a few days from now, when your husband would be in the city. He was so angry at you that he might just go see if any brothel had something to offer. Perhaps he would fuck once or twice until he was pacified, and then return to you. 

He did choose them. Those women. He asked for them and was given some time and pleasure with them in exchange for money. But you? He never asked for you and he got nothing in exchange. Nothing at all. 

You thought nothing could make your night worse—and then two maids entered the sewing room with a teapot and cups. “Mr. Seonghwa sends us,” one of them, Salma, said. “He said the ladies might want a warm drink.” 

You watched as the two young women prepared the tray and the tea, your mind far away from this room. You were listening more to whatever was outside than what was occurring here, searching for Hyunjin’s distant voice in the night, wondering what he, Christopher, and Changbin might be talking about. You would not be so bold as to suggest he would ever talk about you with them, but, selfishly, you wanted to hear some kind of sorrow in his voice—the same that inhabited you. Or maybe you had it all wrong. Maybe that anguish, that desolation, didn’t live within either of you—perhaps it was the other way around. Maybe, instead, it embraced you, contained you, like a cursed sanctuary. Maybe it had become your home, one that you weren’t sure you would ever escape. 

You thought nothing could make your night worse—and then, when the maids were done setting up the small table for tea, they glanced at each other with knowing smiles and pink cheeks. 

“My lady,” the other one, Emi, told Lady Bang, dipping her head very low. “Pardon the intrusion, I—” She took a deep breath, as though whatever she was about to say was terrible. 

Inquisitive, you took a few steps towards the scene.

“We were simply wondering if what they say about you is true, my lady,” Salma added, also dropping her head, her cheeks darkening. “It would be such wonderful news.” 

You instantly knew what this was all about when you saw Lady Bang react to the question by instinctively pressing a hand on her stomach. 

A few seconds passed, during which Ha-ri stared at you, and only at you. Slowly, Lady Bang turned to you with a complicated expression on her face, making you wonder how much she knew. How much she had guessed. And that made you wonder how obvious it all was. 

It made you wonder what the maids were saying about you.

It made you wonder if they could hear your heart shattering in your chest.

“Well,” you made yourself say, knowing very well you weren’t fooling anybody but pushing through regardless. Let them talk. The maids and the stewards and the apothecary and everyone else. Let them say whatever the fuck they wanted. “Is it true or not, my friend?” 

She hesitated, biting her lip, but not moving her hand from her stomach. “Yes, it is. I found out last month, but I wasn’t sure it would hold so I didn’t—”

You raised your hand. It made you wonder if they noticed how badly it was trembling. “There’s no need to explain yourself, my lady. What lovely news! Congratulations!” 

It was her, Lady Bang, who pulled you into an embrace, not the other way around. You vaguely heard Ha-ri dismiss the two maids, doing so politely but firmly as your friend held you against her. Despite the numerous layers of fabric both of you were wearing, it seemed, almost, like you could feel it. It radiated from her, from her belly. The life that she bore. The miracle, the blessing she carried inside of it. You allowed yourself to cry, figuring at first that it may look as though they were tears of joy. And really, they were. But there was so much more to it. 

“I didn’t want you to hear about it like that,” she whispered into your ear. “I’m so sorry.” 

You didn’t respond, prolonging the hug more than you needed to. 

And then you saw everything so clearly it was like looking through a window. You understood everything. When they told you who you would marry and when, and how, and why. When they decided for you. You understood why your mother had tried to put an end to the betrothal, why she had been so adamant that you should marry somebody else. 

You understood why she had warned you against broken things. It was not because she hated you, not because she resented you or despised you. It was because she was protecting you. Out of love. The way a mother only could love, which is to say, violently. Had she known? She couldn’t possibly have known, at that time, the exact details of it all, but she must have guessed that one day you would find yourself in such a challenging situation. She didn’t want you to get attached to Henry because he was a tiny squirrel, smaller and weaker than the others, and he was likely to become a hawk’s dinner or freeze to death much sooner than you expected. 

She didn’t want you to get attached to Hyunjin because she knew that once a woman had opened her heart to a man, he held the power to destroy her. 

You understood everything. You understood why you were so ashamed of it—that Hyunjin refused so categorically to ever, ever fuck you. You understood why it hurt you so much, why that shame lingered, why and how it had stained you. Like ink on paper. Like red wine on white silk. 

Because your mother had not seen that coming. And she had promised you that when a lady made sure her garden remained unsullied, it would be the one thing her lord husband would without a doubt love about her, that he would desire it, that he would vulgarize it to his heart's content. She had made it seem as though there was no way this would ever fail. That if you were still pure on your wedding day, your husband would plant his seed in your garden, and there was no other option. She had made you feel as though it was the worst of offenses when a man wanted nothing to do with his wife’s garden. 

She had made you feel as though you would fail, as a woman and as a wife, should you not be touched by your husband.

And even if you understood Hyunjin’s struggles, his fears, his complicated feelings towards his father and even fatherhood itself—you couldn’t undo the lectures that had been given to you, that had been carved onto your mind. They had become a part of you, intrinsically so. If you could, you would cut your skull open and pick them from your brain to discard them, but it would mean losing pieces of yourself. And you were okay with that. If, somehow, you could turn into a blank canvas, if you could be unmade, you would let Hyunjin fashion you into a wife that would be enough for him. That would be enough to heal his wounds instead of making them worse. 

You thought of the old beekeeper, Mr. Ito, and of the day he showed you how to make sure honey was pure. He said that if one day, you were no longer able to produce your own, you should at least know how to procure the real thing. 

“If honey is pure,” he had said, using a match to light a candle, “it will burn.” And he had shown you all the steps—wrapping cotton around a stick and coating it in honey before dipping it into the flame. You remembered the scent of it, sweet, sweet, sweet, and the way the honey, pure and unadulterated, caught on fire. 

You wanted to run back home. It was not possible but you wished for it anyway—you wanted to see the villa from afar and run barefoot on the grass again. You wanted Henry to be still alive. You wanted Mr. Ito to be still alive. Even just for an instant, you wanted to be more like that little girl again, the one who held hope in her heart, the one who wasn’t afraid to burn.

“You ladies enjoy your tea,” you murmured, pulling away before anyone could see your tears. “I will go see how dessert is coming along.” 

Neither Ha-ri or Lady Bang tried to stop you even though you weren’t particularly convincing. You walked away, ignoring the staircase as you passed it—you had no intention of checking on dessert or on anything. Hell, you weren’t even sure what you were doing at all until you made it to your bedroom and caught sight of your bed. You barely took the time to close the door behind you, crossing the room until you were sitting atop your soft mattress, feeling the linen and silk sheets laid on it. All white. Oh, how badly you wanted to stain them red. 

You reached under your pillow, finding the small bottle obtained from the apothecary earlier. The label only had a skull and crossbones on it and, underneath in a thin font, Diachylon.

What had he said? The apothecary? That you should take it after noticing a pregnancy. He couldn’t have known, of course, that you had an entirely different objective in mind. 

You wanted to be more than this. 

You wanted the state of your garden to be anything but a problem. All this time, all your life—it all had been about this, hadn’t it? So much had been forbidden—running, ice skating, horse riding. Freedom. All this time you had believed, subconsciously or not, that your fucking garden should remain unsullied. That Hyunjin would be a happy husband as long as you managed to offer yourself to him in the purest form you could. That he would be displeased should your garden be anything but immaculate.

There was one thing you hadn’t even considered, though.

What if you didn’t have a garden at all?

What if you set fire to it? Would it burn? If it was pure, would it burn? 

With trembling hands, you pushed the lid open, looking at the contents of the bottle. It was difficult to make out in the dark lighting of your room, but it was half-full with capsules. You held one between your thumb and your index, inspecting it. It seemed to be dark in color and had a thick consistency, just like honey. A strong, unpleasant scent invaded your nostrils when you breathed in—this had nothing to do with the little teas you brewed yourself a few months ago. This had the power to make a barren, lifeless place out of your womb. You brought the capsule to your lips after pouring yourself a glass of water from the pitcher on your nightstand. 

Knock knock knock. “Darling? Darling, are you in there?” 

You stopped breathing, motionless, your heart picking up a pace. 

He couldn’t know. He couldn’t ever find out about what you were doing. You knew it would destroy him. You knew that on some days, he wasn’t much more than a castle without bricks, a tree without leaves, a canvas without paint. And today was one of those days. 

It took exactly three seconds for you to bury the bottle under your pillow. You would remove it sometime later when it would be safe, after you had ingested the pills. When you would be absolutely certain that nobody would ever find out. You would never tell anybody. They would presume. Hyunjin would, Dr. Lee, even Ha-ri. But you would die before admitting the truth to anybody. You wouldn’t even tell Cloud. You wouldn’t even tell the bees. You wouldn’t even tell the wind about what you had done. 

“Darling?” Hyunjin said again, his voice lower now. “Can I come in?” 

You stood, figuring that not responding would only make things worse, but before you could cross the room, he let himself in—you hadn’t locked the door, apparently. Just two seconds later and he would have caught you shoving capsules of poison down your throat.

It took your breath away. You wondered if you would ever not be moved by him, by his presence, his existence. He stood there, his back on the closed door behind him, staring at you with his eyes like ink on paper, his lips parted, plush and raw from whiskey, like red wine on white silk. 

“Yes.” The words spilled from you without you having any control over them—like one part of your brain was constantly on edge, ready to make you Lady Hwang at a moment’s notice. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to make our guests wait, I just—” 

Whatever excuse you were going to make up, he didn’t let you say it out loud. He pushed himself off the wall, darting towards you—for an instant, it looked a little like he was going to attack, to pounce like a tiger. You had seen a tiger only once in your life but it was quite memorable. It might have been domesticated but it was still the largest cat you had ever seen. You wouldn’t forget the look in its eyes as it descended to devour the carcass the circus workers had left for him. A beautiful beast, too thin, locked in a cage. 

Hyunjin had the same look in his eyes tonight. What a beautiful beast he was, too, only his prison did not have bars. 

He did not lash out—when he stood just a few inches away from you, he stared down at you, cupping your cheek in his big hand. “Darling,” he whispered. His breath smelled like whiskey and like wine. His hair smelled like the outside air. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

It was not the first time it happened. The last time, he had gotten angry because you had drunkenly made a risqué comment during dinner. Even if it was an intimate dinner with people from the estate—Changbin, Ha-ri, Dr. Lee, Seonghwa, and Su-jin. It was always the same thing. You keep tempting me, he had said. And then he kissed you hard but you kissed him harder and he ate your pussy all night. 

“Don’t be sorry,” you murmured, caressing his perfect face. “It’s okay. Do you want to lie down?” He was very drunk—he was holding on to you as though he was afraid to collapse. 

“No, I want—I want—” but he couldn’t say it. Whatever he had in mind remained there as he frowned, his gaze not once moving away from your lips. “I want to stop being like that,” he uttered finally. 

You wanted to tell him that it would be alright soon.

But he kissed you. 

He pressed his lips onto yours, taking your mouth in his, claiming you once again. You kissed him back as his hands descended on your waist so he could pull you closer. He buried his face into your neck, biting you gently, suckling on your skin. He gently led you towards your bed, his lips not once leaving your skin, his tongue like flames licking at you. 

He’s too drunk, you told yourself as he lifted you just enough so he could sit you down on your mattress. But it felt too good. And you loved him too much. 

“Don’t let me talk to you like that again, darling,” Hyunjin said as he followed you onto the bed, on his hands and knees above you. He kissed you again, his hands scrambling to lift up your skirt. “Please. Promise me you won’t let me ever again.”

Your mind was all over the place, so much so that you didn’t know what he was referring to. After the breakfast fiasco, he had barely acknowledged your presence. 

“You were right though, I shouldn’t have stayed out after dark,” you pointed out, taking his face in your hands, forcing him to look you in the eyes. 

His had tears in them. And it broke your heart.

“My love.” Your throat was shutting itself tight but you fought it. “You can be mad at me, it’s alright. This is what a marriage is like.” And you meant it. 

Hyunjin froze in place, one hand squeezing your thigh, the other somewhere near your head. “Mad at you?” He frowned deeply, staring at you like it was the first time he ever saw you. “Mad at YOU?” 

You felt even more foolish then, your pussy already wet just from a few kisses and even fewer touches, realizing that you had misunderstood him. 

“None of that anger, or hatred, is directed at you,” Hyunjin managed slowly. “I love you. My beekeeper wife. I love you. I love you. I love you—” And then he was back on your lips, his tongue gliding in between yours. 

How could you tell him? How could you tell him that he was his own worst enemy, that he was the only thing keeping himself on a leash? 

“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that tonight, but that's not all. This morning too.” He spoke to you between kisses, feeling the damp linen over your cunt with his fingertips. “I shouldn’t have… touched you like that. It’s wrong.” 

And yet you clenched around nothing remembering the way it had felt when he pinned you down, when you had been trapped underneath him. When he held you in place, his grip unforgivable and strong. It would have been factually wrong to say you hadn’t been frightened at all. And yet you feared nothing from Hyunjin—you trusted him with your life. 

“I liked it,” you breathed, losing yourself in him already. 

“It’s wrong. Baby, it’s wrong,” he insisted, his voice somewhere between a moan and a grunt. “Don’t ever let me do this to you again. Hit me if you must.” 

You moaned too when he rubbed your folds through your underskirt in slow, lazy circles. You reached for his trousers, attempting to undo the button. Hitting him? No. Taking his cock in your mouth and letting him fuck your throat? Yes. 

“Oh fuck,” he groaned when you squeezed him through his pants. 

Here’s what would happen—you would have drunken sex during which Hyunjin would open his heart to you, during which he would pleasure you, shatter you, devour you. He would finish in your mouth and you would welcome the sting at your throat and your sore jaw because they felt just like kisses. It wouldn’t be the first time such an event occurred. Tomorrow, you would talk it out. And progress would or wouldn’t be made. 

Or so you thought, until Hyunjin stretched his arm a little to pull your pillow closer, perhaps to lay it under your head. He stopped everything, motionless, and you could only watch in horror as he pulled the vial from where you had hastily hidden it. He looked at the label and then he looked at you. You remembered the morning of your thirteenth birthday—the day you became a woman. Waking up in a puddle of your own blood, afraid, ashamed as though you had done something terribly wrong. 

Hyunjin pulled away, standing next to the bed, still gaping at the bottle he was holding, his tented pants unbuttoned.

One thing about Hyunjin though was that he kept his promises. He had hated speaking harshly at you that morning so, tonight, he did the opposite. 

“Darling,” he said in a strangled voice, softer than you ever expected. “Wh—” He lost his words again and you sat down on your bed, shaking. “I forbade you.” The look of betrayal on his face was, perhaps, the worst thing ever inflicted on you, worse than any insult your mother might have hurled at you. It would have hurt less if Hyunjin had hit you in the face. 

“Please,” you began, but you were in a panic, dizzy and tired and drunk and scared, and it seemed like you had lost all ability to speak. “Hyunjin—”

Not once did he raise his voice. “Come.” He grabbed at your arm and did so in an exceptionally delicate manner. It would not have been different if you two were walking in a wildflower field on a sunny day. “Here, darling. Did you take these just now?” 

Before you could give him an answer, he dragged you to the lavatory, making you stand right in front of the sink. The mirror showed you a bleak reflection. You could barely recognize yourself. 

“Throw them up. Now. Please.” 

“Hyunjin, I—”

He pressed his hand at the back of your head, forcing you to lean over the sink, but not really forcing you. He would have done the same motion should he have wanted to show you a beautiful flower on the ground. “Do you want me to do it for you?” he asked calmly, bringing his fingers near your lips. “It’s okay baby, it’ll be over in a second.” Before you knew it, his fingers were in your mouth, reaching for your throat to stimulate your gag reflex. And he knew exactly how to do so—he was very intimate with the aforementioned gag reflex. 

He was so gentle with it that you weren’t sure what brought the tears to your eyes exactly—maybe it was his distress, or the pussy-laced fingers invading your mouth. Or maybe it was shame and regret. 

In one swift motion, you grabbed Hyunjin’s wrist to pull him away, freeing your throat. You coughed, choking on your own spit. 

“Darling,” Hyunjin began, and you raised your hand to quiet him while you caught your breath. 

You wiped the tears at the corner of your eyes, but one glance at the mirror revealed the mess that you had become. “I didn’t take it. I’m fine.” 

“You didn’t take it,” he repeated slowly, almost like he didn’t understand. “You didn’t take the medication. Are you lying to me?”

“No. I didn’t.” You left the washroom, returning to your bedroom before he could get ahold of the capsules. While Hyunjin stood there, you quickly closed the lid on the bottle and set it on the small table by the window. 

You noticed the droplets of water sticking to the glass. As though they were beckoning you, you made your way to the door leading to your balcony. The rain was light but cold, the sort of rain that was almost snow but not quite. Everything was dark, so dark that you could not make out the mountains on the horizon. 

Hyunjin joined you in the cold, his eyes darker than the rainy night. 

You wished, almost, that he would scream, that he would be enraged. You wished, almost, that he reacted violently. But instead, he held you. Close. He pressed your head on his chest and held you there, caressing your hair, rocking you ever so slightly in a comforting motion. You couldn’t tell whether he was trying to comfort you or himself.

“Darling,” he whispered, his voice blending with the rain in the exact same way he blended a deep red with true black on a canvas. “I would kill any man or woman who laid a single finger on you. I almost did so once and I would and will do it again if I ever need to.” He held you tighter. He was warm, feverish, and his heartbeat was irregular. “In this case, I’m the one who’s hurting you. So tell me, darling. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.” 

You wanted to tell him that he wasn’t hurting you but it would have been a lie. As reluctant as you were to admit it. You had never admitted it to yourself before. You swallowed a sob, wrapping your arms around your husband, holding onto him. 

He pulled away so he could look you in the eyes, holding your face in his hands. His pretty traits were twisted in anguish. You watched as a raindrop rolled from his temple, where his wet hair stuck to his skin, down to his jaw. He waited patiently until you were strong enough to look him in the eyes, too. 

He caressed your lips with his thumb—he didn’t seem drunk anymore, as though the shock had sobered him up. 

“Darling,” he said nonetheless. “I’m begging you. I’m begging you. I’m nothing without you. Nothing, do you hear me? Your absence would cause my demise, in one way or another. And yet I do not want to die. I want to be alive. With you. I want to hear your laughter, I want to wake up by your side. I want to taste your honey. I want to paint you, and travel with you, and—” He paused, overwhelmed, while your heart swelled with love and something even deeper than that, something that didn’t even have a name. “I’m sorry I’m not enough. I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want. But please, don’t—” 

You put your hands over his—he was trembling. He was digging a hole in your chest. 

“I’m sorry I did that this morning. I’m sorry I got angry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You had never seen him like that. He was broken. 

“I told you I liked—” 

But he didn’t let you finish your sentence. He shook his head and a few more droplets of rain rolled down his cheeks. “You don’t know what was on my mind. Terrible things. Disgusting things. I almost…” His gaze became unfocused as he replayed the scene in his mind. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. “It won’t happen again. I won’t let it. I won’t hurt you, I won’t—” 

“Hyunjin.” You thought about all of the colors in your heart, about all of the words in your mind, about all of the sorrow in your veins. You wanted—no, you needed—him to understand. “All my life, they told me I needed to do this and that and be this and that and not to do this or that. And not to say this, but to say that. And I know that your childhood was awful, a lot worse than mine, but you will never understand what it is to have been born a woman.” 

That seemed to unsettle him and to ground him at once. He straightened up a little, looking at you inquisitively, listening as the rain kept on pouring on the both of you. 

“Every day, from the age of six or seven years old,” you went on, “I was reminded of how important it all was. I was told that if I did well—if I was intelligent enough, pretty enough, if I took care of my hair, of my body, of my—” You gulped, finding it harder to breathe. “Of my garden, I would become worthy of bearing your heirs. Hyunjin, it’s the only thing that was allowed to define me. My entire life. The beekeeping was just a distraction from that reality. I was made to be the mother of your children more than I was made to be your wife. I don’t know what I am without that. I’m nothing if I’m not that. And yet I understand you, and I respect your wish to never have children. I love you, Hyunjin. I just wanted… I think I just wanted to get rid of that burden. I told myself it was to relieve you of it, but really, it was for me. I wanted to be something more.” 

Slowly, Hyunjin lowered his face just millimeters away from yours, ghosting your lips with his, his hot breath spreading on your skin like ink on paper, like red wine on white silk. His forehead pushed onto yours gently. 

“My pretty, pretty wife.” He kissed you—a deep, languid kiss, his tongue caressing yours, his fingers closing into fists in your hair. “Can’t you see? Can’t you see what I see in you?”

Another kiss followed—this time, however, he pulled you with him until his back hit the wall behind him. It rained a little less here, close to the manor, but a shiver went down your spine anyway. 

“It was never about what I want or don’t want,” he continued, his lips caressing yours with every word. “I do want it too. More than you would ever expect. I want to fuck a baby into you. I want to make love to you and I want to see your belly swell with the life that I put inside it. I want to hold the baby we made together and kiss its little baby forehead. And then, when it’s big enough, I want to fuck another into you. And another. I want to love them the way my father never loved me. I want to love you, and them, forever. It’s not about what I want or not. I want it. I just cannot, in good conscience, let it become reality. My blood is tainted. The fairy tale would turn into a nightmare, and I would hurt you, and our family.” 

Traumatized. Your husband was traumatized. 

And maybe, probably, so were you. 

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, where the scent of his cologne was stronger. He held you in his arms for what might have been a minute, or perhaps an hour. He only moved when he noticed your body trembling not from emotion, but from the cold—he took your hand then, leading you back inside. 

“I’ll go ask for a bath for you.” He kissed the top of your head. “You need to warm up. I’ll make sure our guests are comfortable for the night, too.” 

You didn’t let go of his hand when he took a step away—he turned to you, head tilted to the side. “I want to have my bath here.” You took a deep breath. “And come back to me. Don’t lock yourself in your room.” 

“I’ll come back.” Normally, on the evenings before he left for a business trip, Hyunjin went to bed early, often in a room separate from yours since he didn’t want to wake you up in the morning.

“Okay.” You touched him, his toned chest, letting your fingers linger on the buttons of his shirt. He left the room and you almost collapsed, barely making it to your bed.

You lay down. You just lay down, your eyes fixated on the ceiling above. You were still there when the two maids came in—it was Salma and Emi. You remembered that Anhjong was off duty until tomorrow morning.

“Lady Hwang,” they said in unison, dropping their heads. Salma was holding Cloud in her arms. As soon as she saw you, the cat jumped on the ground so she could join you in bed. “His lordship said you were to have a bath,” Emi added. 

You gave them a simple hm hm, caressing Cloud’s soft fur as the almost fully-grown cat rolled into a ball next to you, her purrs echoing in the quiet room. You closed your eyes, trying to breathe at the same slow pace as her. 

“Should we add anything to the water, my lady?”

“Just some jasmine oil, Salma. Thank you.”

“You seem tired, Lady Hwang. Should we stay? I can wash your hair if you wish,” Emi offered. 

“I am tired,” you admitted. “But I’ll be just fine. After you’ve filled the tub, please return to your quarters and enjoy your night.” 

You were eager to plunge into the small but comfortable copper tub of your lavatory—while Hyunjin’s was more spacious, yours felt, well, like yours. You liked this room and everything about it. The balcony, the view in the morning, the furniture, the rich wood adorning it. In any case—for some reason you couldn’t quite explain, you craved Hyunjin’s presence in a space that wasn’t his. Almost like you feared you would overdose on him.

He was far by now. Most likely, he was back downstairs with Lord Christopher and Changbin who were having late-night drinks, as they usually did when the Bangs visited. Normally, you would be with Ha-ri and Lady Bang,somewhere in the manor, chatting and doing lady things. It did not matter, however, how far away Hyunjin was—you could still feel his hands on your body, his lips on your skin. You could still hear his voice in the air around you. 

Can’t you see what I see in you?

You wondered what it was that he saw. You wondered if any of it came from you, really you, or if it was all just more attributes forced onto you. 

It was never about what I want, or what I don’t want.

Apparently not. None of what Hyunjin had told you tonight felt real—you would be able to recite each word but your mind simply could not believe them. 

Hyunjin had not chosen you, he had not chosen to be engaged or married to you. 

But neither had you. And it did not change one thing about the amount of love you held for him, or how profound that love was. 

I want to fuck a baby into you.

You pressed your thighs together, clenching around nothing. You hadn’t lied to him—it was true that you had been built into a baby-making wife. But what was also painfully true was your hunger. Your yearning. And it had nothing to do with childbearing. It was not the sort of thing a lady should ever have on her mind, let alone act on. They locked women in asylums for thoughts far less lewd or offensive. 

You wanted Hyunjin that way because you desired him. You wanted him like he was a part of you that was missing—and maybe he was. Maybe he was exactly that. It didn’t matter how it would happen. He could hastily take you from behind at some event, unable to help himself. Or he could take his time, sinking into you over the course of several hours. He could, if he wanted, hurt you. He could pull your skirt up at any moment and take you, claiming you for good. He could, if he wanted, fuck his demons into you. You would gladly rid him of them. He would not need to be kind. He could pin you down, tie you up, pull your hair. Nothing that he would do to you would hurt as much as the absence of him did.

But you loved him.

You loved him enough to give up just about anything if it meant you would be together. The edges of his soul were sharp, but so were yours. He had given you quite a few cuts just like you had done to him. He had never chosen to marry you. You had never chosen to marry him.

But you had fallen in love with him.

And you had chosen to let that happen. 

No amount of tears, of pain, of frustration would ever make you regret that, or make you wish your life had taken another turn. Often, others kept their hearts closed—they made sure to stay at a safe distance from the things they liked out of fear of those becoming things they loved. But you weren’t like that and you had never been. 

Once, your mother had told you, Why is it that whenever you love something, it’s broken, or crippled? And you did not have an answer to that question. You loved what you loved. Period. She had tried to paint you as weak because of it, and for a long time, you believed her. You could see it clearly now. No love, certainly not the honest, unconditional kind, was the symptom of a brittle heart. On the contrary—only the bravest ones allowed it to permeate their souls.

One day, a traveling merchant visited your family’s villa—he was selling strange wares, something you had never seen before. Plates, vases, cups, teapots—except they were not new. He had said that these pieces had once been valuable and that they had been discarded by their owners after shattering. This man, an old man, explained to your father and to you how he had made it his life’s purpose to repair these objects so they could be beautiful again. So that they could fulfill their purpose. 

He used gold to reattach the pieces together. The practice had a name, only you couldn’t remember what it was called.

You loved Hyunjin exactly the way he was—as broken or crippled as he might be. And one day, maybe, he would let you become the string of gold that held him together, something that made him whole again.

A delicate scent of jasmine reached Hyunjin’s nostrils as soon as he pushed your bedroom door open. He almost dropped the tray he was holding when Cloud snaked in between his feet, dashing out of the room with one of her characteristic—and very loud—meows. At this hour, she usually liked to hang around the kitchen. The staff fed her some meat and she liked to nap by the oven while it was still warm. 

“Is that you?” you inquired. Your question was followed by gentle splashes of water, indicating that you were already bathing. 

You didn’t need to say his name. He knew when you were speaking to him because your voice sounded different then.

“It’s me.” Without wasting time, he went to you.

The air was thick in the washroom, heavy with the humidity created by your apparently very hot bath. You didn’t seem bothered by the heat one bit, laying in the water like a siren, head resting on the edge of the tub. It was too dark for him to see you nearly as much as he’d like, but he could make out your silhouette under the water, familiar and enticing. 

His heart still beating unevenly after tonight’s events, he sat on the chair near the bathtub, setting the tray on the counter next to him. You observed him in silence, your hair floating around you, your fingers tracing circles in the water, creating ripples on the surface of it.

“I brought you some food.” His voice was still shaking. He couldn’t stop seeing it in his head. Those awful capsules you kept. The look in your eyes when he found you. The look in your eyes this morning when he almost violated you. “You haven’t had dessert.” 

You remained quiet, your eyes not leaving him once. He had stepped out just short of half an hour, long enough to let things settle, to digest at least some of it. Long enough to hear the staff talk excitedly about the big news, which had just become public. Literally moments ago, apparently. It was with tears in his eyes that Christopher confirmed it to be true. And it was with tears in his eyes, too, that Hyunjin embraced him and congratulated him. If there was one man Hyunjin had no doubt would be a wonderful father, it was him.

Hyunjin rose from his seat, grabbing one of the pieces of honeycomb he had brought. They were a part of your last harvest—while you insisted they should be reserved for presents to your friends or guests, he didn’t like thinking that you worked so hard to take care of your bees, all summer, only to give away all of the yield. 

It was sticky on his fingers. He lowered himself right by the tub and brought the sweet treat to your lips. You took a little bite from it and more honey spilled on his hand, dripping on your collarbone. Hyunjin ate the rest, savoring each second of it, the chewy beeswax and the unique taste of your wildflower honey. 

“Do you want more, darling?” he asked softly, licking his fingers clean so he wouldn’t waste a single drop.

“No, Hyunjin. Thank you.” 

He stood again, wincing in pain—the injury to his knee had healed well but his leg had never been quite the same since—and returned to the counter to get you something else. Your lips curved into a smile when he brought you a small glass of port. You went to hold it but he didn’t let you. Instead, he pressed it on your lips, helping you drink it.  

“Oh, it’s the good one,” you commented after the first sip. 

“Only the best for my darling wife,” he replied with a smile that was a little somber. 

This time, you didn’t let him—you took the glass from him, allowing him to drink his own. It was really warm here and the fabric of his shirt stuck to his skin in places, or maybe it was just the curve of your bare shoulders. 

Your free hand broke the surface of the water and you held it palm up towards him. His heart jumped a little when he understood what you were asking for, but he held your hand, squeezing it gently. 

“I apologize, Hyunjin,” you uttered slowly. “I’m sorry I…” You sighed, drinking a small sip of port while you found the right words. “I’ve been so selfish.”

He almost choked on his drink. “Selfish? No, that’s me, I’m selfish. I keep doing what I think is right because otherwise my conscience couldn’t take it. I should have realized before that it has consequences. That even if we think something is right, it doesn’t mean it is.”

He had repeated the pattern you had been used to—putting you through his own issues and pacifying you with an apiary. Wasn’t this exactly the same as your childhood? He still remembered your letters from then—he remembered all of your letters—and how surprised you were that your parents would allow you to learn the beekeeping trade. His intentions mattered little here—of course he had done it to make you happy. And it had made you happy. Only it was like making you lick honey off the stem of a rose—the taste would be sweet, yes, but the thorns would cut your tongue nonetheless.

You sat upright, pulling yourself closer to him, your chin resting on the arm you kept on the edge of the tub. “We’re sick in the head, aren’t we?” you whispered, sorrow written all over your face. You sighed. “I had a very unladylike idea. And you had the very unlordly reaction to shove your fingers down my throat to make me throw up. All of that just because I’m too… concupiscent for my, or your, own good.”

“Concupiscent?” He swallowed the last of his port but barely, coughing it down. 

“Yes, concupiscent!” you repeated, but this time, your traits had softened and the ghost of a smile appeared on your lips. “Both in the literal and Christian sense of the word.” 

“You’re exaggerating, darling.” He became serious then. In his head, his thoughts danced in circles, too fast for him to grasp onto one. The truth was that he couldn’t stop thinking of the moment he saw you with these evil pills. 

You had it all wrong. He had failed to make you see the love he had for you. He had failed you as a husband. As a friend. Because if you knew the extent—the magnitude—of his devotion, the thought wouldn’t even have crossed your mind. Because then you would have known that any harm you caused yourself was inflicted tenfold onto him. 

You were the only thing in the world that mattered. He would give up on it all if it meant that joy had made a home out of your heart. 

“I’m not,” you went on. “I’m humbly asking for your forgiveness.” 

“There is nothing to forgive. Darling. Nothing.”

You looked into his eyes. “You’re wrong. There is. I am asking for your forgiveness. Please give it to me.” 

He discarded his empty glass. “I dare not ask for your forgiveness, but—”

You cut him off. “I forgive you.” 

The air had been kicked out of his lungs—for a few seconds, he could only hear a ringing in his left ear. He didn’t deserve you. He never had. You had too good of a heart—it should love something other than him. In a perfect life, you wouldn’t be Lady Hwang. You wouldn’t even know of his existence. In a perfect life, you would be a princess, or perhaps even a queen, and your husband would have a soul that didn’t have holes in it. 

But life wasn’t perfect. Which meant that his life was absolutely perfect.

Because it had put you on his path. Because you were his sweet, sweet wife, living under his roof, because you took his name, because you were his. He knew he held no ownership over you and yet you were his woman. No matter how hurt, no matter how deranged either of you were, Hyunjin was your man and you were his woman.

“And don’t tell me not to,” you added. “I’m not taking it back. Can we try again? Please?”

“Try what, darling?” he caressed your hair. Most of it was damp. 

“This. All of this. Our marriage.” You thought about it. “I don’t want to erase what we had, but I want to move past tonight. I made a mistake and… I want to outgrow it.” 

He sighed, kissing your forehead. Your skin was warm—the warmth spilled inside of him, traveling from his lips, spreading within his body. “Then, I do forgive you.” He still didn’t see anything he ought to give you forgiveness for, but if it was something you needed to hear from him, then he ought to say it. “Promise me you will never hurt yourself? You’ll never only hurt you if you do so.” 

You nodded, tilting your head to the side, inviting him in for a kiss to which he did not resist.  Hyunjin kissed you slowly. Your mouth tasted like honey and port and you smelled like jasmine and he was so in love with you that sometimes it felt like he was dying. It had to be what death felt like, right? Frightening and peaceful at once. 

You deepened the kiss, breathing your sweet air into his lungs. He moaned when you rested your hands, dripping with hot scented water, onto his shoulders to pull him closer. Only he was as close as he could be. You owned him. He was little more than a marionette dictated by your existence. 

He melted into the kiss, warmth spreading in his belly. Your fingers, sneaky and agile, began undoing the buttons of his shirt. You smiled against his lips as you undressed him lazily and he, himself, took care of his trousers. Clothes seemed so futile when he was with you—any moment spent without the contact of your bare skin on his was wasted.

It took no time for him to step into the tub with you. Only, this one was much smaller than the one in his bedroom so he had to squeeze himself there. Fortunately you found a solution to the problem when you came to straddle him, your ass resting on his thighs, your arms around his neck. 

He kissed your lips again, then your neck. He licked the honey off your collarbone, his hands digging into the soft flesh of your hips. The warmth you had sparked within him had turned into something else. It felt, almost, like something was vibrating at a low frequency in his lower abdomen. 

“Baby, we don’t have to,” you murmured into his hair, holding onto him. “I just needed you close.” Maybe you were feeling him grow hard against your thigh—Hyunjin had no way to resist you. But it was becoming difficult. To resist. 

Because, before tonight, he had never admitted to anybody—not even to himself—the things he told you. In some ways, he became aware of them as the words spilled from his lips. He couldn’t explain his panic. You wouldn’t be the first woman to use this substance to prevent or stop birth. He was well aware of the practice. 

How could he explain this to you? 

He recognized the bottle in your hands from across the room. He had seen it before, or something similar enough anyway, in his mother’s bedroom cabinet. He couldn’t explain it to you because he had no way of proving it anyway, but he knew that his mother had suffered numerous miscarriages. That he was the only baby who ever held inside her. 

Had she wanted him at all?

Had she tried to get rid of him, too? Had she tried to prevent him altogether in preparation for whenever his father might want to unleash himself onto her next? 

Maybe, what he had seen at that moment as you sat on your bed, holding the medicine in your hands, was the reality he had been avoiding for so long—by trying so hard to be unlike his father, he was becoming indistinguishable from him. He was becoming him, only in a different shade perhaps. 

He wanted to be more than that. He wanted to be more than trying to be something, or someone. He wanted to deserve you. Really deserve you.

And it was difficult to resist. His willpower was weakening the more time he spent with you because it just meant he loved you a little more each day. And every day, it was a surprise because he had never imagined he would have the capacity to love you more than he already did.

And yet. 

“I’m right here darling.” 

He let his hands travel along the paradise that was your body, stopping only to cup your breasts. He played with your nipples in slow, relaxed circles, using his thumbs. The rest of his fingers squeezed you, eliciting a little breathy moan out of you that was so alluring it made him dizzy. 

You caressed him, too—his neck, his arms, his forearms, holding onto his wrists, your face twisting in pleasure with every new touch despite how you seemed to want to fight it. He didn’t want to fight it. He didn’t want to fight anymore. He had fought his inner demons his whole life, and for what? 

“I’m right here,” he said again, his eyes gliding over your body. “God, look at you. My pretty wife… and those tits…” 

You blushed violently so he did not let you turn away—gently pushing your chin upwards with two of his fingers, Hyunjin watched as your skin became a canvas on which color was spreading, deep and vivid and moving, better than any masterpiece. 

“Lovely,” he commented, peppering your face with little kisses. 

You giggled under your breath, taking his mouth for a deep kiss. Your lips were smooth and warm—he kissed you back, desperately, losing a bit more of his sanity with each second. 

“Why are you laughing?” he questioned, amused and endeared and aroused. “Did I say something funny?” 

You shook your head and took a few instants to give him your response, during which he admired you some more. Your eyes like stories, telling more than an entire library ever could, your flushed cheeks, your lips, raw from kissing. 

“No.” You bit your lip, sinking onto him a little more, the weight of you delightful on his hardening cock. “You make me feel beautiful.” 

Maybe it was his life’s calling—maybe he had been put on his Earth to serve that one and only purpose. To serve you, your heart, and your beauty. To be the mirror in which you saw all of those things that made you the ravishing woman that you were. From your smile to the way you pronounced his name, or your sweeter-than-honey voice. Your mind,stronger than mountains and your heart. Your heart, which was much like an ocean—grand, full of life, and deep. Your heart held so much that sometimes he worried you would collapse under its weight. But no, not you. Because you were you. His pretty beekeeper wife. And there was nothing he wanted more than to drown in that sea. 

“You are beautiful, darling.” 

He throbbed when you rolled your hips just a little, seeking friction. Your lips parted open but no sound came out of them. What a shame—he ought to change that. 

He, too, bucked his hips, but a little harder, and this time you blessed him with your voice, moaning as you let your head fall in the crook of his neck. He was going to be fully hard soon if you kept going. If he kept going. He slid his hands at your back to rest them on your ass, keeping you close. The feeling of your hard nipples against his chest was enough to drive him crazy. There was no space between your body and his, and yet it wasn’t even enough. He needed more. He needed you closer even.

“I wish I had understood all these things before,” he confessed, massaging your ass, rubbing his erection on your thigh and the soft skin of your cunt. 

“We said we were moving on,” you reminded him, kissing his jaw. “I just want both of us to be happy.”

Moving on. Something he had never quite done before. His entire life, Hyunjin had been haunted by the ghosts of his past and some days, he still felt as though he was the little boy hiding in his room—in this room—to escape fury or despair. 

But he would do any one thing you asked for. His defenses had all been annihilated tonight. He was finally allowing his heart to tap into his deepest, most secret desires, to turn silence into words, to let them take flight. He hoped it wasn't too late, but it was tonight that he realized that love would always be stronger than fear. 

“What else do you want, baby?” Anything. You could ask for anything and he would give it to you. 

Your lips crashed on his for a passionate kiss—you let go of his shoulders to shove a hand underwater, wrapping your fingers around his cock. “Let me make you feel good,” you said between kisses, squeezing him, making him see stars already. Heat pooled between his legs and he suppressed a whimper when you fondled his balls in the most tender, sensual way you possibly could.

He groaned in your mouth as you alternated between palming and pumping his length. “Close your eyes,” you whispered, pushing his head back to expose his neck. You kissed him there too. 

You thumbed his tip skillfully, using just enough friction, touching him in all the right places. “Oh fuck.” You knew him by heart, didn’t you? He was a slave under you, obeying each of your commands. 

“I want to ask you something.” Your voice was low. “I want you to tell me what you were thinking about this morning when you…” 

He throbbed in your hand at the mere memory of it. You felt it, adjusting your pace accordingly. 

“No,” he managed, his breath hitching. “It’s not… right.” 

Your languid massage came to a halt—instead, you squeezed him so hard that his entire body jerked forward, pleasure and pain becoming one, spreading under his skin. 

You went on. “I want to know what it would be like. If we…” 

He tried to steady his breathing but you made it very difficult by literally holding him by the balls and looking like a goddess on top of him. 

“We never have to do it,” you added softly with a smile. “But I want to imagine it in my head.” 

We never have to do it only Hyunjin had reached the limit. Of what he could prevent. Of his self-control. His temperance had run out.

“No man should say these things to his wife.” It was too lewd. Too honest. “I fear I would feel compelled to act upon my words. And it wouldn’t be right to do so tonight, would it, darling?”

“Not if you do it to silence me,” you breathed. “It would only be right if you did so because you wanted it so bad that you couldn’t help it. Isn’t that what almost happened, earlier? Is that why you were so angry this morning?” 

He throbbed again—harder this time, moaning as you gave his cock a gentle squeeze. “Baby—” 

Fuck this.

He had enough of it all. Of trying. Of resisting. Of pretending, even to himself, that he wasn’t obsessed with it, with you. He should have loved you hard on your wedding night. He should have loved you hard every night after.

“Tell me,” you insisted. But instead of telling you, he lifted you off him—you stared at him surprised, retreating a little farther. 

He pushed himself up, splashing water all over the floor in the process, getting out of the bathtub. You turned to him, reaching for his cock again—hard, straining—and opening your mouth to take him between your lips, but he stopped you, cupping your face instead. “Get up, darling.” 

Your eyes widened with anticipation and he had to force air into his lungs as you stood, graceful and sinful at once, your skin covered in goosebumps. Water rolled down your body and he followed it with his gaze. He liked the way the drops slowed down around your stomach before they continued their course, disappearing in the trimmed, silky-soft hair covering your pussy. 

You stepped out of the bathtub, your arms around his neck to kiss him—he kissed you back but wrapped your legs around his waist as he lifted you. He should have done so on your wedding night. He should have done so every night after.

“A—Are you sure?” you managed, grinding almost painfully on his erection, kissing and licking his neck, leaving a trail of spit behind. “You’re not doing it just to—”

He lay you in your bed, dampening the sheets immediately but he didn’t care. He held his cock, giving it a few lazy pumps as he kneeled over you. “No, I’m not doing it to silence you. Or whatever.” He kissed you. Your thighs. Your mons. Your waist. Your breasts. Your neck. Your lips. “I’m doing it because I can’t fucking resist you anymore.” 

You whined when he pushed onto your knee to spread your legs for him, holding onto his arms like you were afraid to fall. Were you scared? Turned on? Eager? You looked eager—disheveled, with your eyes glazed over, your chest rising and lowering with your small, shallow breaths.

You let out a loud moan when he cupped your pussy, feeling how wet you were and it wasn’t from the bath. Your juices stuck to his fingers and the palm of his hand as he massaged you, the tip of his fingers teasing your ass. 

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—” You sighed, head falling at the back, arching your back. “Yes, please—” 

It would be a lie to say he hadn’t thought about this moment a lot. Because he had. Before meeting you and after. Sometimes he was imagining long, elaborate scenarios, and others simply picturing the moment he would work you open and the context didn’t matter.

Except it mattered. Context was everything. Context was more important than the act itself. It was with shame that he was towering over you tonight, the flames of the candles around your bed lighting only some parts of you—your left breast, your waist on the left side, too, your face. You had granted him his forgiveness a little too quickly and it didn’t feel quite deserved now. So he would keep begging you for it until he was satisfied. Until he knew he earned it, really earned it.

He clicked his tongue at the sight. “Darling.” He pressed two fingers at your entrance and he swore he could feel your pulse there. He caressed you, smearing your slick all over your pussylips. “Not so fast.” He needed more time.

He would keep begging until he knew he deserved you, which was to say, he would keep begging until his last breath. He didn’t need to use words for it. He would put his mouth to a better use than that, whispering his pleas into you.

He lowered himself between your legs, in this sacred place, kissing your inner thighs. Your skin smelled like the jasmine oil you had bathed in but the scent of your pussy was better. Sweeter. 

“You want to know what went through my mind this morning?” He inhaled you, pressing his face between your legs, your slick coating his face. You writhed under him, your fists finding his hair. “It might offend you to know I was frighteningly close to forcing myself onto you.” He lapped at your cunt, teasing you, letting your taste melt into the tip of his tongue. Just little kitten licks, but each of them sent a jolt of lightning directly to his crotch. Each of them made you moan louder than the last. 

It was true and it felt good to say it while tasting you. It felt good to say it, period. 

“I wanted to keep you there and spread you open,” he went on, tilting his head to the side a little so he could reach your entrance better. Your cunt fluttered on his tongue, forcing a grunt out of him. “I wanted to watch myself sink into your tight cunt. Wanted to bury myself as deep as I could.” 

You cried out, your hand closing into a fist in his hair, pressing him closer, rolling your hips to meet his tongue, to rub your clit onto his nose. You were hungry for more but he was hungrier. A craving that could not be explained with words. 

“I wanted to break you open.” He used two of his fingers to expose you to him. “I wanted to fuck you. And ruin your pretty pussy.” Hyunjin pushed his tongue into your tight hole, licking you, fucking you with it. He did it because he knew you loved it, he knew you lost it every time he did it. But the truth was that it was an out-of-body experience to feel your cunt flutter around his tongue. You arched into his mouth, your voice filling the quiet room. “I thought exactly the same thing the very day I met you. We weren’t even married, darling, and I already wanted to ravage you.” 

He quickly returned to your cunt, kissing it, fucking it sloppy with his tongue. You were meant to be worshiped. Could you feel that? Could you feel that each swirl of his tongue was a new prayer? 

He barely heard you over the lewd sounds of his own mouth on you, but he could swear you muttered something like please fucking do it, which made his legs go limp a little. He groaned, taking himself in one hand to soothe the aching pressure he felt at his core. Eager. So fucking eager, and impatient. Acting innocent earlier with your we don’t have to do it, knowing fully he would. Knowing he had no wish for restraint anymore.

No, of course, you weren’t like that, were you? You wouldn’t torture him this way. But you were hungry for cock, and it was driving him properly insane.

He emerged from between your legs out of breath, your juices dripping all over his chin. “You really don’t know, do you?” God, you were so fucking wet. And he wasn’t even really drunk anymore—yet he felt lightheaded, like he was barely more than a cock and a mouth and a heart that loved you endlessly. “You ask for something but you don’t know if you’ll be able to handle it.” He meant that. As though to prove his point, he lay his tongue flat on your folds, taking one firm lick, slurping on you like you were the most extravagant dessert. Which, well, was exactly what you were. He was certain he could live off your cunt and only your cunt. You were the only sustenance required to keep him alive. “If I had my way with you, you would have blacked out while I made you mine.” 

You clenched around nothing, pressing your thighs together, pressing his head harder in between them. Concupiscent his ass. You were straight-up horny. But he had known this about you for a while now, hadn’t he? He just hadn’t let that information sink in—truly sink in—in order to protect you. Or himself. Both, perhaps. 

“I have to relax you before,” he explained. He was leaking already. “Do you understand, darling?” 

He glanced at you in time to see you nod—you propped yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him, making it impossible for him not to smile. Even in this light, he could see your beauty. Hell, it could have been daylight or completely dark that it wouldn’t have made a difference. Your beauty transcended all human senses. 

“Don’t hold back,” he warned you, returning to his post, his purpose, his home. He pushed a single finger into your dripping hole—farther than he ever had before, just past the second knuckle. He felt it in his crotch when you clenched around him, writhing and whimpering desperately. 

He gave your clit a kiss first, a gentle one, massaging your walls with his finger. 

And then he unleashed himself on you. 

Hugging your clit in his plush lips, he licked and sucked onto it, regularly changing his tempo, fucking you with his finger at the same time, speaking sins and miracles into your cunt. The way you pulled his hair to fuck yourself onto his face made him want to die or something like it. He almost came when he felt a deep throb within you. You were close, too. 

He rotated his wrist, inserting a second finger inside—and almost lost his sanity because of it. How tight were you even? You wouldn’t be able to take his cock, would you? He wouldn’t even be able to put half of it in your virgin pussy. 

Your voice turned into pretty staccato moans when he found the soft spot he was looking for. You couldn’t stop clenching around his fingers, so he licked at your clit, obeying its demands, wishing nothing but to fulfill his function. 

“Yes, oh yes, oh my god—” You weren’t making much sense, but the sound of your voice almost brought tears to his eyes. Beautiful.

His wife. His woman.

He applied a bit more pressure in both places—your clit and the sensitive spot inside your cunt, moaning with you as you ascended, rubbing his cock onto the mattress. 

He did not stop when you came—you were convulsing almost violently on the bed, pleasure taking over you, crying out, your cunt pulsing under him. You gushed onto his face, coating it with your sweet, sweet, sweet cream. He stopped breathing, becoming one with you, letting your orgasm move him, too. Letting the high tide take him. Gradually, you came to a stop and he followed you into stillness too, only removing his fingers once he was certain your high had receded. 

You collapsed on the bed, breathing heavily, the scent of your cunt all over him and this room. 

He was well aware that simply thinking such a thing was a cardinal sin, but he knew that if angels made love and had orgasms, they looked just like you when you did. Sounded like you. Felt like you. Tasted like you, too.

He couldn’t see it in the dark, but he knew that a special treat was now pooling at your entrance. His special treat. His reward for helping you reach rapture. He waited a few seconds while you were resting before selfishly lapping at your entrance once more, collecting your juices, slurping and swallowing them, swallowing you. 

You came back gently—he felt your hand in his hair again, caressing him lovingly now. He smiled as he drank the last of you, not wasting any time before he climbed up onto you so he could share your taste. You looked fucked out, your skin was hot and feverish, and he kissed you hard. He could feel you tasting yourself, seeking the sweetness in his mouth. He throbbed at that. He was no longer reigning over his own body for you were the queen sitting at the throne.

You pulled away, looking him in the eyes as best you could in the dark. You touched his face. He was feverish too, sweat pooling at his temples, his hair stuck in all sorts of places.

“We don’t have to,” you whispered for the second time that night, with a sweet smile on your lips and, if he wasn’t making things up, tears in your eyes. “I love you, Hyunjin.” 

“I love you too, darling.” His leaking cock rested on your pussy, as it usually did when he was making an approximation of love to you. “You know I love you, right? Don’t lie to me.”

He appreciated that you took a few seconds to think about it. You nodded, wiping the corner of your eye. “I do.”

Hyunjin leaned down to kiss your forehead. And then he kissed the tears on your cheeks. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer. 

“Are you saying we don’t have to because you don’t want to, baby?” He gave your lips a kiss, too. “Because it’s okay.”

You shook your head vigorously. “No! No, I want to.” As though to prove your point, you wrapped your legs around his waist, the two of you becoming completely intertwined. But it was more than just your bodies—it was your souls that were entangled, too.

“But you’re crying.” He hated it when you cried. It was as though each tear was a thousand years of torture. 

“I’m crying but I’m not sad.” You held his face with both hands. “I’m not even scared. I'm happy.” 

He sort of wanted to cry, too so he understood what you meant. Tonight really was special. It was strange to know he was currently creating one of the most beautiful memories in his life, one that he would cherish even when he would be old. Perhaps especially when he would be old.  He smiled. “You’ll have to tell me if I hurt you.” 

“You will hurt me,” you said with conviction. “I want it to hurt.” 

He grunted, burying his face in your hair while he recovered from that lethal plea. You caressed his back, his waist, his ass, dragging your fingernails along his skin, tickling him all over. 

There wasn’t much left of the flames on the candles, which meant he had limited time. Because if there was one thing all of his fantasies had in common, it was that he truly, profoundly wished to look into your eyes as he fucked you. When he claimed you.

“Darling,” he began, “I want you to look at me.” 

You did, your eyes finding his when he positioned himself. His heart skipped a few beats when he spread you open. He guided himself near your entrance but stayed there. “Keep looking at me. Don’t close your eyes.” 

He could not wait anymore. It felt like he had waited a thousand years. It felt like it was the only way, maybe, you would truly understand the love he had for you. If he fucked it into you.  

“I love you,” you said again as he ever so slightly pushed the tip of his cock inside you. Barely. Not even an inch. 

But he caught on fire nonetheless. 

It took all of the composure in the world not to buck his hips violently—he had reached nirvana. He had ascended somewhere higher than heaven. Somehow, he could taste love and lust. He could hear colors maybe. 

“I love you,” he managed, his cock throbbing dangerously. 

He moved a little, sinking deeper into your heat, his cock engulfed by your tight warmth. His eyelids fluttered as blood rushed to his crotch but it felt like his heart was sinking and was beating somewhere there, astray but more powerful than ever.

You were so wet, so snug around him, your eyes not leaving him, your pretty mouth parted open as you took more and more of him. It was becoming difficult for him to move now. “Relax baby,” he muttered, retreating a little. 

“Do it,” you begged, your fingernails sinking into his back. “Take me, please.”

He caressed your folds, each of his moves slow and purposeful. “Again.” 

He sank into your warmth once more, not forcing it but making sure all of his tip had disappeared. “You’re so fucking wet,” he commented, hissing through his teeth. 

He kissed you, deeply, trying to say something with his tongue for which he could not find the words. You kissed him back, undulating your hips gently. 

He made sure it was as unhurried as it could possibly be. Hyunjin guided his cock into your intimacy, sinking into your dripping hole. 

“Deeper,” you whined, spreading yourself more for him.

“Shhh, baby.” He caressed your cheek, thrusting into you with more strength finally, stretching your virgin cunt open, moving in shallow thrusts, patiently. Yet impatiently. These few seconds appeared to him much longer than all of his existence so far.

It was better than anything he had ever thought it would be. Not because you were tight and not because you were soaking wet for him, and not even because you were a virgin and he was about to claim your chastity, the crumbs of innocence you had left. You were better than any whiskey, making him drunker than liquor ever could. Because he loved you. Because he had you. And he wouldn’t want his life to be any other way. It didn’t matter the pain that he went through if it meant that he got to be with you in the end. 

If given the choice, he would do it all over again so that he could be here with you, tonight, his aching cock forcing itself inside you. 

You cried out when he met resistance—he came to a stop, his heartbeat echoing in his ears. 

“Don’t close your eyes,” he breathed. “Just look at me.” 

He pulled away a little only to thrust back into you. And then he did it again. And again. Kindly. Slowly. You struggled with keeping your eyes open but you did so anyway, your moans more beautiful than any music as he fucked you into his woman. 

He would compare it to the feeling of jerking awake in the middle of the night, feeling like he was falling from the sky. That strange feeling of losing his balance, his senses, of not knowing where he was or where he was going.

Yes. It felt just like that when he breached you open.

He saw it in your eyes for just a second. Pain, pleasure, surprise. Ecstasy. You gasped, clenching around him, your fingernails cutting the skin of his back. He observed you the way some observed masterpieces in galleries, taking it all in, noticing the subtleties, engraving the beauty in his mind so that it would remain there forever. You looked at him like you had been falling, too, and like he was the only thing you could hold onto. You looked at him like you were seeing him for the first time. For the thousandth time. 

“FUCK—” Nothing could even compare to you. How tight you were. How well you took him. How beautiful you were with your flushed cheeks and the tip of your tongue resting on your bottom lip. 

Hyunjin moved inside you, stretching you some more, finally bottoming out. He looked down, barely seeing anything but enough to be aware that his cock was buried deep inside you. He stayed there, returning to your face, to your mouth. Just lips on lips, your breath tickling his skin, the spasms of your pussy calming down with you as you adjusted to his size. 

“Are you okay?” he asked under his breath, not sure whether he was or not. “Talk to me.” 

“Y—Yes.” You inhaled and exhaled a few times but it didn’t seem to have much of an effect. Hyunjin could feel your pulse through your skin. “Fuck me, Hyunjin.” 

You would kill him someday. 

“Spread your legs a little more for me, yeah?” He adjusted himself to be more comfortable as he kissed you. Your mouth, smooth and wet, still tasted like your pussy.

He didn’t break the kiss as he resumed his thrusts, barely moving at first. You jerked your hips underneath, attempting to fuck yourself onto him. He didn’t let you—not right now. He held you down by your waist, slowly pumping in and out of you, and the dance began. Because it was much like it, a dance—but so was just about everything beautiful, wasn't it?

Hyunjin remained calm for a while, fucking you slowly yet relentlessly, his body over yours and your hands all over him, feeling him, his abdomen, his arms, even his cock as he fucked you with it. Like you were trying to learn him the way you would learn a language or a trade. Or a dance. 

“You’re so—so big,” you moaned before biting into his shoulder as his fucking picked up a pace. As he slammed into you a little harder, but not nearly as hard as he could, or wanted to. 

He had thought it would be easy to ruin you but he had been wrong. You were the most precious thing in this world, and each cry tortured him to no end while, also, filling him with the highest pleasure he had ever experienced.

“Fuck me. Like that. Yes—” 

He did, obeying your command as he was meant to, stuffing you with his cock. His gentle thrusts blended into another shade of red when your gasps turned into long, erotic moans. He danced with you harder, faster, pounding into your dripping pussy, driving himself insane, driving himself close to his high. 

“Take it. Take my cock.” He was begging you in strangled groans. 

“Yes, please, yes!” 

He didn’t want it to stop. He never wanted this moment to end—he was ready to explode but he wished this night would last forever. It was all he ever wanted. To be balls deep into your cunt, your voice echoing in the room, the lewd sounds of your bodies colliding like music to his ears. He slowed down, taking some time to kiss your neck, your bare shoulder, to inhale the scent of your hair, to taste your pussy on your lips. 

“Baby.” You pressed your hands on his ass in an attempt at pushing him into your pussy again. Eager. So eager. “Don’t stop.” 

He needed a minute or an eternity. He was experiencing true bliss for the first time in his life, buried into your wetness, making his peace with whatever demons had been haunting him before.

When he failed to give you what you wished for, you did something that surprised him beyond words—you hooked your leg around his, rolling over and taking him with you until he was lying flat on his back. At one point in the maneuver, he slipped out from your soaked cunt and the air felt cold and brutal around him. He missed you immediately. It felt like he was lacking something, like he had lost an organ. 

Before he knew it, you were straddling him, panting, reaching for his cock to put it back where it belonged. 

It dawned on him then. As if he could see it all clearly, finally. You were his wife. You were the girl he had written letters to all his life. You were the girl who sent him letters all his life, too. You were the woman he married, the woman he had desired for years. The person he had loved all this time, the one he belonged with, the one he belonged to. And you were on top of him, claiming him just as much as he was claiming you. Time came to a stop when he realized that his wildest dreams had come true.

You sank onto his straining cock, taking more of it inch by inch, getting used to feeling him this way. You came to a stop when you were completely sitting on him, clenching violently. You were going to milk him. You were going to fuck his soul out of him. 

You rolled your hips tentatively once just to see what it was like. Then you did it again with a little more determination. And again. And again—soon enough, you were riding him in powerful, needy movements, accompanied by equally needy moans. Fuck. He was doomed.

Hyunjin snapped when you lay your hands flat on his chest, using another angle to take even more of him. 

“Already greedy,” he muttered, fucking you from below. “Look at the way you take my cock.” 

Like a pro. Like your body had always known his. 

“Take it. Use me, baby. Take what you need.” Hyunjin was close—his cock throbbed every two or three seconds and he couldn’t hold for much longer, certainly not with you on top of him like that, bouncing on his cock. 

He squeezed your tits, caressed your tummy, held your waist. He cried out when the speed of your riding increased, when your voice turned into desperate little gasps. 

“Take it.” You were using him. Abusing him. Edging yourself on his aching cock. “Cum on my cock, darling.” 

He grabbed your waist to guide the rolls of your hips, pushing you up and down on him, using you the same way you were doing with him. He was close. His vision was blurred—he had already started to melt into the mattress beneath him, his entire life dictated by the intoxicating sensation of your tight cunt undulating up and down his length. 

His pretty wife. His beekeeper wife. No longer a virgin but a cock-hungry, desperate seductress with whom he was hopelessly in love. 

The pressure in his abdomen became too much—his muscles tightened as he felt himself toppling over the edge. He saw sparks. He felt them, too, all over him. 

Hyunjin let out a long, drawn-out moan when he came, back arching into you, hips stuttering, pleasure shattering him in pieces. He spilled himself inside you, spurting thick ropes of cum and filling you with them. You fucked it all deeper inside you as you came, too, your pussy fluttering, your upper body collapsing onto him, your hips moving with your orgasm, obeying it. He didn’t think this amount of cum ever came out of him before—he was still twitching and leaking when you came to a stop, spent and content and exhausted. Much like him. 

Neither of you moved for a long time, long enough for all the candles to run out of wax, turning the room completely dark in the night. 

It wasn’t just dark. It was quiet—very quiet. And Hyunjin realized it was the same in his mind, too. For the first time in a long, long time—there wasn’t a voice shouting or whispering vile things in his head. There was nothing, only light, only love. Only you. 

You climbed down his softening cock but it was only so you could curl up in his arms—still, it felt just as erotic as making love to you when his seed dripped out of you, some of it landing on his skin, lukewarm and sticky. 

He held you close, the both of you sweaty, beautiful messes. 

“I hope I didn’t hurt you too much, darling.” He smiled, kissing your forehead.

It wasn't just that it was quiet in his mind—his chest was lighter, too. 

You hummed softly, your eyes closed, lulled to sleep by the rush of pleasure you experienced. “Not too much.” You opened your eyes but barely. “I didn’t think it would feel this big inside me,” you admitted. “But I loved it.” 

Hyunjin blushed, pressing you against him, keeping you there. If he could have it his way, neither of you would ever have to leave this bed. 

"Did I do alright?" you asked sleepily.

"Alright?" He held you tighter, kissing your forehead. "You fucked the life out of me, darling."

You giggled, the both of you comforted.

His slumber was dreamless, and yet he never ceased to feel your presence, even in his sleep.

It was sunlight that woke him up the next morning—for a few seconds, he thought it all must have been a dream, that it couldn't possibly have been true. Except you were still exactly in the same spot, naked, with light bruises on your waist where he held you, last night, as he rammed into you. There was more coloring at your neck where he sucked the skin too hard. 

You woke up too, smiling as you remembered the night before. He was about to kiss you when you looked at him with wide eyes like you had just gotten an epiphany. You sat up in your bed quickly, pushing yourself to the side, observing the mattress. 

“Oh my god,” you uttered, your voice raw from all your pleased screams and moans of the night before. “Hyunjin, we really did put way too much.” 

He didn’t get it at first. Only when he sat up, too, did he see the same thing as you, which was the faintest—and it was really, really faint—pinkish-red stain on your white silk sheets. There were a lot of other stains, and to him it looked no different than staring at a piece of art, for they were remnants of his lovemaking with you. 

Still, he chuckled with you, amused by your shock and at the way you covered your mouth, remembering your wedding night and his subterfuge. “Oh,” he simply said, admiring your body now. He had never felt any particular way when he entered a church, no matter how much he had been told of the sanctity of this place. But, looking at you, he understood what he ought to have been feeling all this time. His holy place. You were the goddess and the church at once, absolving him of all his sins, forcing him into sinning, hearing his grateful prayers and making him plea for mercy. 

The same pinkish-red spread on your cheeks, delightful to see. “I’m so embarrassed now,” you pouted, hiding your face in your hands. “Everyone saw it! Oh no!”

He couldn’t help but laugh, following you into your lavatory as you fled the scene as though it would diminish your shame. He chased you, catching you by the waist and lifting you onto the counter to sit you down there. He kissed you—your mouth tasted like old water and the ghost of your pussy had lingered on your lips. “You’re okay, darling. They don’t matter.” 

And he meant it. Hell, for the first time, he really did mean it. 

That adorable pout didn’t leave your face. However, you played with his hair while he covered your breasts in kisses.“We need a bath,” you pointed out. “We’re disgusting.” 

Your bathtub was still full of last night’s water. Hyunjin was supposed to leave for his business trip soon, but he had more important things to do, which were to wash up and have breakfast with you.

Or have you for breakfast. 

He had never in his life before felt so alive. He had never before wished for immortality. He would not have enough of a mere mortal lifetime to love you. 

“Let’s get dressed and have a bath in my room, yeah?” he suggested. “And then we can—”

You bit your lip, looking somewhere down his chest, smiling coyly. “Can we… you know? Again?” 

“Yes, my darling. Again and again.” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, taking in the sight of you. He had seen you wear luxurious gowns, he had seen your hair braided elegantly. But you had never been as beautiful as you were now. 

That day was the first day in Hyunjin’s life where he felt absolutely no dread, no gloom. From the moment he woke up in your cum-stained bed to the moment he fell asleep much later at night, in a different city after painfully parting from you, all that he held within him was peace. Peace and elation. 

He had held you close, very close, and you hadn’t broken into pieces. It had been distance that almost ruined it all, and Hyunjin would die before he let anything get in between you two again. 

“You really are a little too cheery, brother.”

Hyunjin glared at Jungkook, elbowing him on his left side to shut him up. “Don’t call me that in front of people,” he muttered between his teeth. “Actually don’t call me that at all. Ever.”

“You’re no fun at all, Hwang.” Jungkook rolled his eyes, turning to the rest of the group who were having a completely unrelated discussion and not paying them any mind. 

It was a splendid autumn evening, with a descending sunset and a cool breeze, making the walk from the hotel where he, Changbin, and Christopher stayed, quite pleasant and even invigorating. After three days of mentally draining business meetings and futile dinners with investors, Hyunjin had decided to prolong the trip a little, to go hunting among other things. Well, he didn’t really want to at first, but you insisted.

“It might be the only opportunity you get to do such a thing with Lord Christopher before he becomes a father,” you pointed out. “Knowing him, I doubt he will stay away from his wife and child much.” 

You were right, of course. So Chris had joined him, Changbin, and Jungkook for a short hunting trip, and Hyunjin was trying very hard to focus on all of that instead of remembering how it felt to sink inside you…

“Are you even listening to me?” Jungkook waved his hands just inches short of Hyunjin’s face to bring him back to the present moment. “Damn. Are you sure you’re quite alright?” He turned to the other two. “Did he hit his head or something?” 

Changbin shrugged while Christopher hid his smile. “He’s not telling us either, so I don’t know what his problem is.” 

Jungkook gave Hyunjin a look that was a little too knowing, but he couldn’t possibly know anything about his current state of mind, so Hyunjin brushed it off as regular jungkookesque behavior.

“I’m listening,” Hyunjin said impatiently. “I said I didn’t mind going, I just wish you would have told me about this dinner before I left. We would have packed better, more appropriate clothes.”

Jungkook waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. Teddy isn’t like that. I’ve known him a long time and he's even less lordly than I am.” 

“Well he mustn’t be very lordly at all then,” Hyunjin pointed out, causing Chris and Changbin to burst into laughter. Even Jungkook smiled reluctantly at the joke, pretending to be offended by it.

After spending most of the day outside hunting—and not catching anything, not even a hare—Jungkook had declared that the four of them had been formally invited for dinner at the residence of an old friend of his. He hadn’t really called him his friend, suggesting he was mostly an acquaintance. To Hyunjin, he had admitted to meeting him at a sex party. “But he had a girl on his cock and another was on the girl’s cunt, so we didn’t talk all that much.” 

Which did not make Hyunjin eager at all to meet Jungkook’s not-friend, but he apparently had a great collection of weapons that both Chris and Changbin really wanted to see. He had longswords and maces and even a few katanas, or so Jungkook claimed. Hyunjin figured, considering the man’s political influence, that he might be able to negotiate something out of it, or at least to make a good impression. Maybe it would serve a purpose one day. 

Which brought him to tonight. He followed the three other men, listening a little to Jungkook’s insane sex parties stories or his personal description of a few of the weapons they were about to see. But really Hyunjin was wondering what you were doing. It would be your birthday soon and he had found lovely gifts for you. He couldn’t wait to give them to you, to share them with you. 

It took little time to reach their destination, which was a large townhouse in a posh neighborhood of the city. They were greeted by Jungkook’s friend himself, and despite his discontentment with the outfit he was wearing, Hyunjin made sure to use his best manners. 

“I am so pleased to meet you, Lord Hwang,” the man said as he let them inside, away from the cold air. He was tall—taller than him even—and had chestnut-brown hair. “I heard a lot about you.”

“I have also heard a lot about you, Lord Grover.” Hyunjin dipped his head politely. After all, it wasn’t every day that he entered the home of an Earl. “Thank you for hosting us. I only wish we dressed more appropriately for the occasion.” 

“I see nothing wrong with the way you are clothed, gentlemen.” 

The house’s steward made an appearance then, bowing deeply as he saluted his guests. 

Grover turned to him. “Isaki, have you prepared the parlor as I requested?” 

“Yes, my lord,” the young man—a boy, really—replied. “I’ve also brewed some tea.” 

Hyunjin knew he wouldn’t like Grover when he failed to thank his steward, letting young Isaki walk away after announcing tea. His gaze crossed Christopher’s and he saw the same displeasure as his own in it. The two of them seemed to have the same taste when it came to people.

Jungkook and Lord Grover caught up while he was giving them a tour of the house. This was only his secondary residence, which he kept for business and political purposes. He had a large estate in the countryside, somewhere a little down south. 

“Isn’t this the region where your lady wife is from, Hwang?” Jungkook asked as they walked into the empty dining room. And Hyunjin knew, from the shape of his mouth, that he almost called him brother again.

He tsked, letting his reaction pass as something other than annoyance. “Yes, yes it very much is,” he managed, observing the many paintings adorning the walls. Two of them were by famous masters and he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t impressed. 

“Ah, yes, indeed!” Lord Grover grinned. “As she might have told you, Lord Hyunjin, she and I have met on one occasion and attended the same events a few times. Naturally, her chaperone wouldn’t let her anywhere near me at that point,” he added. 

Hyunjin felt that new information fall into his stomach like a rock into a lake. He stayed still, his eyes still fixated on the stunning nighttime scenery painted by James Wright he stood by. The moon, and the light radiating from it, were absolutely stunning. 

“I wouldn’t think she told you of the time we met,” Grover went on. “But I wish to congratulate you on your wedding, no matter how late. Have you been enjoying married life? Or is married life the reason you’re visiting the city? There are many reputable… tourist spots.” 

Hyunjin clenched his jaw, focusing on the details of the painting. Each leaf was painted in detail, it seemed, giving the impression they were swaying in a soft breeze. Was he crazy, or was this man taunting him?

“We’re here for business, Lord Grover,” Changbin responded in his place. “I must say, Lord and Lady Hwang form a strong pair.” 

“Seconded,” Christopher added.  “Lord Grover, is that what I think it is?” 

Christopher pretended to be fascinated by an antique chair in a corner, giving Hyunjin some respite. He was doing everything he could to stay calm, only, he could never be calm when it was about you. He didn’t like that you had met this guy before. When exactly? And in what circumstances? 

Why hadn’t you told him?

He forced himself to take a deep breath. Of course, you couldn’t possibly have listed every person you ever met. The reason Hyunjin never heard about him, most likely, was that the encounter wasn’t particularly significant. Right?

Before he could finish ruminating over this, the short tour of the dining room was over. “Teddy, they really wanted to see the katanas,” Jungkook said with a smirk.

“With all due respect, Lord Jungkook,” Christopher began, a playful smile on his face, “I believe you expressed quite a lot of excitement at the idea yourself.” 

“I swear to god these guys don’t give me a single break.” Jungkook sighed dramatically. It was at that moment that Isaki made a second appearance. 

“Tea is ready, my lords,” he said, dipping his head and keeping his eyes on the ground. “The parlor is this way.”

“We’ll dine in the parlor if you gentlemen don’t mind,” Lord Grover explained. “It’s a simple, casual meal, and I’d much rather we all make ourselves comfortable.” He paused, his big, dark eyes dancing from him, to Jungkook, and back to him. “Lords Jungkook and Hyunjin—my mother expressed the wish to meet you. She is aging and very ill, so she will not be joining us for supper.” 

No matter how upset he was, Hyunjin could only feel empathy for that fact. He knew that a son never really got over the loss of his mother—and Theodore had lost his father about ten years ago or so, becoming Earl when he was only twenty-one. He could relate to that, no matter how untrusting he was of the man.

“Of course,” Jungkook said at once. “Teddy, tell me—has her condition worsened?” 

Grover gave him a nod, a grave expression on his face. “The doctor says she doesn’t have much time left. At the risk of sounding heartless, I have to admit I’d rather it didn’t last for too long. There is no need for suffering when there is nothing to gain from it.” 

“I’m terribly sorry to hear this.” Hyunjin dipped his head politely. “Let’s go meet her so that she can rest for the night afterward.” 

“Isaki, can you please show Lord Christopher and Mister Changbin to the parlor? Don’t wait up, too—drink the tea while it’s hot.” 

The group parted in two halves and Hyunjin followed Theodore into a narrow corridor to the left. Jungkook walked with them, the three of them remaining quiet, out of respect. Hyunjin couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in his chest, like a darkness looming, and he didn’t like it. He tried to blame it on Jungkook’s insane stories about those parties he attended with Grover, only that didn’t help much. 

They quickly reached their destination, which was a large bedroom in which Theodore’s mother lay on a single bed. The rest of the room was furnished with couches and armchairs, suggesting the woman was accustomed to welcoming guests into this room. It was dark at first, so Hyunjin helped Theodore when he lit up a few oil lamps. 

“Hello, Mother,” he told her as he brought one of the lamps to her bedside table. “Were you sleeping? Our guests are here.”

The woman was thin and her skin was pale with a waxy aspect to it. Her son helped her sit up in her bed while Hyunjin and Jungkook waited politely behind. She seemed rather unwell yet she gave Theodore a smile when he adjusted her pillows. The entire room smelled like illness and camphor. 

“Lady Grover.” As the eldest, Jungkook spoke first, going as far as getting on one knee.

Hyunjin mirrored him, out of respect for the woman who was visibly at the end of her life. “Good evening, Lady Grover.” Her hair was somewhere between gray and copper, but it was dull and frizzy, lacking care and health.

It took quite a while for her to say anything—by the time he and Jungkook were standing upright again, she was squinting, staring at both of them intensely as if she was trying to decode them. Theodore remained by her side but let her speak first.

Then, finally, her gaze came to a stop, lingering on Hyunjin. “By god, Teddy, he looks exactly like him.” She brought a weak, shaky hand over her shriveled, dry lips. “Come closer, young man. Please.” 

Hyunjin was aware of the way Jungkook was gawking at him from the side, only he was too preoccupied to try and translate his body language. It wasn’t the first time such a scene occurred and yet he despised it every single time. He would sometimes be at an event, having dinner with clients, and a complete stranger would come up to him to strike up a conversation, mentioning how they knew exactly who he was because he looked so much like his father. 

But he knew better than to disrespect a lady like her, so he crossed the room, coming to stand next to Lord Grover. He couldn’t find a single thing to say. 

“Oh, heavens!” Lady Grover’s eyes filled up with tears and unrest took control of him, the weight of this invisible, impending doom now tangible in the air. “Closer, young man, let me see you.” 

He didn’t initially react—too surprised by the situation, Hyunjin stood there, quiet, the gears of his mind going faster with each passing second. At that moment, he remembered that fateful visit to Jeon Manor a few months ago and coming face to face with Lady Myeong in a hallway, moments before dinner. The look on her face had been quite unforgettable, like she had just seen a ghost. You have your father’s eyes, Lord Hwang, she had told him. And his allure, too. 

Hyunjin twisted his neck, searching for Jungkook’s eyes, trying to see if he was thinking the same thing he was. And by the looks of it—he was, indeed, sharing his fear. 

Before he knew it, Lady Grover grabbed his hands, squeezing them in hers. Nothing about the gesture was inherently wrong—she held him lovingly, even, and he didn’t mind the cold of her skin or the fact that he could feel her bones through her flesh. It was the look on her face that frightened him. 

“Oh, truly…” He lowered himself closer to the woman, unsure of what to do. Big tears were rolling down her bony cheeks. “You might just be even more handsome than he was, but it’s undeniable,” she told Hyunjin. “I have missed your father every day since the last time he and I were together.” 

He heard footsteps behind him—Jungkook had come closer yet remained at the back respectfully. 

“They all said such atrocious things about him,” Lady Grover went on, her shoulders shaking with her cries. “But they didn’t know him like I did.”

“My father made bad decisions,” Hyunjin conceded. That had been a response that Christopher taught him when both of them were still young Back then, Hyunjin was under his tutelage after his father’s death. 

She shook her head. “No, child. They did not understand him. How could they understand him when he never let them see his true colors? The colors of his spirit?” 

She looked somewhere behind him. “You too, Lord Jeon. You have the eyes and the cheekbones.” 

She was jumping from one topic to another and yet making her point very, very clear, without having the need to speak it out loud. It was obvious that this woman had known his father intimately. Very much so. How many women like her were there? 

“Nobody knew him better than I did,” she let go of Hyunjin’s hands, gesturing weakly at the empty space by her bed. “They took him away from me. Away. I didn’t have a choice.” 

Her cries intensified, causing a violent episode of coughing—Hyunjin retreated while Theodore attempted to help his mother drink some water. A couple of nurses rushed into the room, asking them to leave. Stunned, Hyunjin’s feet managed to get him out of the room but he stopped when he found himself in the hallway with Jungkook and Theodore. 

“What’s the meaning of this, Teddy?” Jungkook inquired. He looked upset and he wasn’t easily moved, which said a lot about the gravity of the situation. 

“I heard so much of this Lord Hwang after my… father passed,” Grover said with a shrug. “It only made sense to me that my mother met his son while she still can.” The intonation with which he said the word son didn’t please Hyunjin. “Thank you for indulging her. Shall we join the others for dinner?” 

Hyunjin walked slowly, staying behind, deep in his thoughts. The implications of his short encounter with Lady Grover were quite evident. She had clearly known him intimately—in a way nobody else, not his mother, not himself, had. The new piece of information left him speechless, although Hyunjin knew he ought not to be surprised by it. How many mistresses did he have? Did they all believe he loved them? That he wasn’t using them? 

How many illegitimate children had he fathered? 

He could not stop staring at Theodore now, not even after they reached the parlor and sat down on plush armchairs around a coffee table covered with food. It wasn’t just in the way he looked. It was in the way he held himself too, and the shape of his mouth when he smiled. It was unequivocal though, and he could not unsee it. The deep shade of brown of his eyes and his honeyed skin. 

Hyunjin spoke very little and ate even less, letting the others fill the conversation and only talking when directly spoken to. He was trying to put his thoughts in order. He was trying to convince himself he had nothing to fear from Theodore Grover—that should they have the same father, there would be no consequences to it.

The plates of food got emptied and maids came to clean up the table while Isaki was serving scotch, but Hyunjin was still trying to imagine all of the ways he could harm him, should the earl decide to. It would make no sense to even tryanything. Hyunjin’s estate prospered well, sure, but if Grover somehow came after him, claiming to be a Hwang, he would lose everything. His title, his land. Hell, his reputation too. 

As the other men drank, Hyunjin sat there, wondering what would compel Grover to claim anything he owned as his. 

The response came to him when Theodore invited them to follow him to his roofed terrace. He liked to smoke a cigar after dinner, apparently. “And Jungkook knows I get the best imported cigars,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, because you control the docks.” Jungkook rolled his eyes.

“If that’s alright with you, Lord Grover,” Chris began, “I’ll stay behind. I have no wish to smoke any cigars, and I do enjoy looking at your stunning collection here.” 

Grover nodded. “Of course. Then perhaps I should ask the entertainment to come in now instead of later?” He turned to his steward who was standing quietly in a corner of the room. “Isaki, get them.” 

The women entered the room as Theodore was grabbing his smoking paraphernalia from a drawer. Five of them—no, six. Young and obedient, they listened to the earl’s command when he asked them to stand in a row before them. 

Hyunjin averted his gaze, fighting a strong spell of nausea. He had to get out of here. He had to get the fuck away from this man. 

“Choose whichever you like, gentlemen,” Grover said with a smirk. “They’re all quite skilled—I tested them, so I’d know.” 

A very heavy and uncomfortable silence grew in the room. It felt like Hyunjin had something stuck in his throat preventing him from breathing as much air as he needed. He hated this. It wasn’t even the first time such a thing happened, but it was the first time since, well, you. 

His unease did not stem from a desire to spend time with any of the prostitutes. What he feared was that you would hear something that you wouldn’t like and that you wouldn’t believe him if he told you nothing had taken place. He couldn’t bear to lose you. 

He couldn’t bear to hurt you. Not any more than he already had.

“I’m leaving.” Hyunjin stood, the words escaping him before he could really think about it. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Grover, but I will return to the hotel.” He was quite certain that both Christopher and Changbin would follow him.

He was right—they stood, too. But before they could speak, Grover turned to them, making his way towards the girls, all of which wore excessively revealing clothes.

“You don’t have to worry about a thing, Lord Hwang,” he uttered slowly. “I heard of your… unique tastes. I requested Mindy here especially for you. Right, sweetheart?” Pushing open the loose robe she was wearing, he revealed her belly, small but round—she was visibly with child.

“Lord Grover!” Christopher started, but Hyunjin raised his hand to quiet him.

With a calmness he didn’t know in himself, Hyunjin reached into the pocket of his blazer to find his gold. Ignoring Grover, he crossed the room, giving each woman a substantial amount of money. “Thank you, ladies,” he said politely. “I believe this pays for your evening and more. You may leave.”

They all looked at each other, visibly frightened, but Hyunjin did not look away from Grover’s eyes, who was staring back with a defiant expression on his face. It took quite a while before he told them, “You heard the man. Leave. I’ll simply let your madam know that she ought to send me something better next time I host these guests.” 

“There won’t be a next time,” Hyunjin retorted as the women quickly scuttled out of the room. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lord Grover. I shall pray for your mother.” 

Without waiting for a response, Hyunjin turned his heels and walked away. To his surprise, Jungkook was also going after him as well as Christopher and Changbin. 

“You haven’t even asked me how I met her,” Lord Grover exclaimed with a joyless laugh. “Your wife. I wish you had at least asked me, I was dying to tell you.” 

Hyunjin stopped right in his tracks, very well aware that he ought to be better than this. That he ought to display more class than this bastard. 

“Let’s go,” Changbin muttered through gritted teeth, but Hyunjin did not budge. 

He faced Grover once again. “You met her. What about it?” he asked him. “My wife is quite remarkable, I’ll agree—I understand how she would have made a strong impression on you. My lord.”

“Oh, she is remarkable. And grew into a radiant, exquisite young woman, no doubt.” Grover chuckled, but Hyunjin’s anger was slowly rising within him, reaching dangerous levels. “I went for a visit to her family’s villa, you see, with my parents. She was still a young girl, properly trained and yet feral. I knew she would never be fully tamed. I noticed her for it, of course. She showed up to the villa barely an hour before the feast would be served, her hands dirty, her hair sticky and messy with honey.” 

He leaned against the wall behind him, crossing his arms over his chest, acting out a little too dramatically in his pondering man pose.

“In any case. First thing I hear after dinner is how her mother wishes to break off her betrothal to a certain Lord Hwang. Her mother comes to my mother, and I just so happen to be in the next room over, from which Mother calls me and asks if I would be inclined to offer this young lady a proper home, should I take her as my wife. What was I to say? I liked her, as undomesticated as she might have been. Too bad her father—” 

Hyunjin didn’t hear the rest of his story. He had thrown himself at Grover before he could utter even one more word. His fist closed around the velvet of his collar. His other fist slammed into that classless bastard’s face. There were shouts behind him, even hands trying to grab at him, but Hyunjin did not let go of Grover, not even as he retaliated and punched him back a few times. 

He did not register the impacts as pain. He did not register them at all, and yet Grover got him square on the lips, almost breaking some teeth in the process, and got his nose, too. How could he. How dare he keep a memory of you at all? You were not his to remember. He was nothing to you. 

Hyunjin pinned him against the wall, hard enough that the back of Grover’s head hit it, dizzying him momentarily. He had a few weak attempts at punches but Hyunjin dodged them all. Had he ever truly wished to be engaged to you? Had he used those hands to give himself pleasure with the thought of you on his mind? 

“If you touch my wife—” Hyunjin groaned when the taste of blood invaded his mouth. He spit on the ground at Grover’s feet, holding him at the wall with his forearm against his throat. “If you touch even one strand of her hair, if you dare put your foul eyes on her even just once. You’ll regret it. You’ll fucking regret it—” 

Hyunjin’s threats were cut short when Christopher successfully pulled him away from Grover. 

“Take him outside,” Changbin told Chris as though he wasn’t even there. “Don’t let him come back here.” 

His soul didn’t feel like it was quite tethered to his body. He had very little control over the slander and threats he shouted on his way outside, held firmly by Christopher. Not even the cold night air calmed him down, not his friend’s pleas, and certainly not reason. 

The only thing he remembered was you and the secret promise he had made.

He meant it. He would die before he let anything get in between you two again. 

... to be continued.

Author’s note: Where do I even begin? I looked at the date of the last release of this story and just… What can I say. To those who are here today, reading this—thank you. Thank you for being so patient and for understanding the stupid ways my inspiration works. Thank you for urging me to prioritize my health. I realize now that it’s a lot because I do feel safe taking my time, resting, etc that I’m able to write happily. This chapter was challenging and a lot of it was by pure fear to disappoint my faithful readers. I hope it was at least a little satisfying. I’m very glad to be releasing this today. 

Thank you to those who reblog, who send messages, who interact meaningfully. It is thanks to you that I’m still on here and that my stories aren’t confined to my computer. Please know that your kindness goes a long way for me and to other authors as well. It’s appreciated and it motivates me every day. Lots of love 🤍

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it’s something about jealous chan.

it wasn’t often that he would get this way— that singular raised eyebrow, snarky remarks, the squeezing of your thigh. though when he did, it was noticeable. blatantly obvious.

he didn’t like when guys talked to you, or even be anywhere near you. it drove him nuts seeing a smile creep onto your face from just talking to another guy, or when you laughed at someone else’s joke. why didn’t you react that way with him?

was he the problem?

oh but he was. you two weren’t dating— in fact were merely just friends, but you did know of each other. despite that, chan wanted you all to himself. he admired every part of you, and wanted nothing more than to shield you from the male gaze.

the music was louder than anything around you, but you didn’t care. here you were, in a random room with a complete stranger. you had no idea where bangchan was, nor did you care— well, you were too drunk to care.

your moans we’re soft and persistent as his lips bit and nipped at your skin, leaving small marks against your neck. his hand slipped up your dress, brushing over your clothed area slightly.

you wanted this, you needed this.

so why did it still feel like it wasn’t enough?

because it wasn’t him?

the boy’s hand tugged at your skirt, eager to pull it off only to be stopped by someone coming into the room. you whined out, looking over to see bangchan standing in the door way. before you could say anything, he invited himself in, leaving you in a confused dazed.

“Chan?! I thought you went home?”

“You think this is funny?”

You furrowed your eyebrows at him, watching as he walked over to the two of you, glaring at the boy harshly.

“Woah man, I didn’t know this was your girl.” you sighed, moving away from the boy and giving Chan an annoyed look.

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just a friend and needs to act like one.”

chan grabbed him by the arm, pulling him out the room and closing it behind him. you heard the lock click making you sit up. you stared at him blankly, unsure of what to say to him. you had no idea what he was thinking or what his intentions were, but you remembered this expression before. the scoffing, the rolling of his eyes.

jealousy.

he was jealous.

“Before you get all riled up. It was nothing Chan, we barely did anything.”

he walked over to you, eyeing your neck for a moment before laughing to himself. a small red mark was painted into your skin, turning almost a soft purple. you’ve surely done it now and this may have been enough to set him off.

“Barely did anything, huh?”

he glared at you, his eyes feeling as if they were stinging into your skin. his eyes trailed down your skin, being met with multiple bite marks, and the small tints of pink that threatened to form into a hickey. he peeked at your skirt, seeing the zipper half way undone. your heels laid a mess on the floor as the male’s jacket rested beside them.

“I don’t understand what you’re getting all worked up about.” you stumbled up, rolling your eyes at him as you bent over to grab your heels.

chan grabbed your wrist, pulling you back up and holding it by his head. He squeezed it, his nails digging into your delicate skin.

“Chan— ow, let go of me!”

your brain was fuzzy, legs so numb, you couldn’t quite grasp what was going on. one thing was for sure though, you were desperate. desperate for his attention, desperate for someone to touch you and make you feel as if you were worth something.

and the gaze he gave you, only made that feeling it worse.

“What will it take for your dumb little brain to realize.”

he leaned in, his face merely inches away from your own. the tension between you two grew, making your body heat up and your heart beat out of your chest.

“I don’t like other people touching what’s mine.”

you stayed quiet, feeling his glare worsen as he backed you up against the wall. he let go of your wrist, his hand grazing under your chin softly.

“And calling me a friend?”

your skin was hot to the touch as he brushed his lips by your neck, smelling a mix of your perfume and the previous man.

“Bold choice of words for someone who begs for me every other night, isn’t that right bunny?”

this is what you wanted. his attention— you wanted him to notice you, to want you as bad as you wanted him. his gaze was still harsh, not softening in even the slightest. his free hand slipped under your skirt, his fingers running along your clothed area. a soft whimper escaped you, making you shift slightly in reaction.

he circled your clit softly with his two fingers, his lips kissing against your neck. he sunk his teeth into the same areas the man did, only harder receiving a small yelp out of you.

chan tugged at your band of your underwear, pulling it down until it fell to your ankles. he slipped his fingers between your folds, gathering a bit of your slick.

“Chan, fuck— more.”

“So needy, aren’t you baby..”

you nodded your head, feeling his fingers push into you softly. your walls clenched around him as they curled, hitting your sweet spot perfectly. his hooded eyes felt as if they burned a whole into your skull. he tilted his head at you, watching you fall apart as he pumped his fingers into you repeatedly and not letting up.

“You like that?” he wrapped his arm around your waist, holding up your weight as your knees began to buckle under him.

“Is this what you wanted? Poor bunny wanted my attention, hm?”

he pulled his fingers out of you, placing them on his tongue to taste. a low growl escaped his mouth as you both watched your string of slick connect from his tongue to his finger.

“As much as I wanna give you what you want,” he pushed you onto the bed, bending you over just enough to expose your ass through your skirt.

“You sadly don’t deserve the princess treatment.”

chan quickly undid his buckle, pulling his pants down slightly. he pulled his cock out of his band, rubbing it softly against your folds. he threw his head back, pushing himself in you just enough for you to feel his tip.

“Fuck baby..” his hand gripped your waist as his cock sank deeper into you, feeling your walls constantly squeeze at him.

he fastened his pace, pushing his tip against your sweet spot with every motion. his nails dug into your skin, his strokes getting sloppier by the minute as he fucked his emotions into you.

you didn’t even deserve this— you were about to give yourself away to some random man all because he wasn’t paying attention to you. but god, was it so hot to see how desperate you were. watching you fuck on the closest thing you could find, only to realize they were nothing in comparison to himself.

he wrapped his arm under your waist, pulling you up against his body. his hand held the front of your neck, squeezing it softly but still allowing you to breathe.

“All these guys, and they don’t fuck you like I do huh?”

you whimpered and moaned as he pounded into you, showing no mercy. chan dug his nails into your neck, making you cry out in response.

“Aww, too fucked out you can’t even respond to me? That’s too bad.”

his grip onto your neck wouldn’t let up, your legs shaking as they felt like they would give out at any moment. chan relentlessly fucked you, his thrusts getting harder and faster as he felt himself slipping.

“Chan.. oh my god.” he kissed at the back of your neck, groaning against your skin as he felt your walls quiver around him.

“Gonna cum for me baby?”

he was practically out of breath at this point, his tip leaking into you. you nodded, knowing any marks you once had were now going to be replaced by the marking of his nails. he pushed your body toward the bed once again, fucking you into the mattress with no remorse.

a small white ring formed around his member as your drunken whines filled the room, begging him to slow down as you reached your peak.

“that’s it, let it out f’me.”

within seconds he let himself go, his own pleasure leaking out of your abused hole and mixing with your juices. chan let out a large sigh, feeling you pulsate around his cock as his thrusts slowed.

“Feel so good when I fill you up.” he mumbled, pulling his cock out of you.

he pushed two fingers into you, pumping them slowly as he watched your thighs squeeze from overstimulation. he used his free hand to grab you by the hair, pulling your head up. you cried out in pain, feeling his fingers curl inside of you.

“The next time you talk to another man..” he leaned over, lips only a few inches away from your ear.

“If I even see another man touch you, i’ll make sure he watches me destroy you.”

chan pulled his fingers out of you, placing a soft kiss against your cheek. he pulled up his pants, hand running against the curve of your ass.

“Are we clear bunny?”

💌: took me a little longer than i hopped to finish this but it’s ok hehe. i hope you guys enjoyed !

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After Hours | 1

-> You keep coincidentally running into your supervisor after work hours. It's getting harder and harder not to flirt with him...especially since he can't seem to stop flirting back.

supervisor!Jisung x office worker!fem!reader

office!au, low-key secret dating, low-key forbidden love, fluff, slight angst, suggestive (let's not kid ourselves)

2.7K

warnings: creepy behavior makes Jisung feel uncomfortable but reader is there to save the day, cursing, mild dirty thoughts (they get worse just wait), really bad flirting not sorry, kdrama cringe bc I'm the author and I can

After Hours navigation

Feedback is greatly appreciated bc honestly I'm still writing the storyline and I need a little inspiration <3

-------------------------------------------------------

Coffee is, perhaps, the most important sustenance in existence. From an early age, you remember being introduced to your first love. The smell, the bitterness, the warmth. It's one of the only things that can make you happy when you have to get out in such disgusting weather.

The sky has been crying for hours. Cars drive through puddles, splashing the sidewalk while street drains continue to sing off-key. You manage to escape into the coffee shop just in time to miss a roar of thunder.

It's unexpectedly crowded today. You lean to the side to get a better look at how long the line is. With a sigh, you settle in for an uncomfortably long wait. You're not the only one who loves coffee on rainy days apparently.

It is unfortunate that this rainy day happens to be the first day of your new job. And since you are particularly excited for this job, you really don't want to be late. A good first impression is everything after all.

The chimes on the door ring out again, signaling someone new has entered the shop, earning your attention for a brief glance over your shoulder.

In he trots, the clumsiest man you've ever seen in your entire life. He trips over the threshold trying to beat the rain and almost falls flat on his face. No umbrella, a mumbled curse under his breath, and the hood of his rain jacket dripping onto the floor. He shakes his shoes off, hissing a shiver.

Although you can't see his face from this angle, he begins carefully scanning the coffee shop. If he's trying to be inconspicuous, it's not working very well. His every movement is like a cartoon character.

Where did this clown come from? Is it his first day walking or--

"Oh, damn," you slap a hand over your mouth because that was not meant to be out loud.

But the 'oh damn' still stand because what the actual fuck? The moment he removes his hood, everything changes.

There's an instant attraction you simply can't deny, even if you tried. If someone took your type on paper and manifested it into a single guy, it would be him.

You quickly revert your attention, realizing immediately that the line has in fact moved up without you in the time you spent gawking at a stranger.

His skin reminds you of a sweet caramel macchiato, but his eyes make you crave black dark roast coffee. His lips glisten from the rain, as if nature herself was so enamoured she had to pause to kiss them. His hair is perfectly messy but also styled to compliment his duality that makes you think babygirl, but also you would like him to push you against the wall, please. His shoulders relax as he makes his way to the line.

He stands behind you now, hands in his pockets, jacket open, and a pleasant hum on his lips. You don't recognize the song, but it sparks a curiosity within you. Does he hum a lot? When he's waiting in line for places or cleaning his apartment? It's a cute quirk, one you wouldn't mind tolerating if you were to ever be around it for an extended period of time.

You're such a hopeless romantic. Grow up.

The gentleman in front of you must be getting impatient. He huffs at the wait, turns around, and trudges off, knocking into you on his way because basic manners don't apply to him clearly.

"Oof--!" You stumble backwards. And if it hadn't been for the water on the floor, you might have survived. But you end up tragically slipping and falling into the arms of the customer right behind you.

Looking up, you're face to face with him now. His arms cling around your shoulders while your back has crashed into his chest. He looks surprised but not upset.

He smiles down at you, charmed and amused. "Are you okay?"

Despite being stunned by both the suddenness of the moment and his beauty, you pull yourself together and stand up on your own.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm so sorry, that was an accident."

"Don't worry about it. That guy bumped into you pretty hard. I would have fallen too."

"Well, thank you for catching me," you reply sweetly, brushing yourself off.

"Anytime. Wouldn't want you falling into the wrong arms."

Hold up...did this dude just drop a line on you? Wait a second, look closer.

A half smirk, puffed chest, lifted chin, soft eyes, bitten lip. Based on your extensive experience reading romance novels...he's flirting with you!?

This is no time to get flustered so easily. Oh, but something else is lit under your skin at the notion of his confident body language and adorable dimples -- the growing desire to flirt back and make him stutter.

"Thank you for your generosity and willingness..."

"Jisung."

"Jisung..." his name sounds cute in your voice, "I can be pretty clumsy."

"Me too."

"Yeah, I know," you stiffle a laugh, "I saw you come in earlier."

"Oh," he facepalms into his hand, a regretful groan coming from his chest. "You saw that?"

"Mhm," you nod cutely.

"Well, I guess the jig is up. I can deny it no longer." He takes a bow. "I am a klutz."

Even if it's not that funny, whatever he says makes you laugh. The way his eyes communicate, causing a rush of endorphins and giggles to bubble up inside you. You're completely smitten after only a few minutes.

There's just something about him.

The line moves up periodically, so you scoot your way forward every few minutes. Jisung takes the opportunity to inch his way closer until he's practically standing next to you in line. You don't mind. He gives off a warmth and spiciness you'd like to explore more of.

"Well, Klutz, I should warn you," you say, and Jisung tilts his head at the nickname, "most people don't find it easy to keep up with me."

"Good thing I like a challenge. Who knows..."

"___."

He pauses for a moment, seemingly to process your name, eyes glazing over as if enchanted. Wouldn't it be nice if he was that starstruck by simply your name? Whatever is going through his head, there's a spark behind his eyes, and the mention of your name only made it brighter.

"___," he smiles and continues, "I might just surprise you."

"You really think you can?"

"I caught you once, didn't I?"

"Yes, but one could argue that was just a coincidence."

His voice lowers, playful and knowing, as if daring you to deny it, "A pretty damn good coincidence if you ask me."

There's not many moments his gaze is elsewhere. He keeps his attention locked on you, your attitude, your comebacks, your eyes. Goddamn, your eyes. They make him hesitate, but...he doesn't want to miss the immense possibility hidden behind them.

There's just something about you.

Then something else rudely catches his attention as you approach the front of the line.

“Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“Nothing." He plays off his sudden nervousness with a hand behind his head and a chuckle.

"You said oh shit for nothing?”

You two barely know each other, but somehow he knows you're not about to let this go. And it's easier to just fess up what's wrong instead of playing dumb.

“That barista," he gestures with a head nod. The one behind the register taking everyone's order. The one about to take your order.

“What about her?” You look back and forth, examining his drastic change in body language. “Does she make you uncomfortable?”

“She…wants me.”

“She wants you?”

"Hey, don't be jealous, ___," he chides with a sassy click of his tongue.

“I'm not jealous," you insist, rolling your eyes, "I'm just surprised.”

“You're surprised someone wants me?"

"I didn't mean--"

"Brutal."

“Come on, you know that's not what I meant!"

“I'm not making this easy on you, am I?”

“You're really not," you laugh as you give his shoulder a playful shove.

“Sorry," he apologizes while pretending your push did literally anything.

“Okay, but what's her deal?”

He shakes his head as if bamboozled by the whole thing, a disgusted taste in his mouth as his expression twists and frowns. “She just always flirts with me and it's weird. Last time she said something pretty inappropriate…”

“It must have really bothered you.”

The girl at the register lifts her hand. "I can take whoever's next, please."

“You know what, I don't really need to buy coffee," Jisung says quickly, holding a hand out to shake yours goodbye. "There's coffee at my office anyway. It was really nice to meet you, ___. I hope I catch you again sometime soon?"

“Hold on, you waited in line all this time, and now you're not going to get coffee because of her?”

He just shrugs.

“Uh, no," you say firmly, taking his hand and pulling him with you to the counter. "Come on, we're getting you a coffee.”

He has no choice but to give in, because you're rather cute dragging him along like this, like the two of you are familiar and close. But he's also undeniably nervous. Something feels very wrong about the way the barista eyes him up and down when she sees him.

But something feels very right when you hold his hand.

"Hi," you sing to the girl, "just one second please."

And then you turn to Jisung. Lifting his hand so the barista can clearly see, you interlock your fingers while scanning his features lovingly. "Don't forget, babe, you promised I could pay this time, so get whatever you like. I want to treat my prince right."

Oh, fuck fuck fuck.

You're pretending. This is not a drill. Jisung can't barely breathe when you look at him like that. Mischievous and domestically lighthearted with a hint of sexy expectation.

The most outrageous and yet charming thing you could have possibly done in this moment, and Jisung is struggling to move past the feeling of your nails nonchalantly scratching the back of his hand, like it's habit after holding his hand so many times before. Oh god, the goosebumps aren't going away.

You must be an actress. It's the only thing that makes any sense. Your beauty, grace, off the cuff banter, expressions, not to mention your ability to jump into the scene and play the perfect girlfriend in seconds. Jisung is convinced he's met the next nation's sweetheart, and all he can do is sweat bullets under his jacket and stare into your eyes as if he's stargazing.

He said he could keep up with you. Here's his chance to prove it.

He manages a small, breathless chuckle, "Okay okay. You know I can't refuse that face."

"I know," you proudly reply while hugging his arm, your chest pressed into his side and your lips spread into a wide, victorious smile. "Which is why I use it all the time. I like flustering you."

The whole coffee shop audibly heard the skip in his heartbeat just now.

In the corner of your eye, you can see the barista's smile slowly dying. She's watching you dote and hang all over Jisung with distain. But what bothers her the most is how absolutely spellbound he is by every movement you make, happily mesmerized by your very existence. The way he's looking at you...

"Jisung," she tries to get his attention, "you never mentioned a...who is she?"

"Huh?" He finally tears his eyes off of you for a mere moment, but then they're glued to you once again. "Oh, this is ___. My girlfriend." Saying that out loud felt way too right.

"Girlfriend?" You whine, pausing to shake your head. "I thought you said I'm your soulmate."

"Aw, baby, I'm sorry," he cups your cheek and matches your pout, "of course, you're my soulmate. It was a slip of the tongue. Forgive me?"

You nod happily and boop his nose. "Forgiven." The flush of pink that spreads to his ears definitely isn't pretend.

"Umm," the barista smacks her gum, "I thought you said you were single."

"I was," he sighs, doing his best to play along without getting too caught up in the role. "But then I met ___. And everything changed."

She eyes you up and down with a distasteful frown.

"You could do better."

There's a short silence while the two of you try to figure out where she found the audacity. The only sound is the barista's foot tapping on the floor, a most rhythmic and detestable thump.

While your heart dramatically sinks into your stomach.

"I'll take a caramel macchiato," you finally break the silence, "what do you want, babe?"

"You don't know his order?" The barista cuts in with a scoff. "How can you be his girlfriend and not know his coffee order? Looks like I know Jisung better than you do, huh?" She flips on the sweetie pie act again when she turns to him. "I'll make your usual--"

"I'll take a caramel macchiato as well. And an apology."

"Oh, umm sorry--"

"Not to me." His hand tightens around yours. "To ___."

"What?"

He doesn't repeat himself. The barista can't hardly believe he's serious. But he doesn't back down or make light of what he demanded. You look a little caught-in-headlights as well, unsure of what to do exactly. If anyone should be apologized to, it's Jisung. He's the one the barista has been borderline harassing every time he tries to get coffee here.

And yet Jisung is more concerned about the fact that she made one, minor comment about you not being good enough for him. And who knows, maybe you're not! You just met today and you're not even his real girlfriend!

She clenches her jaw, unwavering eye contact with Jisung as she grunts through her teeth, "Sorry."

Not exactly a satisfactory apology, but at least she won't be bothering Jisung anymore. And you're more than willing to stop by with him a few more times to make sure the story sells and this barista bitch stays in her lane.

You tap your card to pay, grab your coffees, and head for the door.

You gather your umbrella. Jisung pulls his hood over his head. Out the door you go. As soon as your out of ear shot, the two of you can't keep your laughs in any longer.

"Did you see her face when she apologized!? Oh my god, you never get caramel macchiatos, do you?"

"Absolutely never," he giggles behind his hand.

"Sorry if that was completely insane. But it's stupid you can't order coffee because some bitch barista can't keep her eyes up. I know you probably felt weird."

"No, it felt right." A pause of held breaths and fluttering eyelids, and then Jisung scrambles to add, "I mean, it worked, didn't it?"

"Like a charm," you respond, still flabbergasted at the moment.

"That soulmate shit was priceless by the way." Jisung narrows his eyes at you, a teasing suspicion on the tip of his tongue. "You're a real hopeless romantic, aren't you?"

"You're the one who cupped my face and called me baby. If anyone is the hopeless romantic, it's you."

He can't argue against that. Jisung is indeed a hopeless romantic at heart.

"Seriously, thank you so much for not letting me leave. I'll pay you back for this, promise. Anything you want."

"Anything?"

"Name it and it's yours."

"Your number?"

Where this confidence came from you're not entirely sure, but the way his smile lights up like fireworks at your request feels brand new. He quickly corrects his giddiness with a sip of coffee and a shrug.

"I guess that's a reasonable request."

With his number in your phone and the hour ticking by, you exchange glances through the rain. Shy eye contact and hesitating feet. Neither of you want to leave, although it's definitely time to get going, and it's painfully obvious.

"Which way are you headed?"

"Towards City Center."

"Oh, me too! We can walk together. If you'd like?"

"Yeah," you take his arm, coffee in one hand while he holds your umbrella in the other, "I'd like that. Klutz."

"Uh, is that nickname gonna be a thing?"

"I don't know yet. Why?"

"I liked babe better."

Yeah, well that makes two of you. But calling him babe feels a bit too natural for you to be so shamelessly and carelessly throwing it into the mix. But maybe you let it slip a few times while you're walking, you know, accidentally. And maybe you really enjoy seeing the corner of his lips turn up each time you do.

Banter and flirting fly free between the two of you, never once feeling awkward or scary. It's so rare something like this comes along in your life. An instant click like this needs to be protected, cherished. The more you listen to Jisung talk, the more you're convinced he's supposed to be someone special to you.

"This is me." He stops at the doors to a large glass building, the rain still coming down decently hard on your umbrella above your heads.

You look at the building with sad eyes, knowing that unless something crazy happens in the next ten seconds, this magical happenstance of meeting him will--

Hold on.

"Does that sign say Mindy&Mindy Consulting?"

Jisung slowly nods. "Yes. This is my work. Why?"

"I'm starting here today."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm the newest hire for the financial services department."

"Wait," Jisung blinks, "you're the new hire?"

"You know about me?"

"Of course, I do," he says. "I'm the department's Senior Consultant."

"You're the...so that means..."

Any and all confusion morphs as his eyebrows lift and his jaw drops in realization. It hits you both at the same time, a reality bomb just dropped on your little flirty fantasy.

"You're my boss."

::

AH taglist: @nightmarenyxx @cherriive @cepheus3 @strawberriesoup @kayleefriedchicken @hannamoon143 @0omillo0 @fly-you-dam-fools @urlocalmultigroupfan @inlovewithstraykids @felixleftchickennugget @notastraykid @just-a-blackthorn-cookie @lorialia @staybabblingbaby @comicalivy @www-hanverse @dearbisky @hannieslittlerockstar @feetoffthemalfoy @estella-novella @justastraymoa @hityoulikebahng

<3

Sauna Syncope b.c

Warnings: MNDI, fluffy smut with just a pinch of plot, oral f receiving, slight overstim, soft dom!chan, passing tf out, touching y/n while unconscious but not sexual, cussing duh. Lightly edited

Synopsis: I saw a TikTok (rip) where someone said that something like this happened in the dark romance she was reading (unfortunately she did not drop the rec). Chan is a munch, and the physical and sexual heat cause y/n to lose consciousness.

❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ 🏔️❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆ ❆

Bang Chan has been traveling for work a lot recently, and even though you understand it's just part of his job and weren’t upset with him by any means, he decided he wanted to “make it up to you” by taking you on a long weekend trip before he has to go back out of town. As it is winter in Korea, he rented out a villa for you guys to have romantic getaway in the snow covered mountains. The day you arrived, you questioned if the location truly mattered at all as you two barely left the bedroom. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and while that might be true, you know for a fact that it makes your lust expand exponentially. Weeks of pent up desire flowing between you. With you both being on different sleep schedules, you end up staying up into the early hours of the next morning for round after round, but they don’t feel like separate events, each flowing seamlessly into each other more like waves of passion and intimacy ebbing and flowing.

It's rare you can get Chan to sleep in late with you; he's such a busy body, always feeling as if something needs to get done. Last night must have exhausted him as much as it did you; although he still woke up before you, the time was on the brink of midday. If you two were home, he’d be flying out of bed rushing to be productive in one way or another, but here, he snuggled up against your sleeping form drinking in your warmth and light snores and sighs. He's committing every moment to memory to get him through his next stint of being apart from you. His tender touch draws patterns over your exposed skin gently rousing you from your slumber. When he notices you stirring, he pets with more force shifting to massaging your arm and shoulder that are sticking out over the duvet attempting to keep you from drifting back to sleep.

“Morning, Babe.” His groggy voice makes your heart flutter. He plants a firm kiss to your forehead before trying to slip out from under the covers and off the bed, but your newly found sentience allows you to sling your arms around his waist to stop him. Your arms are weak due to your sleepy state, but you don’t have to exert any force for him to fold, halting his movements and sliding back next to you giggling. You lay in bed for another half hour snuggling, rubbing, and sharing lazy kisses. He finally gets you to let him go with promises of breakfast for lunch.

After fueling up on food and coffee, you two bundle up, putting on lay after layer before venturing out into the snow. You make a cutesy family of snowmen and toss a few snowballs, but it doesn’t last long as a rogue ball hits you in the chest and explodes in your face. Chan feels so bad, he keeps apologizing and insisting you hit him back, and when you refuse you have to stop him from shoving his face in the snow in your honor.

Before you had left the house, Chan had turned on the sauna to heat up. While playing in the powder was delightful, the frigid air was starting to burn your skin and chill your bones. The warming steam of the spa was calling to you. When you decide to go inside, Chan tells you to go on without him because he needs to quickly send some emails, god forbid he goes a day without doing at least a little work.

After peeling off your wet outer layer and leaving it by the fire to dry, you head back to your room to strip the rest of the way down and put on a robe only to remove it when you get to the steam room, grabbing a small towel before entering. The room is so hot against your chilled skin, it almost stings as you’re defrosted. You find a seat on the wooden bench and practically melt into it. Not only does the radiating heat feel heavenly warming you up but it also helps release any tension or soreness left from yesterday’s salacious acts. The temperature and humidity in the room is so high that it's a little difficult to breathe, but besides that, it's serene, like being swaddled in a cloud. The bench is deep enough to lie down, but you opt for scooting back into it so you can rest your head on the back wall lifting one of your feet and resting it on the edge, stretching your hip just right so that you cant help but let out a sigh. With your head tilted back, you close your eyes and place the small towel over your lids, letting your body go limp and be swallowed by the heated mist. A layer of sweat and condensation starts forming on your skin gathering and falling down in rivulets, but you can't bring yourself to even care to wipe them, so tranquil you don't want to move a muscle. That sentiment remains when you hear the door open and shut; it can only be one person, so you don't bother looking, but when a minute or two go by and he hasn’t said anything, you gather the motivation to raise the towel off an eye to peek for Chan. You find him bare, having discarded his matching robe at the door presumably when he saw your lack of modesty, on his knees in front of you, hunger in his eyes and a loving smirk on his lips.

“You’re a vision, Y/n. My goddess” speaking in a sultry but hushed tone as if he’s just talking to himself, as he reaches forward to grab your hips and pull you to the edge.

He begins his worship by scattering wet kisses on your thighs, his plump lips almost cooling on your hot skin. Working up higher and higher with each kiss, he lingers on the marks he had left on your skin little more than 12 hours earlier. He makes his way to your mound, covering you with more sweet affection.

“Channie” you sign his name. He lets out a soft sound of acknowledgement mixed with a moan, the sound stoking the fire inside. Your inner heat growing to match the external one. He finally plants a sloppy kiss over your clit earning a hiss as you suck in a breath through your teeth.

“Oh, you're so good to me,” praising him.

“It's only what you deserve, Baby” mumbling into your cunt, refusing to remove his lips even to talk. His kisses on and around your sensitive bud become longer and more powerful, eventually switching to gently sucking as he uses his fingers to toy with your entrance, just barely dipping the tip of his index in and out. Instead of continuing with his fingers, Chan moves his tongue to take over for his digit. Licking into your opening, savoring every bit of your arousal. Rubbing his nose over your slick and swollen clit, knowing you go crazy for it. It's not long before you feel your release coming.

“Fuck Baby, I’m gonna…oh” drawing out the last word as your orgasm racks through you. Chan smiles up at you as he continues to lap at your center, face flushed and loose curls sticking to his quickly dampening forehead; you’ll never get over the sight of him between your thighs. He allows his tongue to slow as he eases you down from your high, but he doesn’t pull away. Soon Chan is slowly slipping two fingers into you, inducing a prolonged groan.

“Sounds so pretty, Babe”, his compliment and slow curling of his fingers cause a string of curses to leave your lips as you try to put together a coherent sentence. Between pants you manage to get out,

“Chris… I don't know if I can… again.” You’ve already cum so many times in the past day, it's hard to imagine having another.

“Need me to stop? I just want to make my love feel good” He always takes both your pleasure and concerns very seriously.

“It feels so good” you whine out with your head tossed back.

“Hmm I think you can do it. Just one more, Y/n. For me.” You don’t have to look, you can hear the cheeky smile in his voice. He remains devouring you while working his fingers in perfect time. His soft licks to your clit are sending jolts of pleasure through you, and Chan is loving watching your squirm on his tongue. Volume raising and thighs squeezing around his head, he knows what is coming.

“That's it babe, doing so good”

“Fuuuh,” is all you can get out, shaking and whimpering. The air feels thick, not just with lust, but the steam and heat are starting to get to you. Your breaths are becoming strangled, if you were smart you’d ask for a break to steady your heaving chest, but it feels so unfathomably good and you’re so close to bursting. Chan’s free hand wraps from under your thigh and drags up it before reaching out to interlace your fingers. The tender gesture causes your pounding heart to lurch and send you reeling as you cum yet again shuddering against Chan’s face. Just as the peak passes and relief floods your mind darkness takes over your vision. You don’t have time to panic before you lose consciousness. This wouldn’t be the first time you blacked out from pleasure, but it is the first time you didn’t immediately wake up.

When you gradually come to, the first thing you hear is running water and feel cool water flowing over you. Opening your eyes, you find yourself on the built in granite seat of the shower in the master bathroom.

“Hi Channie,” you whisper, pulling him from his focus as he wiped your body with a soft rag. A sigh of relief escapes his lips.

“Hi my baby. How do you feel?” he asks calmly but with poorly masked concern on his face.

“I’m great. A little sleepy but so happy. How long was I out?” you ask groggily.

“Just long enough for me to get you to the shower, so only a couple of minutes, but it felt like an eternity. I knew you’d be okay once I got your body temp down, but shit, if that wasn’t terrifying.” he says with a bit of a nervous chuckle before continuing,

“No more sauna for you” he commands.

“I’m sorry for scaring you. I’m okay now,” you attempt to rise to your feet, but are met with Chan's strong hands on your shoulder holding you down.

“Sit your ass down. You’re not walking anywhere, at the very least until the end of the day. You might feel fine now, but I'm still making you a doctor’s appointment to get checked out just to make sure nothing is wrong. Now just sit there while I finish washing you. I give you a little show while I get clean to keep you entertained. Then, we’ll go cuddle and watch something. Deal?” he asks as if you have a choice.

You spend the rest of the vacation trying to convince him that you are totally fine, and while he says he believes you, he is still doting on you even more than usual.

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A.n- thanks for reading :) if you saw me post this earlier, no you didn’t. V sad about the tt ban. Where am I supposed to watch edits now?

-mo ❄️

Masterlist

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.

𝕄𝕦𝕗𝕗𝕝𝕖𝕕 𝕄𝕠𝕒𝕟𝕤

⋆˚✿˖° ˖°✿⋆˚

Fem!Reader x Kim Seungmin

Summary: You and Seungmin are roommates and he goes wandering in your room looking for something but ends up finding something else and getting aroused.

Warnings: accidental stimulation, masturbation, edging, hair grabbing, oral (Male receiving), sort of face fucking, you help him masturbate, he gets embarrassed, Seungmin whimpers, He doesn't know how to contain it, lmk if I missed anything else!

Word count: 1.1k

A/N: This one was recommended! I really hope y'all like this one as well. I'm gonna try to post as often as I can but I really don't have a great schedule😞. This one is also kinda short I apologize.I’ll have another one soon hopefully 🫶.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ .𖥔 ݁

You and Seungmin have been roommates for almost a year, so you've learned each other's schedules. You work from 8-4, and Seungmin stays home to do his online courses.

Seungmin tends to look for things in your room because he is always home and gets bored, wanting a reason to wander around the apartment.

He doesn't do this often, but this time when he did, he found something that is not usually left out for anyone to see, considering how tidy you are.

Seungmin found himself in need of something to write on and he knew that you had a few sketchbooks that you wouldn't mind him using.

He found what he was looking for but he also found your panties on the floor of your room. It was on the side of your bed laid out for him to see, it's like you wanted him to see it.

It's not like he meant to see it or, better yet get a boner from it. He doesn't know why it's happening but he doesn't hate it. The image of you taking off your panties pops up in his head as he looks at your underwear.

He couldn't help himself from getting off on your panties. He pressed his hip against the side of your bed, his back following, sliding down until his knees reached his chest.

After getting on the ground he spread his legs out, enough for him to have space to comfortably touch himself. Then he pulls his shorts down enough for his cock to be out.

Seungmin reached his hands to the bottom of his stomach, tucking his fingers under his boxers and grabbing his hard cock, palming it gently while staring at where your pussy had been at one point.

He reaches down and grabs his shirt, bringing it to his mouth so it won't be in his way. Seungmin starts to slowly stroke himself as he reaches for your panties. He can't help himself, he doesn't know why he's doing this, his body is just moving on its own.

His strokes start to become harsher, seeing your panties just did something to him. Knowing that your pussy was once there he couldn't help but bring them up to his face, imagining him being in your pussy. Eating you out so good to the point you whimper out his name.

His dick twitches in his hand from the thought. He uses some of his pre-cum to help him pump his hard cock.

“Fuck Y/N”

He whispered for you, groaning out for you. He was close to cumming but didn't want to yet. He let go of himself, watching his dick twitch.

After a few seconds, he starts to stroke himself again, his whole body flinching as he gently touches himself. He brings your panties down to his dick, teasing himself with them.

Seungmin slowly puts your panties around his hard dick, his whole body reacting to every touch. He felt himself around you, stroking himself with you. He wanted you so bad.

All while he was doing this he didn't hear the front door open. He had been edging himself on for so long that he didn't even realize the time. You've been home for a while.

He lets out more whimpers not knowing you’re home. You could hear him calling out for you, you thought maybe something had happened so you slowly walked up to your door.

You opened the door just enough for you to see inside. Seungmin didn’t even look up at the door as you peeked through it. The image of him was so fucking hot.

He was sitting on the side of your bed, his shirt in his mouth, his shorts down to his knees, his cock in his hand.

Seeing your panties in his hand shocked you. It made you want to help him, he felt like this because of you right?

You open the door gently, watching seungmin glance up at you with begging eyes. He realized what he was doing for a second and got embarrassed, trying to cover himself.

“I uh.. Its not what it looks like y/n! I didn't mean to I…it just kinda happened..”

You don't say anything and start to walk up to him. You look into his lustful eyes, you could tell he wanted you to do anything to him.

Looking down at his cock you could see so much cum leaking from him. He was a mess for you, your panties now covered in his cum.

“Seungmin, let me help you okay?”

He nods his head in approval as you look down at his dick watching him twitch. You put your hand on his hips rubbing around his base before touching his cock.

His hips buck into your touch, whimpers slipping out from his mouth as you tease him. You didn't know that he had already been on the edge of cumming for a while.

You stroke him a few times before leaning forward to take him in your mouth. His hips bucking every time you move your head.

He grabs a fist full of your hair as you suck him off. His hips start to buck forward and fuck into your face, his grip tightening on your hair, whimpers flowing from his mouth.

You bring your head back up, gathering up spit in your mouth to help you stroke his dick again.

“Ngh y/n please”

His begging made you want more than just what you were giving him, but it was already late and the two of you had things to do tomorrow.

“Can you cum in my mouth seungmin? Please?”

He nods his head yes as you go down on him again, taking in his full length. His hand pushed your head down the closer he came to cumming down your throat.

With a few final thrusts into your face, he came down your throat, painting your mouth white. You moan into his thrust causing him to whimper from the vibrations.

You look up at him as you bring yourself up to his view, allowing him to watch you swallow his cum.

“Fuck y/n….your such a good girl for me…”

You smile at him as he strokes your face, both of you trying to catch your breath from what just happened.

“Maybe we could do this again seungmin, but maybe let me help you more..”

“Fuck yes y/n”

After a while of catching your breath, you get up to get a towel to help clean up yourself and him. He kept apologizing about what happened saying how he didn't know why it happened, but you didn't mind it at all. After all, you've been waiting for this moment.

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