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Unleash your SALES potential
Introduction: In the fast-paced world of business, the role of a sales professional is more vital than ever. Whether you're just starting out or looking to enhance your sales skills, this blog post is here to guide you on your journey to becoming a top-notch sales professional. From developing strong communication skills to staying motivated, we'll explore the key elements that can help you excel in the competitive landscape of sales.
The Power of Effective Communication: Sales professionals are essentially the face of their business. To succeed in this role, mastering effective communication skills is crucial. From active listening to persuasive speaking, honing your ability to connect with potential customers is key. Remember, it's not just about selling a product or service—it's about building trust and establishing long-lasting relationships.
Product Knowledge: Know Your Stuff: To be a successful sales professional, you must have an in-depth understanding of the product or service you're selling. Knowing your product's features, benefits, and competitive advantages will give you the confidence to address customer concerns and objections effectively. Continuously educating yourself about industry trends and staying up to date with market demands will keep you one step ahead of the competition.
Mastering the Art of Negotiation: Negotiation is an art that every sales professional should strive to master. Being able to find common ground, overcome objections, and close deals requires a combination of effective communication, empathy, and flexibility. By understanding the needs and motivations of your customers, you'll be better equipped to find mutually beneficial solutions that satisfy both parties.
Building and Nurturing Relationships: Great sales professionals understand the value of building strong relationships with their customers. Investing time and effort into understanding your customers' needs and providing exceptional service will enable you to establish a loyal customer base. Remember, it's not just about making a sale—it's about creating advocates for your brand who will promote your products and services to their network.
Staying Motivated and Focused: Working in sales can be demanding, and rejection is inevitable. To stay motivated and focused, it's important to set clear goals and visualize your success. Celebrate even small victories, and don't let setbacks discourage you. Stay resilient, constantly learn from experiences, and surround yourself with positive influences to maintain a growth mindset.
Conclusion: Becoming a successful sales professional requires continuous learning, adaptability, and a commitment to excellence. By mastering effective communication, product knowledge, negotiation skills, relationship building, and staying motivated, you'll be well on your way to achieving your sales goals. Remember, success in sales is not just about closing deals but about building long-lasting partnerships and making a positive impact.
So, are you ready to unleash your sales potential? Embrace the challenges, adopt a growth mindset, and excel in the art of being a successful sales professional.
Micaelo Duran
#sales#professional#marketing#sdr2#salesdevelopmentrepresentative#business development#business development representative#Account executive#Salesspecialist#Micaelo Duran
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#adaptability to change#business development#business development goals#business development jobs#Business Development Manager#business development metrics#business development skills#business development strategy#business development vs sales#business growth#collaboration between business development and sales#collaboration in business development#corporate development director#customer engagement#customer insights#digital business development specialist#independence in sales#JobsBuster blogpost#JobsBuster post#lead conversion#market research#maximizing business growth#partnership manager#revenue generation#risk resilience in business development#risk tolerance in sales#sales#sales development representative#sales goals#sales metrics
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With the sudden collapse of the Soviet Union in the early 1990s, many of the former empire's resources were sold off to the highest bidder, and their $14 billion space shuttle program was no exception.
Seeking to recoup some of that eyewatering spend, in 1998, the "Buran" (Russia's answer to the American Space Shuttle) was offered up for sale on eBay for $10 million.
No serious offers were received - with most people assuming the listing to be a joke, until the New York Post confirmed the sale, with Russian authorities stating they "actually have two" if anyone is interested.
(Pictured: A later auction of a smaller scale Buran in 2005)
Sensing an opportunity, a group of Aussie entrepreneurs including Australia's first astronaut and the lawyer for Prime Minister Paul Keating offer to lease the shuttle from Russia, to put it on display in Australia during the Sydney Olympics.
After gaining permission from the Kremlin for the lease, in 1999 the Russian military briefly stops bombing Chechnya in order to dismantle the Buran, and it is placed on a barge to be shipped to Sydney on the (soon to be infamous for other reasons) Tampa shipping vessel at a cost of $5 million.
Once in Sydney, after a disastrous few months on display where crowds failed to flock to the shuttle exhibition featuring such compelling educational offerings as "activities is to assist in the development of issues of nutrition and hygiene at home" (an actual quote from their website) - the leasing company declared bankruptcy and washed their hands of the space shuttle completely.
The Buran Gift shop where you could buy soviet space ship themed football jerseys, in case you needed one of those
One of four people listed on the lease, described as a business partner of the Prime Minister, also claims he never knew he was a director of the company, which went on to cause a lot more problems.
This whole debacle presented a slight issue for the cash strapped Russian authorities, who had now only been paid $100,000 for the 9 year lease of the shuttle instead of the $600,000 they were owed. Eventually the decision was made to abandon the once $1 billion Soviet pride and joy in a Sydney carpark, where it resided for a year under a small tarpaulin.
Failed attempts to be rid of the shuttle included a 12 day auction hosted by an LA radio station, where listeners were offered the chance to buy the shuttle for $6 million, however all bids turned out to be pranks and the shuttle remained.
Multiple attempts were also made to sell the shuttle to Tom Cruise, with the exacerbated movie star's representatives repeatedly telling the insistent traders that he was not interested in owning a Russian spaceship.
Eventually a Singaporean group dismantled the shuttle and shipped it overseas, however Russian authorities soon reported they once again had been failed to be paid for the lease. Singaporean representatives responded that they definitely had paid for the shuttle, and that they simply couldn't remember when or how much was paid.
Representing the Russian government, Lawyer Suhaila Turani told the Wall Street Journal “I feel sorry for the Russians. They’re good in space, but they’re very naive in business.”
For a time the shuttle was abandoned in the storage yard of event company Pico, with the company owner telling the Wall Street Journal "I just want this thing out of my life" after three years of being stuck with it.
A few years later the shuttle was found by German journalists dismantled in a junkyard, and it was then bought and shipped to Germany to be put on display a museum, so all's well that ends well (except they dropped it from a crane while trying to set it up, but it polished up okay).
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JUPITER through the houses: Where do things happen easily for you in life ? 🍀🎰🔑
Jupiter naturally represents one’s fortune. The house Jupiter resides in one’s birth chart depicts the individual’s “luck” in life.
But one can liken “luck” and “fortune” as circumstances where things just happen to work out for you and you gain things “easily”.
This is due to Jupiter’s innate supportive nature, blessing natives with favorable circumstances wherever he resides.
Where Saturn restricts and pushes one to put in effort, Jupiter’s nature is supportive and generous with fortune.
Check the house you have Jupiter in ➡️
Can work for tropical or sidereal birth chart!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Jupiter in 1H: you attract attention easily, naturally popular, respected by others, gains weight easily. Naturally protected by the universe and divinely guided. Naturally confident about oneself.
Jupiter in 2H: receiving financial opportunities easily, receiving gifts from others, spoiled with money and gifts. Easy to have large appetite. Gets financial support from family easily. Singing abilities and vocal talents come easy to you. Gets wealthy easily.
Jupiter in 3H: Easily learns new skills. Easily expresses oneself, endless creativity, ease with forming social connections. Easily gains favoritism at school and from peers. Trying stuff for the first time and succeeding. Easily succeeding at social media, gaining followers etc. Easy for you to learn and gain knowledge. Being smart comes easy. Understanding many topics without much effort.
Jupiter in 4H: Easily aligns with one’s feminine energy. Has powerful intuitive downloads, ease with home related manners, easy to live in desired circumstances. Easy to manifest dream car/ home. Supportive connection with family. If you need help they support you easily.
Jupiter in 5H: ease with creativity, having a lot of creative projects. Easy to get pregnant, “fertile”. Multitalented. Easy to have multiple talents. Trying anything creative and being automatically good at it. Easy to become famous. Effortless “star quality”. Easily attracts romantic attention.
Jupiter in 6H: ease with health matters. Healing from ailments quickly. Easy to develop a routine for oneself, easy to get a job, easy to form bonds with animals. Easily receives favoritism at work. Easily gains victory over enemies.
Jupiter in 7H: ease with relationships. Getting into a partnership without trying too hard, romantic options fall into your lap. Easy to appeal to others in social situations. Gaining a favorable reputation easily. Receives favorable circumstances in business partnerships easily.
Jupiter in 8H: receiving money and gifts from others easily, people just give you stuff often. Easily finds a wealthy spouse. Spouse is financially generous. Able to use intuitive powers easily, naturally “psychic”, you manifest easily and get what you want through spiritual abilities.
Jupiter in 9H: gaining knowledge, and understanding spiritual topics easily. Naturally wise, intelligent, clever without much effort. Naturally a good teacher to others. Easy to guide others and give advice. Gains fortune easily and is lucky. Ability to travel internationally without much efforts. Easily aligns with destiny.
Jupiter in 10H: receiving job opportunities easily, always has a good reputation no matter what. Receiving favorable jobs and profesional positions. Easily receives favoritism from boss. Easily gains popularity and status. Naturally a leader.
Jupiter in 11H: receives gains easily, experiences windfalls of increase financially, gets opportunities easily. Receiving social popularity easily, easy to get social media following/fanbase. Effortless ability to persuade the masses, easily influential, makes social connections easily. In difficult situations you always have someone that magically bails you out.
Jupiter in 12H: receives intuitive downloads easily. Naturally psychic, easily connects with spiritual world. Can easily astral travel and tap into different realities. Spiritual knowledge comes easy to you. Naturally protected from hidden enemies. Sleeps easily and comfortably. Has dreams that tell the future.
-starsandsuch 💕✌️
Similar post: Your Jupiter sign and your philosophy in life
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I think one of Imperialism's most evil strategies is the national scale torture you'll see inflicted on countries that dare to dream of freedom. Like it's not just about overthrowing the anti-imperialist regime itself, but utterly breaking the very social, economic and in turn psychological foundations it's built upon. Prolonged periods of destruction that are as systematic as they are sadistic with the aim of making life unlivable until the government either collapses or gives in, accepting whatever concessions are forced upon them as the nation is remoulded into an dependent and obedient little neocolony.
Sometimes an imperialist power will act directly to achieve this (just take the gratuitous and deliberate destruction of civil infrastructure during the bombings of Yugoslavia and Iraq), but the preferred strategy is to employ local proxies. Groups like RENAMO in Mozambique or the Contras of Nicaragua. Bands of reactionaries, traitors and general desperadoes are gathered up, trained, armed and transported over the border at the expense of the Imperialists and their local collaborators. These armed groups have no interest in build mass support, of representing an alternative way of life. Their only purpose is destruction; killing, torturing, looting, burning whatever they can in order to bring their country to its knees. Frequently targeting important nodes in the networks that sustain the nation and the people's faith in it (bridges, rail depots, factories, hospitals and schools) but ultimately happy to attack whatever they can; every house burned or person tortured contributes to the climate of terror and corrosion of government credibility. Because when they kill these groups don't like to do it cleanly; their attacks generate countless reports immolation, disembowelment, victims hacked to pieces and left to bleed. But when possible they prefer to leave their victims alive and capable of further spreading their terror, inflicting the most vicious sorts of rape and mutilation on a mass scale
It's not just just evil for the sake of evil mind you. The cruelty has a point; human destruction to accompany the physical. Every person killed is someone who can no longer contribute to the development of the nation, while even living yet physically and psychologically broken victim places further strain on their country's increasingly fragile support systems. Meanwhile the terror of these actions spreads the impact beyond their immediate victims. The murder and torture of peasants makes the survivors too scared to go back into their fields, slowly starving the nation as the rural economy grind to a halt. The gruesome deaths of traders and travelers leaves the survivors too terrified to continue their business, shutting down the distributive networks that make national development and often life itself possible. The terror unleashed on foreign professionals can prompt the survivors to flee and discourage newcomers from arriving, depriving the underdeveloped economic and education systems of the skilled workers they need to improve or even function. And every broken body, ever broken mind, is proof of the government's weakness and ineptitude; a humiliating failure to protect their own people that demoralises supporters and empowers dissenters. The motivated sadism of these terrorist attacks is a microcosm of the motivated sadism displayed by their Imperialist backers
But why go to all this trouble? Why not just send in the paratroopers or organise a coup to end those troublesome regimes quickly? Sometimes it's a matter of possibility. As great as they are, the powers of Imperialist nations are not unlimited. All manner of constraints (domestic unrest, international condemnation which advantages dangerous rivals, the simple financial and human costs of such operations) limit what actions are viable or desirable. This is especially significant when the targets are motivated and disciplined anti-imperialists with a base of deep-rooted popular support, the sort of regime that won't go down to a simple commando raid or bribe to the right general. But sometimes, it's not enough to merely cut down a dissenting government; you have to salt the earth and make sure nothing similar ever grows back. I'll finish with the words of an anonymous Jesuit priest, talking about Nicaragua yet in terms widely relevant enough to be published in John Saul's conclusion to A Difficult Road: The Transition to Socialism in Mozambique (1985):
In Chile the Americans made a mistake. They cut off the revolution too abruptly. They killed the revolution but, as we can see from recent developments there, they didn't kill the dream. In Nicaragua, they're trying to kill the dream
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Juno persona chart
jupiter in the houses
what is a juno persona chart? looking into juno persona chart gives more detailed insight of how the relationship and marriage overall of you and your spouse will be like. it also describes them in a sense as well. The Greek Goddess Juno is described to rule over love and marriage and hence why the asteroid is looked into for that theme.
jupiter represents luck, it expands anything it touches and gives prosperity in that area. in the juno persona chart, jupiter signifies the luck the couple has within the marriage, what possible expansions marriage life of the couple receives and what possibly wisdom the couple takes.
reminder: this is my interpretation from observations and first hand experiences, so don't take this to heart.
**reminder no.2 that this can be used for signs as well, so for example if jupiter is in aries in 6th house, make sure to check out jupiter in 1st house also as it may resonate.
jupiter in 1st house: marriage may be full of quick decisions, not waiting around brings luck to the couple. acting right away is the way to go for this placement. the couple may find luck in cars, perhaps you always have access to transport, have access to cars, may even own lots of cars or some sort of quick transport. marriage may bring growth to developing how to cope with anger or short temper, this placement may bring expansion to have healthy coping mechanisms when it comes to short temper or raising voice. marriage may bless the individual with courage to show the real them for example showing off their real style, personality, likes and interests etc. these individuals may have a very nice and luxurious (a grand) home after marriage, exterior of home may look big and expensive so this may be an indication of having a big house after marriage. jupiter here may brings lots of movement to the individual after marriage, their life may liven up a bit and there may be lots of movement during marriage. life can be full of life, full of passion, desire and motivation so a sense of fulfilment may occur and make the individual feel alive.
spouse may have natal jupiter in aries, 1st house, fire sign or fire house.
jupiter in 2nd house: marriage may bring luck to resources, money, materialistic things and ones value. the couple may receive lots of gifts from other people, not cheap also, this placement just attracts gifts and luxury. also expect people offering you to go out for dinner or lunch after marriage, this brings expansion in areas of socialising and allowing oneself to destress and rewind. marriage can be full of relaxation, after marriage the native can have luck in having s stress free mind or a less one. jupiter here may bring growth to having patience with one another, adapting to foreign environments and finding comfort in anywhere one may go. marriage may bring luck in artistic fields related to the voice, the arts, dancing, cooking, food related and beauty related. this placement may have luck in those themes and may have a business or open up a store related to these themes.
spouse may have natal jupiter in taurus, 2nd house, earth sign or earth house.
jupiter in 3rd house: marriage may bring luck in communication, writing, expression of oneself and getting to the point. this placement bring expansion to speaking so couple much talk things out even if they are the tiniest of little misconceptions they should be sorted out rough communication. i feel like this placement also gives luck in education, so this placement go back to school, college or university after marriage or they decide to study something they have been interested in after marriage. marriage may bring this placement extreme motivation and inspiration from their partner so they may want to complete everything at once as ideas keep coming and coming. this placement may find lessons to do with trust and talking behind each others backs, also learning how to stay within each others energy levels and keeping up with each other ideas and supporting each other in that sense.
spouse may have natal jupiter in gemini, 3rd house, air sign or air house.
jupiter in 4th house: marriage may bring luck in family relations. perhaps getting closer to family through marriage, visiting family more often after marriage, spending more time with the mother especially after marriage. this is also an indication of having luck in having a family of your own, so having kids may bring more luck in that field. having a comfortable home of your own will expand your luck, being comfortable in your own home is very important for example, having every detail of the house according to the way that makes you feel warm and cosy can make a different in your growth as a person. this placement is spiritually gifted with their intuition and learning to believe in themselves. Jupiter here has a lesson to never diss oneself and always believe in your abilities after marriage. through marriage connecting with ones ancestors may bring great fortune also.
spouse may have natal jupiter in cancer, 4th house, water sign or water house.
jupiter in 5th house: the couple may have luck in children. this placement really enhances the amount of children the couple may have, so most likely people with this placement have lots of children. also the couple may find happiness and expansion with children, perhaps it helps with their mental health, their spiritual journey, their mindset and their luck in general. also this placement may find growth in their confidence may grow in confidence and have their own way. also this placement most likely will be quite well known whether its within the community, neighbouring, worldwide etc. This placement finds growth in their ego, so usually after marriage their views of life and their mindset may drrastically change for the better especially after having kids.
spouse may have natal jupiter in leo, 5th house, fire sign or fire house.
jupiter in 6th house: marriage may bring luck to health and fitness. this placement may have fortune in their health for example getting more fitter by going to gym, eating more healthy, changing unhealthy life style, changing up their routine for the better after marriage. the couple may find expansion in the field of taking care of something, perhaps taking care of each other, taking care of pets, taking care of friends, taking care of grand-parents and so forth, however, that will bring luck. jupiter here may bring lessons it terms of criticality, judgement, lack of mentality and perfectionism after marriage. jupiter here brings luck in routine, their day-to-day life may be lucky for example someone with this placement may just get opportunities when going to the store or finding a valuable item while walking a dog and so forth.
spouse may have natal jupiter in virgo, 6th house, earth sign or earth house.
jupiter in 7th house: marriage may be favourable in having good relations to each others grandparents. this placement may experience lots of luck in law situations such as legal matters related to the government and documents. the couple may never be involved in problems related to the law or always have luck in that field. marriage may bring luck to connections and relations in general, you may have more ease connecting with other people, you may get on with people more easily. this may work to this placements favour as it can expand the amount of opportunities one can receive, getting more compliments, being liked by people you thought disliked you and so forth.
spouse may have natal jupiter in libra, 7th house, air sign or air house.
jupiter in 8th house: couple may have luck in keeping secrets, what i mean by that is they keep things private very well so that comes to an advantage to them because it shocks the people around them and question things like 'since when??' or 'whatt?' that sort of vibe. this placement keeps people wondering, guessing and interested in your marriage and this placement never gives them the satisfaction. this protects the couples privacy and protects their energy also. this protects the couple from negative energy which protects their luck. this is a very powerful placement to have since this expands the spiritual bond between he couple also. strategizing goals and researching and just planning in general may bring luck to this placement for example, planning outings, shopping, researching contracts and the background of the contract before signing, researching what holiday you'll be travelling to and so forth.
spouse may have natal jupiter in scorpio, 8th house, water sign or water house.
jupiter in 9th house: this placement brings luck to those who travel abroad, living outside of the environment that they grew up in will bring growth and extreme luck. another thing is that the couple may find luck in being enthusiastic and charismatic, also making jokes and taking things with a grain of salt, not over exaggerating stuff will be favourable for this placement. also marriage may be full of discovery, always learning, always exploring. being in a good relationship with parent-in-law brings luck to the marriage so being in good terms with spouses parents may be very favourable for this placement and may bring lots of opportunities related to travel, fulfilment, study and spiritual growth. another thing with this placement is that jupiter being in its home house, this is very expanding and broadening in terms of their conscious mind, jupiter can guide the couple in marriage and incline their mental and astral growth. basically, marriage is spiritually guided by the higher energies, marriage was meant to happen in order for this placement to achieve and complete their mission of this physical realm.
spouse may have natal jupiter in sagittarius, 9th house, fire sign or fire house.
jupiter in 10th house: marriage may bring luck in image of this placement. the couple may find luck in their career, may get promotions, upgrades, bonuses, movement to higher position etc etc. jupiter here gives luck in other peoples view about you, the vast majority of people may have a different perception of you in a good way after marriage. also marriage may bring reputation to your image that expands your opportunities and respect from other people. also people may find you more serious after marriage. an honourable thing to keep in mind with this placement is that over a certain period of time, jupiter brings severe luck through hard work and determination for this placement during marriage, marriage may strengthen and jupiter offers its full expansion later in life in this marriage. this is also an indication of a very long lasting marriage, even a marriage that last until old age.
spouse may have natal jupiter in capricorn, 10th house, earth sign or earth house.
jupiter in 11th house: marriage may find luck in social gatherings, groups and outings. couple may face extreme luck on social media and technology, for example may have a successful social media platform or have extreme luck with technology, long-lasting, fast running and so forth. marriage may expand social groups also, this placement may find more accepting and understanding friends after marriage especially. may also find their true friend group after marriage. this placement may also experience growth in expressing themselves the way its most authentically true to themselves and being comfortable about it after marriage. this is also a placement that brings unplanned events and turns it into the most luckiest thing ever, this placement may find the most luck through spontaneous events, events that happen through spite for example getting calls from an old friend to go to a café the next day, that day turns out to be one of the best, or another example may be getting invited to an important event having only a short period of time of notice, when arriving at event you see people that are well known and receiving offers from them and so on.
spouse may have natal jupiter in aquarius, 11th house, air sign or air house.
jupiter in 12th house: this placement may have luck in spirituality, the couple may be spiritually guided by the universe and have luck overseas. for example when travelling pay just have the best luck ever and may feel complete when travelling long distances in general. this placement often brings luck when it comes to sleeping, for example you may be guided when in bed with your partner if that makes ant sense, like you may feel better you may sleep better and you may even dream better. marriage may bring luck in artistic areas of life for example having luck in being an artist, singer, model, teacher, poet, also tarot reader. this placement may get oversea recognition in these artistic areas. marriage may expand the mind to prioritise mindfulness in order to not fall into dangerous addiction tendencies so it is very important to find peace and a healthy coping mechanism through spirituality.
spouse may have natal jupiter in pisces, in 12th house, water sign or water house.
thanks so much for reading, have a nice day ahead!🌛⭐🌼
#juno#juno persona chart#asteroid#juno astrology#astro#astrology#asteroid astrology#astro notes#astro observations#astro placements#astrology community#astrology observations#kpop astrology#celebrity astrology#astro community#zodiac signs#astrology signs#future#future spouse#marriage
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What’s the deal with Tsar and Arthur?
Today we’ll look at the two most popular members of Sanya and Yura’s friend group, Tsar and Arthur, a.k.a. Anger Management. How did they meet? What’s their life like? And most importantly, why the hell are they so angsty?
Let’s start with the older one.
Arthur Sokolov
Joining the orphanage
Arthur was brought to the orphanage not long after being born. He never met any of his parents.
Growing up in a state-funded shelter meant developing a clear understanding of what kinds of behaviours will and won’t result in getting your shit kicked in. You can’t be too cocky, and you can’t be too weak. Follow the hierarchy, but don’t let your fear of elders show.
Arthur learned to navigate that little society well. He had earned respect among kids his own age and younger, and avoided being pushed around by the older teenagers too much. Less due to a noble heart and more because of being too proud to act like a doormat.
However, that didn't make him immune to peer pressure.
Correctional psychiatry
Business trip.
Many low-end orphanages across the former USSR had been essentially transformed into incubators for future gang members. “Businessmen”, either by bribe or threat, came to these institutions to recruit impressionable children into their organisations. One such uncle visited Arthur’s foster home.
For kids like him, the course of action was simple:
misbehave;
get sent to a mental institution for corrective treatment;
sneak as many bottles of trihexyphenidyl as you can into your bag during your stay;
leave the hospital as normal;
transfer the trihexyphenidyl to a gang representative and get your paycheck.
Under that business model, Arthur became a frequent guest at psychiatric wards. Having witnessed their indifference and medical callousness firsthand, he had developed a massive disdain for all kinds of mental health professionals.
It started even before joining the gang, of course – way before. It’s hard not to foster a vendetta when you get thrown to the looney bin for any misstep. At first he tried to honestly convince the doctors working there that he was fine, but he eventually realised it was futile: they were always in on the punishment.
Hustling continues
Arthur and Ivan at 15 and 17 respectively.
As Arthur grew older, he got more deeply involved with the gang’s activities alongside other kids. This meant participating in transfers, standing watch during certain deals, acting as a “treasure man” (i.e. hiding drugs in agreed upon places for clients to pick up), and so on. Fights were frequent.
He knew it was a slippery slope, but getting out was not an option – not an easy one, at least. This was the period during which he grew close to Ivan, who was commonly assigned to work with Arthur and other children from their institute.
They bonded on the basis of wanting to leave the business, though for different reasons: most of all, Ivan didn’t want to disappoint his grandma.
Getting out
First meeting with Yura.
The sudden disbandment of the gang was a relief to both Ivan and Arthur. A major member got caught and ratted almost everyone out, except for the dozens of orphans involved. So while Ivan went to turn himself in, Arthur got to walk free.
Before going, Ivan suggested Arthur replace him at his pop’s car repair salon. The boy seemed to have a knack for fixing things, and the two had developed a trusting relationship over their time working together.
While everything was looking fine, Arthur still wanted to destroy all traces of his activities - even those that couldn’t reasonably be tracked down to him. This led to him encountering Yura. Despite the very rocky start of their acquaintance, they went on to hang out together pretty regularly.
As of today, Arthur continues to do part-time at the workshop alongside Ivan. Both are committed to never getting back into the criminal business. Unless you count Sanya's Dynamo. Which you shouldn't. Having experienced what actual gangs are like, Arthur finds it hard not to look down at the girl's little roleplay.
Tsar
Joining the orphanage
Before coming to the orphanage, Tsar lived with his grandma. She died when he was 6. Since his parents had lost their parental rights due to alcoholism a couple years prior, there was only one place for him to go.
Tsar had a very hard time adjusting to the rigid hierarchy of the foster home. He was lucky enough to catch Arthur's attention and, in a sense, got scooped under his wing. The boy disliked relying on the older kid too much, but was too weak to stand on his own.
Gang involvement
How come mom lets you have two trips to the mental ward
Since Arthur got dragged into gang activities earlier than Tsar, the younger kid felt jealous. He, like most other children, fully bought into the romanticised idea of criminal life that was pushed by the uncles visiting the orphanage.
But as years went on, he saw the toll it had begun to take on Arthur. Tsar had taken a couple of correctional trips to mental wards as well, though he'd never participated in any illegal schemes. Those times were bad enough - he couldn't imagine going there again and again on purpose.
By the time Tsar would be old enough to get recruited into the business, Arthur forbade him from it. The kid still wanted to join to prove his worth, to earn his share, to show his guts. But his trust and respect for Arthur were stronger.
As much as he hated the idea, he stuck to the sidelines.
Contact with parents
Teatime with family.
Tsar’s parents reached out to him a couple years after he was transferred to the orphanage. He could only meet with them under supervision up until he was 13 years old. Afterwards they were allowed private meetings.
Today, he occasionally comes to visit them at their apartment. They still drink, but to Tsar, they just seem quiet and pitiful. He usually lends them the pocket money he receives from the orphanage. He knows they won't return it.
Anger Management
Ural models are known for their incredible durability and a baffling number of switches.
Tsar found a creative release in music and wrote songs to vent his frustrations. The orphanage had an old acoustic guitar that he learned to play, but it got completely broken when the boy was 13. After Arthur joined the workshop, he bought a black Ural from Ivan’s dad for cheap, upgraded its port, and gifted it to Tsar.
As it turned out, Ivan’s dad was hopping from one band to another in the 80s-90s, so he was happy to accommodate the kids' creative endeavours. He allowed them to use the spare garage space to practise and even supplied an incomplete drum set.
Tsar begged Arthur to back him up with drums. The latter begrudgingly agreed to learn them, but ended up really enjoying hitting barrels with sticks. Right now their band has a tiny local following, mostly in the face of Sanya Kazarina.
Some notes
I remember sitting down and reading about actual orphanage experiences in the post-soviet space – it was eye-opening, but also gave me a lot of material to work with, as heartless as that probably sounds. A lot of things simply clicked into place.
I didn't go into too much detail here, but FYI, I've downplayed the severity of certain situations. Trauma aside, I'd say both Tsar and Arthur got quite lucky in the end.
#fixed some awkward wording from the patreon version so hopefully it reads better now#cw alcoholism#cw child abuse#cw medical malpractice#parties are for losers#deepest lore#loredump#bg gang#anger management#arthur#tsar#ivan#yura#sanya#myart#scraps
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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.
#stray kids#skz#skz smut#stray kids hard hours#skz scenarios#han jisung smut#han jisung#han jisung skz#stray kids fanfic#stray kids x reader#stray kids smut#han skz#han smut#stray kids han#stray kids hard thoughts#smut#jisung smut#skz fanfic#han jisung hard thoughts#han jisung x reader#han jisung x you
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hi angel! i love your work so much and fell in love with bambi!reader, so i was hoping you could write something for me ^_^
can you pls pls pls write bambi!reader comforting rafe after he gets into it with ward? i feel like she’d know exactly how to comfort himmm (pure fluff pls, i read too much smut lmaooo)
warnings: ward cameron, arguing, shouting, a little bit of physical violence, poor rafe who deserves so much better, mention of murder (i’m not referencing peterkin), fluff, soft petting, words of affirmation
a/n: aww bambi!reader has been getting so much love, it makes my heart happy to know that you enjoy the works that she’s in <3
“you had one job, rafe.. one!” ward had been shouting at rafe for nearly an hour already, his face flush with anger. “you really have a way of fucking things up, huh? i should put a caution sign on your forehead.” rafe’s fist clenched as he listened to his father, trying his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest with every word that ward spat.
“i already told you that i couldn’t close out the business accounts and wire the money to a different one. apparently i’m not next in line to own cameron development anymore. ‘you know something about that?” rafe was in disbelief when he had to find out from a service representative that his own father took him off of the family business, something that he worked hard all these years for in order to prove he was worthy of running.
ward froze. he had forgotten about that. “were you ever gonna tell me, or were you just gonna be a coward about it?” rafe stood up, towering over his father with that crazy look in his eyes. “what you forgot to do before you faked your own death instead of facing your problems like a man, was take my name off of the inheritance of tanneyhill.” he laughed, “i own this shit now.” rafe stepped closer, backing ward into the wall. “get out of my house.” ward was seething, his hand coming up to fist rafe’s shirt.
“your house? i’m the one who worked like a dog to get us here.” ward said through gritted teeth, shoving rafe in his chest. rafe stumbled, scoffing out a laugh as he then pushed his father. “worked like a dog to get us here but you were more than willing to leave me here while you start a new life in fuckin’ guadeloupe.” rafe fought to keep his emotions at bay.
“leave. and don’t ever come back.” ward’s chest was rising and falling, both him and rafe glaring at one another. “you’re cut off. good luck keeping up with this place on your own.” ward smiled bitterly. “cut off?” rafe narrowed his eyes, “i’ve been cut off, dad. i haven’t used a cent of yours since i was nineteen. all this time i’ve been making money my own way, and a lot of it too. ‘seems like your old man brain forgot about that.” rafe nudged ward as he walked past, his father following him out of the master bedroom.
“i’m leaving. when i come back i want you out of here,” rafe grabbed his truck keys, his skin on fire as he looked up the staircase, “and by the way, asshole, i’m not by myself. i got the prettiest girl on the island on my arm everywhere i go.” ward watched as his son walked out the front door. rafe was seeing red the whole time he drove to your house, cursing under his breath as he recalled his father’s words.
“the fucking nerve that guy has.” he punched the steering wheel, nostrils flaring as tears pricked at his eyes. he was the only one who was there to take care of things when ward was ‘gone’. even going as far as committing crimes so his father wouldn’t face any kind of scrutiny. yet, there he was telling him that he was a fuck up.
rafe spent the next five minutes mumbling to himself, his hands shaking as he parked outside your driveway. you were curled up on the porch swing, an open book in your lap when he walked up the stone path. all it took was one look at your boyfriend to have you scrambling up from your seat, eager to soothe him in any way you can. “oh, ray, what’s wrong?” you guided him inside, locking the door shut before both of you made your way up to your room.
“it’s ward. he came back just to tell me shit about not closing the bank accounts under cameron development.” you knew all about rafe’s conflict with his father. from the way he favored everyone else over his eldest, to the constant nagging and insults. sitting rafe down on the edge of your bed, you couldn’t help the way your heart sunk at the sight of defeat in his shoulders, his eyes void of any emotion.
slipping his shoes off, you took your usual seat in his lap, stroking the outline of his jaw as he vented. “i’ll never be good enough for him. i killed for him goddamit, and what do i get in return? ‘i should put a caution sign on your forehead.’ rafe imitated ward’s voice from earlier. you blinked, pecking his cheek. “you’re an amazing son, rafe. shame on him for not recognizing that.” rafe stared up at you, his heart beating wildly in his chest.
you were the only one that looked at him with pure adoration, the only one who made him feel like he had a purpose. “i think you’re amazing, rafe. you don’t sit around, waiting to get things done, you’re so helpful, and so, so kind— to me.” he chuckled at the clarification, rubbing a large hand over your knee. “you think so?” he leaned his head against your chest, your arms coming up to hold him. “i know so.” you sighed, breathing in his scent.
“wanna be little spoon tonight?” your voice alone made him relax, his eyes fluttering shut.
“..yeah.”
#❤︎₊ ⊹ works#₊˚⊹♡ bambi!reader#outer banks#rafe cameron#rafe cameron smut#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron blurb#rafe cameron x y/n#rafe cameron fic#rafe cameron prompt#rafe outer banks#obx#rafe obx#drew starkey#rafe fluff#rafe fanfiction#rafe x reader#rafe imagine#rafe cameron x you#rafe smut#rafe cameron imagine#rafe x you#outer banks smut#outer banks fanfiction#rafe fic
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"Good Luck, Babe." - Angst! [Maknae Line SKZ]
Notes : Part 2 to the "Are You Serious...?" mini-series where SKZ are walking red flags. Here is your comfort-not-comfort, because sometimes there are no happy endings and they don't redeem themselves.
Warnings : Angst with no comfort, Breakups, Unhappy endings sorry not sorry. Specific warnings for Felix's scenario; Mentions of weight, insecurities, possible ED implication. Warnings for IN's scenario; mentions of him pushing reader in the previous post. These are all obviously fictional scenarios and aren't made to represent the boys in any way.
"Are You Serious...?" Maknae Line Here
Han - Oversharing -> You shut down and quit confiding in him.
Due to his little problem of not being able to keep his mouth shut, you shut down completely after taking a few days to think about yourself and what you want to do about it all. You talked to him about what you felt he was doing wrong and he seemed to understand that you wanted him to hush up about things that are intimate between the two of you - but the next day you overheard him telling Seungmin yet again things about you that only he should know about your body.
You decided to quit confiding in him after Seungmin had texted you that he'd spoken up again and even gave you details after you asked what all he had said.
Jisung doesn't even seem to notice. Maybe he's too busy with work, maybe he's just that dense.
Everyone else sees the way you stay quiet at their little group outings these days, stealing glances at you in worry that something had happened. They all take note of your silence. Well, all of them but Jisung it seemed.
Naturally, he snapped on you when he did notice, not realizing that it was his own fault you'd stopped coming to him to talk. He'd boiled over one night when you'd rejected his advances and when you told him it was because you were tired of him telling the others about your intimate moments together, he decided to confront you - asking why you were blaming him for it.
The argument was small for him, and a deal-breaker for you. He had completely forgotten about you telling him to cool it with 'spilling the tea' about your relationship and was now upset at you for not being as romantic with him.
It takes one week for you to move your things out little by little, ending the relationship with him when he comes home one day by handing him the apartment keys and walking out.
Felix - Ordering food for you / Controlling your diet -> You distance yourself from him after developing insecurities because of him.
He notices it - unlike *cough cough* someone up above.
Felix immediately catches on after the first few times you go out to eat with Minho or Changbin instead of grabbing dinner with him after rehearsals. At first he feels a bit dejected, wondering why you'd chosen to go out with them instead of him when he's your boyfriend; But the new few times, he's actually a bit angry at it happening over and over.
He'll confront you about it to ask what's going on - but he'll do it when he follows you, Changbin, and Chan to a small restaurant. You're sitting with a mouthful of food, chewing slowly as he approaches the table and sits down at the end to stare you down and ask what's going on.
Changbin has to reach over and tell him to cool it when he accuses you of potentially seeing one of his hyungs while you're dating him, telling the younger member to drop it before he ends up in hot water.
But you snap to defend yourself, telling Felix the main reason you'd gone to eat with them so often is because they don't have a word to say about what you eat nor how much of it. They don't let their diets control others around them and while you applaud and respect them for sticking to their diet, you appreciate that they let you eat as much as you want without complaining or commenting on it.
Felix has the nerve to spin the narrative and question why you're eating so little when you're 'perfect the way you are,' - and after developing a crippling insecurity of your waist and sides because of him consistently buying you food and controlling what you eat, you feel you have every right to smack the man in that moment.
But you refrain from the action, only because of the older two sitting there, and grab your wallet. Handing Changbin the cash for your food, you give Felix a hard glare and spit a quiet "We're done." before walking out of the restaurant.
Felix sits, feelings stirring in his stomach as he looks to the others. They both frown, faces twisted in annoyance and disappointment with his actions. "Dude..."
Seungmin - Being Evasive / Not Responding -> The relationship fizzles away when you give him the same treatment.
After deciding Seungmin didn't deserve to hear your concerns, worries, or thoughts about not only your relationship but everything around you because he wouldn't even care to listen - you took up the same response he gave you and simply ignored him or shrugging any time he told you something about his day.
Eventually, you're just roommates. People question how you do it, how you stay living with him when he was so dismissive of you prior to ... whatever this is.
Passing each other in the hallway in the morning, making separate breakfasts, sleeping in different rooms just co-existing.
"Aren't you going to invite your girlfriend to dinner with us?" Jisung questions without thought as everyone gathers to leave the practice room.
Seungmin shrugs, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. "She's not my girlfriend anymore."
Everyone's eyes draw to you on the sofa, scrolling on your phone. You look up, giving a small shrug as if agreeing. Saying, 'it is what it is.' without words.
They seem to fumble a bit before nodding, leaving the practice room in a slow line. Seungmin closes the door as he exits last and you don't bother to follow, deciding to stay for a bit before heading back to your shared apartment to once again seclude yourself in your room and live another day together as - No, not friends. Just roommates.
Jeongin - Physically pushing you away -> The relationship ends the next day.
You don't wait. There is no point in waiting. Not when Jeongin physically could have harmed you when he pushed you away from him the night before. By the time he wakes up the next morning around eleven - you're gone.
Everything is moved out, not a trace of your existence left behind. He doesn't really need anymore confirmation that the relationship is over - He sighs out to himself before checking his phone to see that Felix had sent him multiple messages biting into him with words of anger and disappointment.
You must've confided in him for comfort as you moved everything out, and Jeongin can't blame you.
He ultimately decides to try and move on right away, eating quick before going to practice with the others as if everything were normal. Felix is oddly silent that day, tonguing his cheek anytime he looks in Jeongin's direction.
The day seems normal to everyone but him and Felix - until a man in a all-too-fancy suit walks into the room and apologizes for interrupting their rehearsal. He says Jeongin's name aloud and stepping forward, the maknae's brows furrow in light confusion at the papers handed to him.
The embarrassment at being informed you'd filed a restraining order against him in front of everyone else was enough to make him want to sink into the Earth forever.
#stray kids x reader#skz x reader#skz imagine#han x reader#in x reader#seungmin x reader#felix x reader#skz angst#stray kids fic
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"In drought-stricken areas, communities facing water shortages, or even in residential and commercial buildings eager to improve their environmental footprints, atmospheric water generators represent a new frontier in water production.
While it might sound like a tidbit from a science fiction movie, even the driest places on earth have moisture in the air that can be extracted and used for everyday necessities like plumbing and drinking.
Unlike traditional dehumidifiers, which also pull moisture from the air, AWGs utilize filtration and sterilization technology to make water safe to drink.
And while there are plenty of AWG companies out there — and the science itself isn’t novel — AWGs are becoming more efficient, affordable, and revolutionary in combating water scarcity in a myriad of communities.
Aquaria Technologies, a San Francisco-based AWG startup, was founded in 2022 to help provide affordable and clean drinking water in areas most affected by climate change.
Using heat exchange and condensation, Aquaria’s generators draw air into their systems, cool that air below its dew point, and as it condenses, capture that water and filter it for consumption.
As the cycle continues, the generator’s refrigerant vaporizes and goes through a process that cools it back into a liquid, meaning the heat transfer cycle repeats continuously in an energy-efficient and self-sustaining system.
“I’m sure you’ve had the experience in the summer, you take a glass of a cold drink out of the fridge and then water droplets form on the side of the bottle,” Aquaria’s co-founder and CEO Brian Sheng, said in a podcast episode. “That’s actually condensation.”
Sheng continued: “The question is, how do we create condensation? How do we extract water out of the air in large volume and using little energy? That’s what our technology does. We have created both active and passive cooling methods where we use special materials, and we’ve created heat exchange and recovery systems and airflow design, such that we’re maximizing heat exchange, and then we’re able to extract large volumes of water.”
Aquaria has created a number of generators, but its stand-alone model — the Hydropack X — can replace an entire home’s dependence on municipal water, producing as much as 264 gallons of potable water per day.
Other models, like the Hydrostation, can provide water for up to 1,500 people at parks, construction sites, or other outdoor public areas. The Hydropixel can make 24 gallons of water per day for a seamless at-home application, requiring a simple outlet for power.
“Atmospheric water generators present a groundbreaking solution to the global challenge of clean water scarcity, leveraging the humidity present in the air to produce potable water,” the company’s website explains.
“This technology is versatile, functioning efficiently across diverse climates — from arid regions to tropical settings. From rural communities in developing countries to advanced cities facing unexpected droughts, atmospheric water generators have a wide range of applications… transforming lives and providing secure, clean water sources.”
Considering an estimated 2.2 billion people lack access to clean water globally — including in American cities like Flint, Michigan, or Modesto, California — innovative solutions like AWGs are vital to maintaining the basic human right to clean water.
The World Economic Forum has begun to dip its toes into this technology as well, implementing public and private partnerships to introduce AWG units in Arizona’s Navajo Nation, where the machines produce about 200 gallons of clean water per day.
“When combined with an appropriate level of community engagement and triple-bottom-line business (people, planet, profit),” a blog post for WE Forum said, “this model can be a powerful stopgap solution where few exist today.”
Similarly, according to New Atlas, Aquaria has a partnership with developers to supply its technology to a 1,000-home community in Hawaii later this year, relying entirely on atmospherically generated water.
The company also has a “Frontier Access Program,” which partners with water-related NGOs, community project developers, and sustainable development groups to deploy this technology in areas most in need.
Regardless of their use cases — in homes, in communities facing water shortages, or at aid sites navigating natural disasters — AWGs have a minimal environmental impact. Sourcing water “from thin air,” requires no plastic bottles, no large-scale plants using up loads of energy, and no byproducts that can harm the environment."
-via GoodGoodGood, August 27, 2024
#water#water shortage#drought#united states#solar power#sustainability#clean water#human rights#good news#hope#solarpunk
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What criticisms do you have of direct democracy? Assuming it’s communist, as well as having laws about what can and can’t be voted on such as “no killing/disenfranchising the (blank) people” and “no voting for capitalism” (the actual laws would be longer but I don’t want to write a long paragraph about how you’re not allowed to vote for fascism in a fake direct democratic society)
While it's fine in the abstract, in practice it's exceedingly slow and inefficient - being a political representative in a council is a full-time job, and if every single decision made is subject to the popular vote, then both 1) polling itself takes considerably longer; and 2) the necessary amount of education and discussion needed to be carried out prior to a proper vote is much larger: rather than simply summarising the issue and presenting key facts to council members, a massive public education campaign now has to be carried out every time a new, say, regulatory standard for storm drains, is decided upon.
Which leads us into the other main criticism - in practice, people don't *want* to have to deliberate and vote on canal works every day. Either voting is mandatory, in which caee annoyed, disinterested voters are just randomly choosing without much thought; or voting is optional, and the vast majority of people aren't actually being represented in any given issue, because it's solely decided by whichever segment are motivated enough to get a campaign going. Here, delegating the business of understanding and making decisions on random organisational matters *does* genuinely lead to a more representative and democratic outcome.
Fundamentally, what we're talking about is division of labour - a factory is more efficient when each worker doesn't have to make a complete product by themselves. Bureaucratic and administrative work *is* still work, regardless of its political character. Again to bring up division of labour, in industrial society the operation of a single factory relies upon the co-operation of electrical substations next-door, power plants the next town over, logistics offices in the provincial capital, resources developed and extracted on the other side of the country, and the entire nation's collaboration on a unified economic plan; it is something that can only really be directed by a central authority that can collect and collate massive amounts of data to produce new courses of action - to try to operate such a body based entirely on direct democracy is, beyond any other considerations, both impractical and undesirable.
This is not to say there doesn't exist great political drive and passion among the masses, nor that they have no interest in the political process and their representation - but not everyone actually applies to be a council delegate during elections, because most people are fine with the council work itself being handled by a trusted representative.
In practice, the way communists have managed these matters is democratic centralis' - here are a few graphics explaining how representative democracy is carried out on the local level in China, as an example:
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Okay, I'll give it a shot; git is a program. You use it to make a git repository (which is in practice just a folder with some metadata).
The repository stores series of commits. Each commit stores a series of changes made since the previous one - files which have been added, files which have been removed, and changes which have been made to existing files.
(It stores them in branches, which have separate histories, but to begin with you'll just be dealing with one 'main' branch.)
You can then 'push' commits from this local repo to a remote repo, often on a service like GitHub, so the commit history can be shared between different devices, people, etc.
Doing any of this directly with git itself in the command line involves giving it a complicated series of commands in a specific order, often starting with the most complicated stuff before you can get to the simple stuff. In practice, you'll generally be using another program as a wrapper over git; which git client you use is mostly a matter of preference. On Windows good places to start could be the GitHub desktop client, which abstracts a lot of the more complicated bits away, or the default Git Gui which comes with Git for Windows, which maps more directly to whats happening on the command line (but with clearly laid out buttons instead of hard-to-memorise syntax). You shouldn't need to drop down to the command line until you're needing to do more complex stuff.
Start with the basics of getting something versioning, then you can work up into branches and all that if and when you need to. Each step is much easier once you've got a firm footing in the previous one.
Can someone explain to me in like five seconds how to use git, assuming that I know basic shit about coding/command line/whatever but don't know any of the specific terminology related to git. Like every tutorial online is at the same time both over my head and also vastly too basic. Just like. Tell me what it is.
Uh. First tell me its ontology. Is it a program, a standard, a language...? I know that it's for version control. Suppose I wanted to do version control at a piece of code. What do I do. What buttons do I press, on my computer? Tell me these things.
#git#does that work as an explanation? i've only been using this stuff for like a year idk if im at the point where i can properly re-explain it#also to clarify the difference between git and github:#git the program that represents the repos. it's like twenty years old and was originally made for tracking the development of linux#a git remote is just a git repo on a server somewhere#GitHub is a company that makes a business out of hosting servers with git repos on them. there are other ones too#(it's able to have git in its name since git comes from the linux world and so isn't under copyright in any form)#GitHub is the most popular one and is generally what you suggest to beginners since it lets you make both public and private repos for free#(you only have to pay when you need a private repo that multiple people can access)#(this business model is able to make sense because git repos take up a frankly ridiculously small amount of storage space)
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Aries through the houses: where are you self-made?
Aries is ruled Mars. The planet that represents our ability to be independent and self sufficient.
The Aries archetype in our charts shows where we are bold, independent and take self-initiated efforts to achieve something.
Where as Aries’ opposite sign: Libra, is how we collaborate with others to achieve something. Aries is about how we do it on our own.
———————————————————————-
Check your see where you have Aries in your chart!
*Can work for tropical or sidereal chart*
ARIES 1H: self made in terms of your lifestyle. Choosing your life path based on your own mind vs the hive mind of society. Gaining independence is a key life theme for you. Being your own person, being authentic and expressing that to the world. Developing your identity independently. You’re not influenced by the masses, you influence the masses. A leader with an independent mind.
ARIES 2H: self made with your finances. Gaining financial independence because of your own efforts. Not having anything “handed to you”, but having to create wealth on your own. Your journey leads you to being self sufficient financially.
ARIES 3H: self made with your thoughts and ideas. Having your own opinions formed from doing your own research. You don’t rely on what you’re told, but you do your own investigating and question tradition. You’re a independent thinker.
ARIES 4H: self made amongst your family. Learning how to be self sufficient at a young age. Raising yourself, being your own parent. The first in your family to go to college, achieve success, break toxic patterns, own a home etc. Independent approach to parenthood, being single parent. Owning property independently.
ARIES 5H: self made when it comes to your creativity. Expressing your creativity boldly and uniquely. Creative talents that are so authentic to you they can’t be mimicked. Instead of being influenced by others creativity, you influence other’s creativity. Pursuing passions independently and assertively.
ARIES 6H: self made in terms of your work ethic. Being extremely hardworking until you achieve your goals. Choosing to be self employed and have your own business. Becoming a leader/boss due to your own efforts. Self made with health and routine. Following your own health habits instead of society’s norm. Independently overcoming obstacles and enemies.
ARIES 7H: self made in terms of business partnerships. Defending oneself in partnerships. Setting boundaries, and maintaining them. Looking out for your own self interests in partnerships. Negotiating in a way that you always come out on top.
ARIES 8H: self made in terms of shared resources. Having enough of your own resources so that you aren’t dependent on others, but they’re dependent on you. Independent when it comes to your sexual power. Having strong boundaries s3xually. Self made approach to occult knowledge, doing your own research independently instead of accepting mainstream information.
ARIES 9H: self made in terms of your spiritual beliefs. Deciding your destiny on your own. Holding your own spiritual beliefs you discovered through self initiated efforts. Discovering knowledge on your own. Being your own “guru”. You are your own spiritual teacher. You have an independent mind that is not influenced by others.
ARIES 10H: self made with your career. Owning your own business, being self employed, being your own boss. Self-made with your reputation. Building a name for yourself from the ground up. Being a leader to others. Independently achieving your long terms goals.
ARIES 11H: self made with your goals and desires. Achieving them through your own efforts. Independently gaining success in life. Your dreams and aspirations are unique to you and your authenticity. Creating your dream life despite what is considered the mainstream for your socioeconomic status/demographic. Fulfilling your dreams on your own.
ARIES 12H: self made with your subconscious mind. Creating your own thought patterns not influenced by anyone else. Independent approach to spirituality and interacting with the spiritual world. Implementing your own spiritual practices without a guru. Your psyche is your own creation, you’re not easily brainwashed or psychologically manipulated.
-starsandsuch✌️💕
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Pick a Card: Career Guidance from Pallas Athena
Top Left (Pile 1) , Top Right(Pile 2) Bottom Left (Pile 3) ,Bottom Right (Pile 4)
Pile 1: Current Challenges and Obstacles
The Tower: This card suggests that significant changes or disruptions may be occurring in your career path right now. Pallas Athena's message here is to embrace these changes as opportunities for growth and transformation. Trust in your wisdom and strategic thinking to navigate through any obstacles that arise.
Five of Pentacles: This card represents financial challenges or feelings of lack. Pallas Athena reminds you to tap into your resourcefulness and inner strength during difficult times. Remember that setbacks are temporary, and with perseverance and strategic planning, you can overcome any financial obstacles in your career.
Channeled Key words:Resilience and Adaptability
Action Steps to consider:
Embrace change and consider exploring new career paths or industries that align with your skills and interests.
Seek opportunities for financial stability through budgeting, saving, or exploring alternative sources of income.
Focus on building resilience and adapting to changes in the workplace environment.
Consider seeking support from mentors or career coaches to overcome obstacles and navigate challenges effectively.
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Pile 2: Guidance and Wisdom from Pallas Athena
The High Priestess: Pallas Athena's message here is to trust your intuition and inner wisdom when making career decisions. Quiet your mind and listen to the subtle guidance from within. Your intuition is a powerful tool that can lead you toward the right path in your career journey.
Ace of Swords: This card represents clarity of thought and new opportunities. Pallas Athena encourages you to approach your career with clear intentions and a strategic mindset. Stay focused on your goals, and be open to seizing new opportunities that come your way. Trust in your ability to manifest success through your intellect and determination.
Channeled Key Words:Networking and Relationship Building
Action Steps to consider:
Explore careers that involve intuition, spirituality, or working in fields such as counseling, coaching, or holistic healing.
Consider opportunities in education, research, or intellectual pursuits that allow you to leverage your analytical skills and strategic thinking.
Pursue roles that involve clear communication, writing, or public speaking, where you can share your insights and wisdom with others.
Embrace leadership opportunities where you can use your intuition and intellect to inspire and guide others toward success.
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Pile 3: Opportunities and Potential
The Empress: This card symbolizes abundance, creativity, and nurturing energy. Pallas Athena's message here is that there are abundant opportunities for growth and success in your career. Embrace your creativity and tap into your nurturing instincts to cultivate a fulfilling and prosperous career path.
Ten of Cups: This card represents emotional fulfillment and harmony in your career life. Pallas Athena reminds you to prioritize your emotional well-being and seek fulfillment in your work. Follow your heart's desires and pursue career paths that align with your values and bring you joy and satisfaction.
Channeled Key Words: Continuous Learning and Skill Development
Action Steps to Consider:
Explore creative industries such as arts, design, fashion, or entertainment where you can express your artistic talents and creativity.
Consider careers in fields related to nurturing and caregiving, such as healthcare, counseling, or social work, where you can make a positive impact on others' lives.
Look for opportunities to create a harmonious work environment or start your own business venture where you can cultivate abundance and prosperity.
Pursue roles that prioritize work-life balance and prioritize emotional well-being, such as remote work, flexible scheduling, or positions with supportive company cultures.
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Pile 4: Pursuit and Manifestation
The Magician: This card represents manifestation and taking action to create your desired reality. Pallas Athena's message here is to harness your innate talents and skills to manifest your career goals. Believe in your abilities and take decisive action toward your ambitions. With focus, determination, and strategic planning, you have the power to manifest success in your career endeavors.
Six of Wands: This card symbolizes victory, recognition, and achievement. Pallas Athena encourages you to celebrate your successes and accomplishments in your career journey. Be proud of how far you've come, and continue to strive for excellence with confidence and grace. Your strategic thinking and perseverance will lead you to even greater heights of success in your career.
Channeled Key Words: Self-Reflection and Exploration
Action Steps to Consider:
Take proactive steps to pursue your career goals, such as networking, furthering your education, or acquiring new skills relevant to your desired field.
Consider entrepreneurial ventures or freelance opportunities where you can take control of your career path and leverage your unique talents and abilities.
Set clear intentions and goals for your career and take consistent action toward manifesting your aspirations.
Seek opportunities for recognition and advancement in your current career path or explore avenues for professional growth and development that align with your long-term objectives.
#pick a card#pick a pile#pick one#tarot reading#pick a photo#pick an image#career#career reading#psychic readings#psychic readers#pallas athena#message from Athena#tarot cards
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People Represented in each House
Including niche examples
1H
Yourself, your persona. You as an individual. Your role models (projection of your ideal self)
2H
Business partners, business collaborators, acting/modelling/any agency you are under. Podcasters you listen to, literal social media influencers, salesman, your self esteem mentors,your real estate agent, your savings coach, your bank, your stockbroker
2H includes people who influence how you earn money. 2H represents people who can influence your personal values and your self esteem E.g a Ben Shapiro to a politically curious individual, the kardashians to a teenage girl. 2nd house can also represent people involved in the maintenance, acquisition and management of your possessions and finances
3H
Your siblings, your neighbours, your relatives like extended family, peers and acquaintances like the people in your class you know of but don’t talk to enough to say they’re your friend, peers, acquaintances, colleagues/coworkers, professors, educational teachers, speaking coach, language teacher
3H is related to intellectual pursuits, learning, just all forms of intellectual development, mercury sits well here. It’s about the people who you interact with daily as they influence your way of communication The individuals here would influence your communication style, interests and knowledge
4H
Your mother (mother figure if you don’t have a mother), your parents but particularly your mother figure, the collective of your whole family, ancestors, caregivers, people that live in your house like your flatmates, your housemates, housekeepers, butlers
4H represents the physical home, the mother, familial connections, nurturers etc. so the people here would be the ones living in it and those who have influence in your domestic life
5H
Your children, your inner child, you as a parent, your nieces, your nephews, romantic partners (short term), artistic partners E.g co-writers, collaborators, people involved in your projects, your students, your mentees, your investors, your hook up partners, people who you gamble or just play games with.
5H represents children, creativity, your mentoring to others, gambling, fun, joyful light love affairs, it’s also ruled by Leo. So we have these people involved with these themes
6H
Coworkers, colleagues, employees, staff (individuals who work under you or provide a service to you), your doctor, your contractors, your nurses, your teammates, your healthcare providers, your therapist, your career coach, your internship mentor, your assistants, your service providers, your pets, your gym colleagues, your fitness instructor, your nutritionist, your organiser, your HR department, your vet
6H represents work environment, daily routines, service, health and well-being, these are the people that you find under that setting
7H
Romantic partners, your spouse, life partner, your closest friends, confidants, allies, your supporters, your business partners, anyone you form a pact with, your clients, your customers (the kind you engage with in professional settings), your lawyers, your legal team, your competitors, your opponents, your matchmaker, your wedding planner, your relationship therapist
7H ruled by Libra represents all relationships that also includes bad ones btw, business relationships, marriage, 7H represents companions, partnerships, professional relationships, legal matters, professional representation so the people that fall under this house would be those that build relationships with you
8H
Financial partners/advisors, therapists, inheritors, beneficiaries (who you inherit from), occult teachers, your intimate long term sexual partners, your accountant, your councillors, your psychologist, your insurance agents, your estate planners, your morticians
8H is associated with death, sex, psychology, transformation, joint resources etc. and so these are the kind of people that 8H would represent
9H
Your professors, your teachers, your spiritual leaders, your priest, your pastor, your favourite scholars, your favourite philosophers, your lawyers, your judges, your legal advisors, your authors, your educational materials, your foreign friends, your foreign connections.
alike to 3H in education but 9H rules higher education so it’s an octave higher than 3H in terms of the teachers associated with it. 9H also represents justice and law so it would include people that work in this field that you encounter
10H
Your father, your boss, your mentor, your manager, people of authority, your parents (father in particular), influential figures you look up to, e.g your fave celebrities, government, politicians, your PR team, your publishers, you as a role model, your admirers like the people who look up to you, influencers, your business, icons
10H association with self-image and reputation and classic Saturn authority would include those who are involved in those themes
11H
Friends, peers. Social activists, humanitarians, philanthropists, inventors, forecasters, visionaries, leaders, community organisers, trendsetters
different from 3H in the sense that with 11H friends, you actually share the same goals and interests in mind whereas with 3H it’s mostly an exchange of communication about these parts of yourself and they are less as significant in your social life compared to 11H type of friends
12H
Spiritual beings, your religion, spiritual forces, your subconscious mind, artists, creative people, writers, hospital patients, prisoners, monks, religious people, volunteers, dreamers, charities.
12H represents those that can derive what is within their inner secluded world and bring it into reality. It’s associated with empathy, mental/spiritual state, seclusion and the bed. The people here would be those that would retreat, help others and tap into realms beyond the physical)
#astro placements#astro notes#astro posts#astrology#astrology observations#1st house#2nd house#3rd house#4th house#5th house#6th house#7th house#8th house#9th house#10th house#11th house#12th house#learning astrology#astro community#astro observations#people in the houses#what each house represents#houses in astrology
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