#c: han jisung
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when winter calls
(âĄ) fandom: skz (âĄ) pairing: jisung/seungmin (âĄ) rating: mature (âĄ) 12572 words (âĄ) complete (1/1)
Seungmin is eleven years old when a witch tells him he'll die in less than ten years' time. He's eighteen when he meets Han Jisung in a coffee shop.
Nothing is ever a coincidence.
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#seungsung#c: kim seungmin#c: han jisung#skz#skz fic#s: seungsung#pseud: flying_dream#jasmine's skz fics#ao3 link#maggie stiefvater vibes#magical realism#open ending
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sometimes i feel like lixie in this part of the episode: a little bit lost while chaos is happening
(x) source (x) gif
#his reactions are so cute tho c':#stray kids#straykids#gif#gifs#skz#skz gifs#lee yongbok#felix#han jisung#han#lee know#lee minho#minsung#stray kids gifs#skzcode57#skz code
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im sorry i just KNOW minsung are in a secret relo cuz i know what hiding obvious affection for your crush looks like
lookin at you han jisung
#been there done that#for like a solid 6 months#until i never saw him again#every move he makes in front of minho SCREAMS#âi love you but im trying to pretend like i dont because i dont want people to catch onto it so im just gonna be c h i l l about itâ#*thinks to himself* yeah jisung#*thinks* just be c h i l l#be c h i l l#c h i l l#when c h i l l is actually staring off into the distance but your body gravitating towards them and looking at them when you smile/laugh#or when you think nobodys watching#I SEE YOU HAN JISUNG#I SEE YOU AND I LOVE YOU#han jisung#lee minho#minsung#stay#lovestay#skz#stray kids#bang chan#changbin#hyunjin#lee felix#seungmin#yang jeongin#lee know#eight is fate
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pls QAQ
#minsung and their president in action#look at them#they r#a. cozy af#b.teehee af#c. đ af#skz#stray kids#han jisung#lee know#skz crack#minsung#changbin#seo changbin
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240714 Š íí´í댏
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ৠsave or reblog if u use pls ! ŕ¨
#han jisung#han moodboard#soft blue#skz#stray kids#aesthetic moodboard#a e s t h e t i c#pastel moodboard#blue aesthetic#blue moodboard
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PLEASE HEâS SO đđ Han x Helium is my new Roman Empire ă
ă
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ăăăđăăăâăăăđŹăăă⏏
#c erie#alternative moodboard#beige moodboard#kpop icons#colorful moodboard#gg moodboard#indie moodboard#kpop messy#random moodboard#vintage moodboard#y2k moodboard#han jisung#hanji#stray kids#skz icons#skz moodboard#seungmin#cute moodboard
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Escaping to somewhere
Where is my confidence?
All the problems and a lot of things make me a fool
They made me a scaredy cat
The clock's ticking suffocates me
Through the door
I can see it, a place full of romance, and it's free
I can see it, and it's wide open
RUN (HAN)~stray kids
#han jisung#HAN#skz#skz player#gpoy#RUN HAN#RUN#kpop#song recs#b baka!#major feels#one of the only things keeping me going rn#c':
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white lies
(âĄ) fandom: skz (âĄ) pairing: jisung/felix (âĄ) rating: mature (âĄ) WIP
THE PROBLEM: Operation Get Jisung A Romantic Friend, a mission that all of his friends at SNU have pledged their hearts to, is turning Jisung's life into a living hell. If he has to go on one more blind date, he's going to fucking scream.
THE SOLUTION: make out like he's already dating someone else. The fake-boyfriend of choice? Lee Felix: cute, plausible enough to be dating and â most importantly â currently studying in Australia where no one from SNU can sniff him out.
Has Jisung talked to Felix since graduation? No. Is Felix aware of the fact that heâs Jisungâs fake-boyfriend? Also no. Will that stop Jisung from telling everyone that heâs dating Felix anyway? Of course not. Whatâs the worst that could even happen? Itâs not like Felix is ever going to find out about any of this, right?
Right?
Shit.
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#jilix#c: han jisung#c: lee felix#stray kids#skz#skz fic#s: jilix#pseud: flying dream#jasmine's skz fics#ao3 link#fake dating#friends to lovers#college au#fluff#humour
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one of my fav jisung looks: sk8er boi âĄ
#hannji loves hanji#he was a sk8er boi i said c u l8er boi#skaterboi han fic coming soon??#skz han jisung#han jisung
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THIS NEEDS TO STOP
#OMG#BRO#I'M#YOOO#han jisung#han jisung !!!!#YAAAAAAA#THE LEVELS OF C U N T HE IS SERVING#skz#stray kids#ALSO THE FACT THAT HE WAS JUST WIGGLIN AWAY LIKE A BBGURL#i can't
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Stray Kids PRE-DEBUT ALBUM <Mixtape> HAN JISUNG TEASER IMAGES
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I know what you mean. I really am fine though. Its just something I need to get used to know. I have been fine. Keeping busy with the children.
I know I don't have to worry about you but that's what comes with being an empath. I can't help it. I see people in pain or distress and I wanna do something about it to help and try to ease the pain a little bit. But if you say I don't need to worry since we are basically strangers than alright... other than that, how have you been?
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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!
â˘
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 youâve 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.
â˘
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. Youâre made aware of this through an email from the schoolâs 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 schoolâs colors like every other new modern replacement for the old-fashioned buildings- cobalt blue and white, resembling that of a dentistâs 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 canât 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 couldnât 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 theyâll be stuck learning about Bach and Mozart for the next few months. Of course youâre not bothered by it, being a music major yourself, but itâs 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 youâd 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- itâs 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. Itâs a little old, sure. And it smells like mothballs on most days- but itâs 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 itâs then that you realize youâre 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 professorâs 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 couldnât care less about music history. And heâs 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 thereâs no professor assigned to this course, maybe even beg for a switch of classes. And then, as though he can sense theyâre 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,â he calls out, hoisting his bag over the desk and motioning for students to take their seats again.
âI apologize,â he reiterates, sighing deeply, hands tucked in his pockets as he glances around the room. Itâs then that you notice heâs 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- heâs not old. In fact, heâs nothing close to the likes of the average professor- heâs attractive. Not just attractive- heâs alluring, captivating, like a model cut out from the thin pages of an editorial magazine. Heâs 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. Heâs 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.
âLots of traffic when it rains,â he says sheepishly, pinching the frame of his glasses with two fingers and setting them so delicately back on his face. âIt wonât happen again.â
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.
âWelcome,â he announces, giving a small nod before continuing to speak. âMy name is Professor Han. Iâll be your instructor for the duration of this course.â
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 itâs your course syllabus.
âPretty much everything you need to know is listed here,â he says a little louder, as the room teems with echoing chatter. âI accept late work up to a week after itâs due, with a point subtracted every day itâs late. If youâre going to be later than 15 minutes, please donât show at all. The stairs are too loud. Food and drinks are permitted, just donât make a mess. And do whatever you want with phones and laptops, just shut off the sound.â
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.
âA little bit about me,â he then says, and you perk up at his words, intrigued by just everything about his presence. âBeen teaching here for about five years now, since I finished grad school. I love music, and I love music theory, so youâll 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?â
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 theyâre 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 heâs challenging you to ask him something, anything. But you donât- you just remain seated, staring back at him, hoping the glowing blush on the tips of your ears doesnât pick up under the dim lighting of the room.
âOkay,â says Professor Han, clasping his hands together and gesturing to the board behind him now. âLetâs see if I can figure out how to use this projector this time around.â
*
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 youâre 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.
Itâs 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 youâve grown to love being alone, itâs 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, whoâs not usually occupying her side of the room- not unless she needs something.
âOh,â says Mina, as she places a stack of folded clothing into a large duffle bag and zips it up. âI didnât know youâd be here today.â
You chuckle softly at her remark- of course youâd be here today. And the day after that, and the day after that⌠youâre always here. Itâs Mina who seldom graces you with her presence, usually too busy at her boyfriendâs dorm or out with a group of friends.
âIâm here,â 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 sheâs 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. Youâre simply from two separate worlds, and itâll remain that way for the next few months until you graduate.
âIâm going to my boyfriendâs,â Mina announces unsurprisingly, hoisting the duffel bag over her shoulder. âIâll see you on Monday.â
âOkay,â you say to her finally. âHave fun with Lucas. Iâll see you on Monday.â
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 youâve gotten halfway through since yesterdayâs 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, youâve almost forgotten entirely who your course professors are.
Itâs 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. Itâs your final one, after all, and while students talk excitedly about plans for the future and their graduation parties, the only thing youâre looking forward to is the physical degree youâll 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. Youâve 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.
âGood afternoon,â he says to the class, and they utter mumbled replies back at him.
âI hope you all had a good weekend,â 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.
âCome on guys,â he says dramatically. âWhy are you so silent? Youâre killing me.â
Itâs 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. Heâs not quite sure heâll 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 arenât afraid of him- theyâre intrigued by him, just the way that you are.
The girls wear full faces of makeup to a single 3pm lecture in hopes that heâll 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 heâs just about one of the coolest professors around, yet heâs too consumed by his passion for music and theories of composers to take notice of anybodyâs fascination for him.
And aside from that fact, heâs a professional at his job, only here for the purpose of lecturing and distributing course materials. He doesnât make friends with other professors on campus, he doesnât traverse these buildings when he doesnât have to be here. And he certainly doesnât 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.
âI 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.â
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 canât 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 shouldnât be. Yet as he speaks, you canât 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 youâve only just realized this lecture is about.
âNot only was he a composer, but he was an organist, a harpsichordist and a violinist,â he explains, clicking the little remote in his hand and proceeding to the next slide. âHe was a prolific part of the Baroque period, and heâs well-known today for some of his most famous instrumental and choral pieces.â
He paces the room confidently as he speaks, head down most of the time as he details accounts of Bachâs life, seemingly having memorized most of it.
âDoes anybody happen to know any of his orchestral music? Thereâs one in particular heâs very famous for.â
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.
âYes!â he says enthusiastically. âGo ahead.â
âBrandenburg Concertos?â You voice quietly, a slight tremble in your voice as you speak. Youâre not sure youâve 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.
âThatâs correct,â 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 heâs never gotten the right answer to until now. In fact- one heâs never even had a student take a stab at answering until now. Heâs 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 heâs finally been assigned a student who gives the slightest shit about this course and its materials.
âSorry- what was your name?â 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.
âY/n,â you finally respond, your voice coming out more timid than youâd hoped it to. You feel microscopic with all eyes on you like this, quietly praying heâll proceed with the lecture so that you can go back to admiring him from afar and in the comfortable silence of your thoughts.
âY/n,â 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 doesnât have to- but that certainly doesnât mean heâs 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, heâs not averse to keeping students a few minutes past to wrap up his lectures, either. While itâs 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 heâs meant to be up on a podium recounting Bachâs 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.
âBrandenburg Concertos, huh?â He calls out to you, and your gaze falls to him, where heâs seated at his desk, the familiar wireframe glasses now sitting upon the bridge of his nose.
âYeah,â 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.
âNobodyâs ever gotten that one right. In my five whole years of teaching.â
âReally?â You reply, thoroughly surprised nobodyâs heard of the most famous orchestral pieces by one of the most significant composers.
âNope,â he says plainly, shaking his head to affirm his answer. âAre you secretly a composer or something?â
Itâs your turn to chuckle lightly, approaching his desk with your bag slung over your shoulder as you shake your head.
âJust years of piano,â you say to him.
âPiano? Very tricky instrument, itâs good to pick up when youâre still young.â
âIâve been playing competitively for ten years,â you explain to him, heartbeat quickening a little as he lowers the screen of his laptop to make eye contact again.
âWow,â he breathes out, thoroughly impressed by the fact. âI might have you teach a lecture or two, then.â
You chuckle in unison with him, shrugging as he pushes his glasses a little further up on his face.
âConvince them to put a piano in here and Iâll think about it,â you say to him. âI need a few course materials.â
âDeal,â 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 conversationâs over, he sighs deeply, pushing back his laptop screen once more and continuing to type.
âPity theyâre tearing it down, though. A piano would have been a nice addition.â
Itâs 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.
âIt is a shame,â 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. Thereâs 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.
âMaybe next year Iâll be teaching in a gymnasium,â 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 doesnât reveal the growing blush across your cheeks.
*
As the weeks pass, Professor Hanâs lectures are stuck in your head like the piano melodies youâre so acquainted with. Beethoven Fidelio. Le nozze di Figaro. Adagio Cantabile.
The titles of famous composer pieces circle your mind like theyâre suggestions by him, to you. And you like to think they are, when heâs slipping comments into his lectures about which pieces are his favorites, which are the most evocative and which ones heâs listened to the most.
The other students sit absentmindedly as he lectures, hearing the words he utters and writing notes like theyâre translating his musical language to one they can comprehend. But theyâre not listening to him- youâre certain theyâll never understand it the way that you do.
âTchaikovskyâs Swan Lake was my first piano recital piece,â youâd 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.
âOnly a genius could have produced 1812 Overture,â he said to you excitedly, throwing his head back in disbelief and slouching back in his swivel desk chair as he collected his thoughts.
âThatâs the one he used real artillery as background noise in, right?â You had responded, a bright smile on your face as you spoke the common language only the two of you seemed to understand.
âAnd church bells!â 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 heâs 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 Tchaikovskyâs 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 didnât 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 heâs so drawn to- their booming crescendo notes and tempos noted allegro con brio, and yet when the lecture hall is empty and heâs 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, youâre 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 youâd ever find interest between the pages of a course-assigned college textbook, you would have taken them for a complete liar. And yet you canât 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, youâre admittedly vexed by the request, reluctantly reaching into your bag to retrieve it for her.
âI didnât know you had this course,â you say to her, wiping fingerprints off the matte cover and carefully handing it to her.
âYeah, itâs the worst,â she says, making no effort to avoid transferring new fingerprints onto the cover as she stuffs it into her bag. âBut the professorâs hot.â
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 doesnât 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. Sheâs just like the other students in your class- hearing him, but not really listening.
âProfessor Han?â You inquire, knowing very well heâs the only professor who teaches that particular course.
âYeah,â she says, reaching into her duffle bag and shuffling around for something. âPretty sure heâs the only reason people still show up to that stupid class. I wonder if he goes for younger girls.â
She chuckles as she pulls out a tube of lipstick, uncapping it and reapplying the dark red tint to her pouty lips.
âIâm going to my boyfriendâs,â she then says to you, tucking the tube of lipstick back into her bag and pivoting to face you. âI can have your book back by Monday.â
âCould you have it back by early morning?â You say to her, voice almost cracking as you plead so desperately. âI really need it back before my quiz.â
Youâve already practically memorized the chapter youâre being quizzed on, but youâre always well-prepared for quizzes and tests in Professor Hanâs course, reviewing the textbook a thousand times to earn the highest grade possible. Youâd 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.
âI guess,â she says furrowing her brows a little at your desperation. âIâll try to have my boyfriend drop it off before my class or something.â
âTell Lucas itâs important,â you relay to her, as she keeps her gaze on yours. âI really need to pass this quiz.â
âI said Iâll try,â she emphasizes, making her way to the dorm with the same pink duffel bag slung over her shoulder.
And then sheâs gone again, not so much as a wave goodbye as youâre 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 boyfriendâs 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.
âWelcome, welcome,â Professor Han calls out as students take their seats. âPut your phones away and get out a pen or a pencil. Weâll start the quiz in a few minutes.â
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.
âThis quiz covers all of chapter 7,â he says, passing along the stack of papers and instructing students to distribute them across the room. âYou have 30 minutes from now. If you have questions, please raise your hand and Iâll come to you. Other than that, good luck.â
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, youâre sauntering over to his desk with your quiz in hand.
âYouâre finished already?â He inquires, lowering the top of his laptop to meet your gaze.
âYes,â 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.
âI can grade it right now since youâre the only one finished,â he asks, a challenging expression on his face as you stand confidently across him.
âSure,â 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 youâve 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.
âYeah,â Professor Han finally says, sitting up straight once more and fidgeting with the red pen he neglected to even make use of. âItâs all right.â
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 canât quite find the words. Heâs 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 canât possibly request your presence for much longer in an unassuming fashion.
âYou can leave early,â he whispers so as not to disturb the other test-takers, giving you a small nod as he slides the quiz into his bag.
âReally?â
âYeah. Thatâs all I had planned for today. Just read chapters 8 and 9 for next class.â
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.
âProfessor, IâŚdonât have my textbook,â you say awkwardly, fiddling with the sleeve of your sweater as you speak. âMy roommate borrowed it last Friday and I havenât been able to get a hold of her. If thereâs a PDF you know of, or maybe a library rental-â
He doesnât let you finish before heâs reaching into his bag again, pulling out his own textbook and sliding it across the desk to you.
âTake mine with you,â he says confidently, giving you a thin-lipped smile. âJust remember to bring it back next week.â
âAre you sure?â 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 itâs the exact same book as the one youâve familiarized yourself with so well already.
âPositive. I think youâll enjoy the next two chapters, too. Lots of piano stuff.â
He grins as he finishes, flashing you his signature toothy smile, and you feel your heart flutter at the fact that heâs even remembered you play the piano.
âIâll tell you what I think,â you reply, tucking the book under your arm and smiling back at him. You hope that nobody behind you suspects why youâve been standing at his desk for just a little too long, but youâre 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 canât be sure if theyâve 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 itâs 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 canât 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 hasnât 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 donât 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 heâll 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 heâs taken notice of you, of course. Not that he sometimes prays youâll 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 heâs a professor and youâre his student- and no fleeting amount of finally feeling listened to could change that fact.
Conversely, is he wrong to admit to himself that heâs fascinated by your musical knowledge? That the silence of the room is more unnerving when youâve already gone home for the day?
Furthermore, that he doesnât feel like such a loser when you beam at his stories and press him for more details about his musical career? Of course he canât admit it to himself, because that would be entirely inappropriate- heâs a professor, and youâre 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, thereâs 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 youâre 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 Hanâs 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 heâd 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 itâs something heâs 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 weekâs 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 heâs studied them a million times.
âWritten at just five years old!â One sentence reads, underlining a sentence describing Mozartâs Minuet in G major. You canât 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 Mozartâs music was tuned to 432 hertz, a frequency commonly associated with instilling a sense of peace and calmness within oneâs 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 arenât facts mentioned in the book, but rather ones he seemed to know based off memory alone, and youâre impressed heâs able to retain such a vast collection of information pertaining to the subjects. Some excerpts are simply marked with a âwow!â Or a series of exclamation points, and you find yourself endeared to how much of a clear liking heâs 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.
âListen to this one,â 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 heâs 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 Mozartâs 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 youâre 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 Hanâs recommendation. And 30 seconds in, thereâs 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 itâs 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 Mozartâs experience writing the soulful piece, one he was presumed to have written in either Munich or whilst visiting Vienna. And you read Professor Hanâs annotations in the process, heartbeat quickening as you allow yourself to imagine theyâre all for you.
âThis part is the best,â he annotates, referring to the melancholy movement that begins at nearly seven minutes in. Itâs 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 thatâs 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, heâs 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.
Youâre not sure youâve 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 wouldnât bother to tune into Mozartâs 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 couldnât 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.
âI love this one,â you scribble alongside his words, smiling to yourself as you converse on the thin pages of his old textbook. It doesnât 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.
âThe third movement is my favorite,â 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.
âDiscoordinate, fading notes,â it reads. âFeels like itâs missing something.â
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 itâs not Mozart forgetting something, but rather Professor Han feeling as though somethingâs missing. To you, the piece ends here- discoordinate fading notes that serve as the resolution. To Professor Han, thereâs still something beyond those final few eighth notes, like the song isnât 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.
âCoda?â It reads simply.
A coda- somewhat of an epilogue in music. Itâs 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.
*
âHereâs your textbook,â Mina says casually when she finally returns that week, tossing it beside you on the bed and averting your gaze.
âThanks,â you reply, entirely failing to confront her about having returned it a week later than youâd originally requested.
âI shouldnât have even borrowed it,â she says with a frustrated huff. âI failed his stupid quiz.â
âChapter 7?â You question, unsurprised by the admission to you.
âYeah,â she replies, hoisting herself over her duvet and spreading her arms out behind her. âI donât know a single person whoâs passing that useless class.â
She keeps her gaze on the wall for a moment, and then she glances at you briefly, her expression unreadable as she speaks.
âCanât believe I also have to waste my time at the stupid extra credit thing this week,â 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.
âWhat extra credit thing?â
Mina turns to look at you again, furrowing her brows together, almost in disbelief at your words.
âThe extra credit thing Professor Han emailed about? Thereâs 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.â
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.
âThis week?â
âYeah,â she says, frowning slightly as you turn back to the computer. âYou didnât get the email about it?â
âI guess I didnât,â you say to her, beginning to look up the event online. âIâve been so busy.â
In reality, Professor Hanâs email missed your inbox because you werenât 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 wonât serve as extra credit- itâs 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.
âI have your book,â 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 doesnât- he just leaves it there, keeping his gaze on yours and remaining silent for a minute.
âWhat did you think of chapters 8 and 9?â He asks finally.
âGood stuff,â you say, giving him a shy nod. âI was familiar with a lot of it, but definitely still some new pieces I hadnât heard of. Iâll try to get around to them when I can.â
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.
âThereâs an exhibit at the museum across the street later tonight,â he says, voice trembling a little as he speaks.
Heâs not sure why heâs even bringing it up- maybe because heâs trying to keep the conversation course-related. Itâs definitely not because he wants you to be there- a reckless way of thinking indeed.
âI know,â you say to him with a knowing smile. âI was wondering where my invite was for the extra credit.â
A breathy chuckle escapes his toothy grin as he holds his gaze on yours.
âYou have a perfect score,â he replies in a low voice. âThe extra credit is for people who are failing my class.â
âIt canât also be for art enthusiasts?â You retort, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. âMaybe I want to tour the dead composers gallery, too.â
Professor Han wants to entertain this- so, so badly. He wants to drop the professional act and flirt with you like youâre so clearly doing to him- but he canât. Youâre just a student, and it would be wrong to toy with the imbalance of power he holds over you. Still, thereâs no reason you canât also show to the exhibition, as a student who simply wants to partake in a walkthrough of the subject at hand. He canât prohibit you from going, after all.
âI canât give you any more credit,â 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.
âBut I canât stop you from going, either.â
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 thatâs 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.
âReally?â You question with wide eyes, examining the ticket and then looking back at him with an excited smile.
âI didnât ask you to come,â Professor Han reiterates. âYou asked for extra credit. And you bought that ticket yourself.â
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.
âI wanted extra credit,â you repeat to him finally, shooting him a wink, too. âAnd I bought this ticket myself.â
*
The so-called âdead composerâs galleryâ has been an extra credit assignment of Professor Hanâs for all five years heâs been teaching. Itâs 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 donât 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.
Heâs aware of the fact that they donât 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, itâs simply a way to avoid teaching the same set of students a second time. One semester of watching them drag their feet is enough, heâs 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, heâll never admit heâs dressed up for you tonight, his mind racing with the unprofessional thoughts that you might show up just for him. Heâs 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 Hanâs forced them here tonight, and not the near-failing grade so many of them are stuck with. As though heâs 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 Hanâs 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 itâs 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 canât 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 youâre just running late by chance.
As the little hands on his watch tick in seconds, and youâre 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 heâs 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.
âHi,â you say to Professor Han, bowing to him and tucking a wet strand of hair out of your face. âSorry, I was running a bit late. Lots of rain outside.â
Professor Han canât help but hold your gaze momentarily, enchanted by the sight of you, despite coming to the conclusion that this is wrong. If itâs wrong, heâll have to sort out the logistics some other time- because you standing in front of him like this, dressed much more elegantly than heâs 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.
âHi,â he says back, a nervous exhale escaping his lips as he does. He silently prays you canât tell that heâs been waiting around for this all evening, longing to see you just once tonight and maybe talk about musical composers the way heâs been dreaming of.
âVivaldi?â 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. âIâm assuming, by the violin.â
âYeah,â Professor Han says, turning to face the painting, too. âKind of a scary dude, isnât he?â
Professor Han realizes youâre the first student to make a single comment about one of the paintings here- a fact heâs well endeared by, and simultaneously completely unsurprised by.
âDebatable,â you respond. âFor his portfolio alone, sure. But if weâre talking looks, I think Brahms might win this one.â
Your eyes shift to the left of Vivaldiâs 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.
âBrahms wasnât scary,â he finally says with a shrug of his shoulders. âHe was actually really lonely.â
âYeah?â You question back, observing the way he stares up at the painting.
âYeah,â he affirms. âThere 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.â
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 canât 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.
âThatâs tragic,â you say finally, feeling a pit form in your chest. âWhat a lonely life it mustâve been.â
Professor Han seems to take note of your change in tone, perking up a little as he chimes in again.
âHe still had his music,â he says to you. âAnd a very successful career.â
And your head cocks again at Brahmsâ 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.
âBut he didnât have the one thing he wanted,â 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 canât, 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 wasnât 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 composerâs gallery quickly proves to be a lot more tragic than youâd 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 Hanâs tragic, detailed account of their love lives.
âTchaikovsky was gay during a time when it was highly illegal,â Professor Han explains. âHe had a long list of gay lovers with whom heâd 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.â
âMustâve been terrifying,â you tell him, narrowing your eyes at the intense stare of his painted portrait. âWhat did he do?â
Professor Han is quiet for a moment, glancing over at you and parting his lips as though heâs going to say something. But he simply remains silent, staring back up at the painting and swallowing nervously.
Itâs 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.
âHe married a student,â 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 heâs here with a student himself.
Here with you, the very same student heâs been waiting on all evening. The student heâs enjoying telling stories of composers and their romantic involvements to, and the same student heâll find any excuse to spend more time with once the dead composers gallery is already closed for the night.
âThey didnât last, of course,â Professor Han then continues. âIt was impulsive, and they were severely incompatible. Not to mention his heart already belonged to another.â
Itâs your turn to get quiet, simply nodding at his words and piecing together tidbits of Tchaikovskyâs tragic romance.
âProfessor,â you say to him suddenly, turning to face him with a small smile on your face. âHow do you know so much about the romantic histories of famous composers, anyway? Is this part of your lecture style?â
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.
âI think you have to understand where they fell short in romance,â he says, maintaining the same warm smile on his face. âItâs where most of the passion, and pain alike, stemmed from in their pieces. The sheer intensity of some of the orchestral or symphonic pieces, theyâreâŚâ his voice trails off momentarily, observing a painting of Mozart on the wall in front of the two of you, whose story he hasnât 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.
âTheyâre all crafted from yearning in one way or another.â
*
The evening rainfall is torrential outside, the sidewalks almost empty as people seek shelter in the safety of their cars and apartments. Once youâve 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.
âAre you parked on the street?â He asks hesitantly, his hands shoved in the pocket of his slacks as he awaits your reply.
âI walked here,â you say to him, a light chuckle escaping your lips. âMy dormâs just a few blocks away.â
His eyes widen at the admission, thinking back to where his car is parked, just around the corner in the museumâs designated parking garage. He debates offering you a ride, but he knows itâd be in his best interest to avoid being alone in a car with the one woman he so dangerously canât stop thinking about.
âDo you need a ride?â He then asks, the words leaving his lips before he can even stop himself. Itâs like heâs overtaken by another version of himself- one who canât cease this little chase youâre indulging him in, too.
âI donât want to burden you,â you respond, a sheepish smile on your face as you try to veil the fact that youâre elated heâs even offered.
One more chance to make things right- and yet thereâs no discernible boundary between what feels right, and what is right.
âItâs not a burden,â he affirms. âItâs not safe to walk home in this rain.â
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. Thereâs no distinctive plan either of you have in mind, but youâre 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 doesnât have to, because youâre already trailing alongside him like itâs 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.
âItâs just past here!â 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, thereâs a brief silence that falls over you as he makes his way around to the driverâs 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 itâs 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 youâve 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.
âSorry,â 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 itâs not how youâve been reading into- maybe this is strictly a teacher-student relationship the way itâs supposed to be.
âDo you want to go back to your dorm?â He asks amidst the silence, not meeting your gaze. Heâs scared heâll get the urge to kiss you again, or that you might clock how nervous he is to be here with you.
Youâre quiet for a moment, a little angry with things as you ponder the question. Heâs not quite telling you to go home- but he isnât asking you to stay, either. Heâs just putting the ball in your court- both a safe, and a risky play at hand.
âNo,â you voice finally.
He just nods at your response, clicking his tongue once and waiting for you to say something else. But you donât- instead, you wait for him to say something else, too.
âDo you want to get out of the rain?â He then asks in a quiet voice, not specifying where that may imply. And although he doesnât, 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 youâd 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.
âSorry for the mess,â 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. Itâs just like he is- classic, enchanting, captivating.
âWhat are all these?â 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. Heâs 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 heâs 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.
âAre these from your directing days?â You then ask, knowing the answer already.
It feels a little wrong to be seeing the photographs, almost as though theyâre not supposed to be visible to just a student of his. Theyâre a glimpse into another life heâs lived- one youâre too late to be a part of. And more importantly, one he hasnât seemed to be interested in talking about. You remember the times heâd 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 canât help but probe for answers, feeling as though they might provide insight into who exactly he is underneath this pensive mask he wears.
âThose are from my directing days,â he confirms with a sad smile, making his way over to you and staring up at the wall. He examines one in which heâs in the middle of composing, stick held high in the air and a concentrated expression on his chiseled face.
âYou look really cool,â you tell him, and he laughs lightly in response.
âThank you,â he replies politely. âI always felt cool.â
You begin to tell him that heâs 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, youâre 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 heâs 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.
âProfessor, can I ask you something?â You say to him, approaching him cautiously, yet keeping a comfortable distance from him.
âAnything,â 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 heâs comfortably resting against the back of the cushion.
âYou didnât tell me about Mozart,â you say to him, twiddling your fingers in front of you. âWhat was Mozartâs love life like?â
Professor Han thinks it over momentarily, his eyes darting to the ceiling as he recalls Mozartâs romantic involvements. And it doesnât take long, because itâs another tale he knows very well already.
âWell he lived with a family during his time in Vienna,â he explains. âThey had a daughter named Constanze, who he took a particular liking to.â
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.
âHis father didnât approve,â Professor Han continues, eyeing the gentle sway of your skirt as you near him. âAnd yet when Mozart moved out, they maintained a relationship in secret.â
âA secret relationship?â You echo, and he nods affirmatively. âAnd then what happened?â
âWell,â he begins, dropping his hands to his sides as you stand right in front of him now. âMozart wrote Constanzeâs disapproving father a very famous letter. And they later married.â
âA letter?â You question. âDo you recall what was in the letter?â
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 Hanâs 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 canât help himself.
âThe letter?â He asks nervously, and you nod at him.
âYeah. Do you remember it, by chance?â
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.
âYou donât have to,â you say to him shyly, loosening your grasp on his fingers.
And you refer to both the utterance of Mozartâs letter, as well as the actions you know are bound to unfold if he does.
âNo, IâŚâ he interrupts, a sharp breath leaving his lips as he speaks. âI want to.â
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.
âI must make you better acquainted with the character of my dear Constanze,â he begins, finally allowing you to pull yourself onto his lap and steady yourself with two hands on his strong forearms.
âKeep talking,â you say to him, reaching out to tuck a strand of wet hair out of his face.
âHer whole beauty consists of two little black eyes and a pretty figure,â 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.
âMhm,â you say, two hands now grazing the fabric of his silk black tie and loosening the knot at the collar.
âShe likes to be neatly and cleanly dressed, but not smartly; and most things that a woman needs, she is able to make for herself.â
At this point, Professor Hanâs 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 donât 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, youâre speaking again, putting out the same words he completely intended to produce.
âI love her, and she loves me with all her heart,â you say to him, finishing Mozartâs signature letter for him. âTell me whether I could wish for a better wife.â
Professor Han says nothing, his eyes widened with shock for a moment as you toy with the fabric of his tie. He wasnât expecting you to know the tale, let alone echo the letter back to him- one heâs had memorized for most of his life.
âMozartâs letter to Constanzeâs father,â you voice with a small shrug. âItâs always been one of my favorites.â
And Professor Han canât 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 heâs still gentle with you, guiding you further down the length of his legs until youâre 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 otherâs 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 havenât wanted it all this time, too.
âIs this okay?â He says nervously, pulling away momentarily to scan your expression.
âItâs more than okay,â you say to him, toying with his tie again. âIâve wanted to do this so badly.â
Professor Han chuckles lightly, not wanting to admit heâs been thinking about it, too. Maybe externally youâve 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 donât 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 heâs 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 shouldnât be.
Heâs completely ridden with guilt, his sleep schedule almost nonexistent as he spends hours after heâs already tucked himself into bed, praying the universe wonât punish him for thinking about a student like this.
But he canât 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. Heâs almost angry at the reality of it, questioning constantly why you hadn't crossed paths before he became a teacher.
âWhere were you during my college days?â Professor Han says out loud, a sort of disappointment evident on his face as he speaks. âI wish Iâd known you earlier.â
You chuckle in response, one hand tangling in the back of his hair as you rub in gentle massaging motions.
âWhatâs wrong with right now?â You retort, trailing one finger over his plump lips.
âWhatâs wrong is that Iâm your professor,â he emphasizes, scoffing lightly. âEverything about it is wrong.â
âIâm an adult,â you respond, pulling him in by his collar to work kisses down the column of his neck. âAnd I want this.â
âYeah, butâŚâ he begins, the guilt weighing heavily on him all over again.
âYou donât want this?â You then ask, pushing yourself off him briefly and holding eye contact with him. He looks as nervous as he always does when heâs near you, his eyes wide with fear and his timid movements conveying a clear reluctance to reciprocate the affection.
âI do want this,â he mutters sheepishly, knowing itâs also not in his best interest to lie to the woman heâs been leading on for several months now.
âI can leave,â you say to him finally, acknowledging how scared he sounds at the prospect of being here with you. âI wonât tell a single soul. Itâll be like it never happened.â
And Professor Hanâs 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 Hanâs 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 couldnât 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 youâre 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.
âFuck,â 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 canât feel his physical yearning for you. And yet itâs 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.
âCan I take this off?â 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 donât reply, simply crossing two arms over your torso and pulling your shirt off over your head. Itâs 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, heâs too scared to make a move.
âProfessor,â you say to him quietly.
âHm?â 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 donât 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.
âJisung,â he says, now chuckling lightly. His hands snake up your sides, rising higher, and higher, until theyâre resting on the mounds of your breasts, not yet making contact with your hardened nipples.
âWhat?â You hum in response, a small smile on your lips as he watches you carefully.
âThatâs my name,â 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 doesnât stop kissing you, moving his hands in gentle kneading motions over your breasts as his kisses turn more eager.
âYou donât have to call me professor,â 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 . âJust call me Jisung.â
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.
âJisung,â you breathe into his mouth, earning a toothy grin from him against your parted lips. âI love it. I love your name.â
âYouâre welcome to say it whenever you want,â he says back, running his hands along the small of your back.
âJust me?â You ask teasingly, tangling two hands in his ebony hair.
âJust you,â he emphasizes, grazing his fingers along your inner thighs. âJust like youâre the only one who scores a perfect on everything she does,â he continues, the pads of his fingers attaching to your clit.
âJust like youâre the only student Iâd bring back here in the first place.â
Jisungâs 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.
âDo you think about me often?â 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.
âI do,â he affirms, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.
âWhat do you think about?â You now ask him, scooting even closer and allowing your chests to make contact as you wrap your arms around him.
âThose short little skirts you wear just for me,â he replies, smiling as he speaks. âThey drive me insane.â
âThatâs on purpose, you tell him, grazing your nails along the back of his neck. âWhat else?â
âYour stories of piano,â he then says, surprising you with his response. âItâs so sexy how talented you are.â
âReally?â 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.
âI touched myself to your book annotations,â he tells you, this time a smile absent from his chiseled face.
âMy book annotations,â you repeat, and he cocks his head to look at you.
âAll for me,â he continues, filling the ache between your legs with the gentle thrust of his fingers. âWere you trying to get my attention?â
âDepends,â you reply, clutching his shoulders and moving down the length of his fingers a little further.
âOn what?â
âOn whether yours were for me,â 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.
âTell me what it was like,â you say to him breathlessly. âDescribe it to me.â
âIt was earlier today- just before the gallery,â he explains, cocking his head as your lips part in pleasure. âI never annotate in red. I knew instantly that it was you. Your handwriting- your words,â he continues. âI wasnât expecting it- Iâd hoped maybe you penned in a phone number or something.â
You chuckle lightly as he speaks, taking note of the way his fingers pick up the pace inside of you.
âYou wouldâve loved that, huh?â You retort. And his fingers now move inside of you in a âcome hitherâ motion as he resumes his actions.
âI wouldâve loved that,â he groans. âToo 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 youâd actually show up tonight.â
Jisung canât 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 heâs thought about you these past few months.
âGod, I love your body,â 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.
âJisung,â 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.
âWhat is it?â He coos back.
âI want to finish with you,â 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. Heâs wet, as though heâs already finished once for you, and he whimpers powerlessly at the contact.
âFuck,â he whimpers, shutting his eyes in pleasure at the sensation. âFuck, touch it again, will you?â
You chuckle lightly in response, looping a finger into the hem of his boxers and tugging down.
âI can do a lot more than just touch you,â 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 canât help but gasp, completely in awe at the sight.
Heâs much bigger than youâd anticipated, a thick girth lined with pink protruding veins and a generous length, his cock almost red at the tip and leaking with precum.
âFuck,â Jisung says for a third time, feeling another bead drip down his length at the prospect of you watching.
âIs it okay if-â
Jisung doesnât let you finish your sentence before heâs 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, youâre sliding down the slick of his length with complete ease, almost bottoming out fully as he opens his eyes again and whimpers loudly.
Heâs 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.
âShit, I canât,â he whines, gripping your skin a little tighter. âIâm gonna cum so fast.â
âItâs okay,â you emphasize, clenching around his girth and smiling against him. âWe have all night.â
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 heâs imagined for the better part of the semester now.
âCan I cum inside of you?â 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. âJesus, you feel so good.â
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 canât 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 youâd been all his college life- but you know youâre supposed to be together like this now, regardless of his relationship to you. Had he been ten, twenty years your senior, you wouldnât care- itâs 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. Heâs so much more than that- heâs 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.
âJisung,â you moan against him, allowing his first name rather than his professional title to linger between your two listless bodies.
âY/n,â 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 heâs 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 Jisungâs apartment as it continues to rain outside. Thereâs a chill in the air as thick clouds of fog caress the windows, and not even the layered duvet of Jisungâs bed is enough to warm your still-nude body.
You blink in a state of confusion around you, not realizing where you are momentarily. Itâs not until you eye the stacks of music books, loose sheet music and picture frames that you recall last nightâs events.
How many times had he fucked you- four, maybe five times? You canât 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 couldnât 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.
Heâs still asleep, lips parted innocently and his hair tousled around his chiseled face. Heâs also in need of a shave, flaunting a generous patch of stubble on his chin. And youâre not sure heâs 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.
âWeâre in trouble, arenât we?â 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.
Itâs a little more real at this proximity, the fact that youâre in bed alongside your professor. But the point still stands- it doesnât feel awkward, nor do you regret any part of what unfolded yesterday. Itâs like something that was bound to happen- if not last night, it wouldâve been a week from now, maybe two weeks- definitely not three considering how long youâve 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. Itâs not one youâve had the pleasure of noticing until now- itâs 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.
âCome on,â Jisung says from beside you, cocking his head in the direction of his bedroom door. âIâll make you coffee.â
âThe blue hair was a bold choice,â you say to Jisung, gripping a warm mug of coffee in hand as you sit cross-legged on his wooden flooring.
Youâre in nothing but one of his t-shirts, your hair still messy from last nightâs events and lipstick staining the edge of the white mug heâs provided you with. Heâs a little more put together this morning, despite canceling todayâs classes, a white woolen cardigan enveloping his figure and gray sweatpants hung loosely around his toned legs.
âI dyed my hair a lot back then,â he says from his spot on the couch, staring up at the photograph you admire.
And for some reason, the utterance of âback thenâ makes you laugh, the way he speaks as though heâs twenty years older than he is. Heâs really just six years beyond you, a gap that most would overlook had he not been a professor. And sure, he already boasts a masterâs degree and years of experience, but itâs not as though youâre not on the same path yourself.
âWhy did you stop?â 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.
âItâs not professional,â he says plainly. âI had to look the part.â
You smile at him, shaking your head before responding.
âNot the hair,â you emphasize. âDirecting. Whyâd you stop directing?â
Itâs the first time youâve asked the question so boldly, despite pondering it for all the time youâve known him. And his composure turns uncomfortable again, as though the question implies much more than it lets on.
âYou donât have to answer,â you say to him after a brief silence, feeling guilty for having overstepped. But Jisung shakes his head, furrowing his eyebrows before speaking again.
âIt was eating me alive,â he explains, his gaze falling to a distant stack of books as he thinks back to his days as a director. âI couldnât do anything else. I couldnât focus on anything. I couldnât eat, I couldnât sleep- I wanted to be the best. I just wasnât a very good person.â
You nod at his words- itâs 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. Youâre pretty sure your lack of friends in college can be largely attributed to the same thing.
âWell I think youâre a good person,â you say finally, but his gaze still doesnât find yours. You can tell thereâs more he wants to say- but he remains there, staring into the distance, pondering a lifetime of regret heâll continue to take with him if he doesnât at least try to address the hurt.
âI wasnât,â is all he can say, earning another head shake from you.
âYou canât blame yourself for wanting to be good, Jisung. Iâm sure you feel the same thing working as a professor. Besides, that doesnât mean you canât-â
âI was a lousy husband,â Jisung finally blurts out, and your eyes snap to his gaze again, finally making contact with his trembling eyes.
âHusband?â You echo, and he swallows nervously.
âI married so young,â Jisung tells you now, folding his legs on the couch in front of him. âI thought it was the right move, fresh out of college with a girl Iâd been dating for four years. I had everything- a job, a wife, a sense of stability.â
Youâre 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 thatâs risen between the two of you, he shows no interest in pursuing another partner.
âThe divorce cost me everything,â Jisung says, his eyes glazing over again as he recounts the story. âI 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 wouldnât drive me crazy anymore.â
Jisungâs heart races wildly in his chest as he speaks, and then heâs hit with the realization that heâs venting to a student of his- one who shouldnât 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.
âI donât know why Iâm telling you this,â Jisung finally says, furrowing his brows again. âIâm sorry- maybe you should go.â
You remain quiet, still sat on the floor, not even halfway finished with the cup of coffee heâs brewed. And he feels bad again, knowing itâs not fair to be taking his frustration out on you.
âDo you want me to leave?â 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.
Youâre 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 canât help but think to yourself. Heâs so ridden with loneliness, and guilt and yearning for more.
âJisung,â 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.
âDo you really think Mozartâs Sonata no. 12 is missing something?â You then ask him, referring to the annotations from his textbook.
He keeps his gaze set on yours, fascinated youâve remembered his penned-in opinions on the aforementioned works from class. And then he nods lightly, humming a little in response to you.
âThereâs no resolution,â Jisung huffs. âIt just fades into nothingness.â
You nod back at him, sitting back on the palms of your hands and cocking your head slightly.
âThat's a resolution to some listeners,â you say to him. âMaybe you just desire something beyond those last notes.â
His gaze flickers over your knowing expression, pondering the way you speak of the familiar tune.
âMaybe you ought to seek what a resolution is to you.â
*
âI think Professor Han is fucking somebody,â Mina says to you one day as she gets ready in front of the full-length mirror across from her bed.
âWhy do you say that?â You retort with a small chuckle, your interest piqued at her words.
âHavenât you noticed he cancels class a lot?â She replies, wiping a mascara smudge off from below her left eye. âHe runs late all the time now, he just shows up in a t-shirt when he does lecture. And he just seems happier, overall. Thatâs every indication that heâs getting some action.â
You thumb the pages of your textbook- or rather, Professor Hanâs 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 Constanzeâs 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 âha haâsâ fills the space between the two of you.
âI guess I never realized how presumptuous you students can be,â he says, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
He doesnât seem worried in the slightest- at least not with this cautious system the two of you have developed to maintain the secrecy. You donât linger in his classroom when lectures conclude, careful not to make it too obvious that youâre 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. Itâs convenient that she doesnât seem to suspect anything regarding why youâre always absent from your shared dorm now, considering sheâs always at her boyfriendâs place, anyway. And although Jisung makes a mental promise to himself to stop canceling his evening classes so frequently, he canât help it.
Heâs 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 didnât take so much of his time and sanity.
He recalls the majority of his friends and family acknowledging what a lousy husband heâd been, and the feeling of knowing heâd 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, heâs just a work in progress- youâre 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. Heâs so much more than his mistakes- heâs 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, itâs still undeniably sweeping, as though itâs another language the two of you share in secrecy. Jisung had admitted once that he hadnât 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 heâs going to lose you to the same careless mistakes as before. But he also understands that youâre different, and that you donât 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 itâs 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 heâs remarkable for all that heâs done, and heâs still remarkable- as a professor, and even following his divorce, he canât help but grow hard at the affection, reveling in the robust support and the love heâs not sure heâs ever felt before you.
Heâll often make love to you right there on the sofa, symphonic pieces still playing faintly on the tv in the background, and heâll do it again and again to convey the reminder that heâs 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. Itâs 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 itâs no longer accessible, closed off by rows of fencer wire and shut off entirely from the rest of the school.
âItâs finally done for,â a voice says from beside you, and you know it to be Jisungâs before even turning to face him.
âAlready? I thought construction was supposed to begin next semester, though.â
Jisung shakes his head, hands stuffed in his pockets as he exhales deeply.
âI got the email today,â he says in a frustrated tone. âJust some short thing about not delaying the project. Theyâre moving me to the tiny little hall around the corner.â
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 canât remember the heating ever having worked during your time passing through, the hall constantly freezing when it rains.
âI didnât even get a proper send-off,â he reiterates, his gaze not moving from the bright orange temporary fencing. âI wouldâve taken a moment to appreciate it one last time.â
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.
âDonât you still have your keys?â
âYeah,â he says, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. âButâŚâ
Jisung doesnât 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 heâs also overtaken with frustration and a longing for closure.
âI do have my old keys,â 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 itâs 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 heâs in a simple pair of blue jeans, brushing mud off his toned thighs and then meeting your gaze again.
âCome on,â he says to you, nearing the fence again and holding a hand out, beckoning you to follow his lead. You donât think twice before youâre 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.
âI hope they havenât changed the locks yet,â 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 canât 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.
âThey havenât touched the stairs yet,â 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, itâs a sound you realize youâre 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 youâre 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 youâll 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, itâs comforting to see that nothing looks different just yet, the podium still intact and rows of chairs folded neatly in their places. Jisung doesnât make any move to turn on the lights, careful not to reveal that anyoneâs 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.
âI loved this room,â 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 youâd stared at them beyond Jisungâs 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 heâs that much closer to redeeming himself following a nasty divorce, heâs 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, heâs pretty sure youâre the closest heâs ever gotten to one, when youâre assuring him that there is a life beyond the mistakes he made in his early 20s- that the curse of pondering his place here doesnât have to define him entirely. And that thereâs always still time- to love, to better himself, and to revisit the passion which once drove him mad.
It doesnât mean itâs going to repeat itself, you had told him once. You could do it differently.
âI donât think Mozartâs Sonata no. 12 needed a coda,â 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.
âWhyâs that?â
âIt doesnât need to repeat the entire first part,â you explain to him. âThat part is emphasized enough. I think the listener should appreciate that it just ends where it ends.â
Jisung thinks over your words for a moment, not entirely sure why youâve 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.
âI like that itâs a little unclear,â you finally say to him.
And this time he doesnât 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 shouldnât mark you. And yet he does, a physical reminder that you belong to him, and hopefully one to convey the notion that youâre the closest thing heâs ever gotten to resolution.
Jisungâs 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.
âJisung,â you say to him, your hands gripping the wood of the podium. âWe probably shouldnât do this here.â
Itâs 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.
âWe wonât get caught, baby,â he says as his fingers rub circles over your clothed core under the thin fabric of your skirt. âI promise.â
And then itâs 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 doesnât even need to touch you- not when youâre 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.
Itâs undoubtedly arousing for him to look out at the classroom heâs 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 heâs 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 heâs fucking you this sweetly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as indication to speed up his movements. But he doesnât- 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 Mozartâs Sonata no. 12, and how evidently his annotations referencing a coda have resonated with you. Or the tales of Mozart and Constanzeâs 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.
Jisungâs 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 heâd been. The walls to be painted blinding shades of cobalt blue and white, like a fucking dentistâs 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 wasnât all in vain. And your comforting words helping him understand that perhaps this isnât 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.
Youâre well aware of Jisungâs 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 canât verbalize the curiosity- not when heâs 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.
âI love you,â he says like itâs an epiphany. But itâs not- he reckons heâs known it for a long time now, almost scared at the intensity of his emotions for you. Heâs not quite sure he loved his wife like this, and heâs 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.
âHow could I ever ask for a better woman?â He breathes against your skin, goosebumps rising as his words echo Mozartâs letter to Constanzeâs 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 sheâs been speaking of a camping trip with her boyfriend for several weeks now.
At first you check your phone, briefly, thinking maybe youâve gotten the date wrong. But you havenât- itâs a Friday evening, the same evening you know she should be on route to her planned trip with Lucas.
Sheâs propped up in bed, carefully examining something when you make your way past her, eyebrows furrowed and deep in thought.
âHey Mina,â you say to her cautiously, pulling your sweater up a little higher up on your neck.
She doesnât reply, eyebrows still furrowed as she keeps her head down. And then she chuckles lightly, still not looking up at you.
âI feel like youâre out more than I am these days,â she says to you, and you canât quite make out whether sheâs being condescending or cordial with you.
âYeah,â you reply nervously, sitting on the edge of your bed across from her and crossing your arms. âJust been trying to take more walks.â
Mina purses her lips, nodding, and then she exhales sharply before she speaks again.
âLucas broke up with me,â she explains. But she doesnât sound sad, or even angry- she simply relays the news with a straight face, not even glancing up to catch your shocked expression.
âHe did?â You blurt out, feeling an overwhelming sense of sympathy for her- of course you donât really care for Mina, but you also know how frequently sheâs out with him, how highly she speaks of him and how in love sheâs been with him for all the years theyâve been together.
âYeah,â she reaffirms, sighing as she speaks. âHeâd been cheating for several months. Iâm over it now- I just thought I might get a head-start on this week's notes.â
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.
âThatâs good,â you tell her, crossing your legs on the bed. âIâm really sorry. Let me know if you need anything-â
âI did find this weekâs chapter to be particularly interesting,â she interrupts, slouching further back against the wall by her bed.
Itâs your turn to furrow your brows, a little confused by her behavior, especially considering she hardly ever reads assigned textbook chapters.
âListen to this,â Mina says, and then her lips pull into a wicked grin as she begins down the page, her voice laced with rancor.
âI must make you better acquainted with the character of my dear y/n,â she begins, and your heart all but stops in your chest.
Itâs then that you notice the textbook in her grasp, the familiar old font and the yellowing of the pages- Professor Hanâs textbook, the same one riddled with erotic poetry between the lines of music theory.
âMina, please-â you begin, voice cracking, a futile task as she raises her voice and continues speaking.
âHer whole beauty consists of two sparkling eyes and a delicate figure,â she reads. âShe likes to watch me direct symphonies, and she knows music theory like the back of her hand.â
Your heart races in your chest, mind swirling with fearful thoughts as she voices the familiar love letter back to you. Professor Hanâs most recent addition to the textbook, derived from Mozartâs letter to Constanzeâs father, and a written account of Jisungâs affection for you. A letter youâve 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.
âShe 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,â 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.
âPlease, stop,â you beg, to no avail, as she then concludes the letter.
âMost 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.â
The room falls painfully quiet as she finishes, thumbing through the pages with a soft rustling sound.
âThatâs just one,â she says, maintaining the same wicked expression on her face. âThe book is full of them.â
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.
âThis is the professorâs textbook, right? Thatâs why it looks a little different. I had wondered, when I first snatched it from your stuff.â
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- thereâs no denying itâs a letter from him, to you. Itâs incriminating by his loopy cursive handwriting, the book sheâs seen him wield so many times in the classroom during lectures and the way he speaks of making love to you.
âYouâre fucking Professor Han?â She finally says aloud, and the words sting, although youâve been expecting them.
âItâs not like that-â
âThatâs why youâre 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 nobodyâs looking? How big is he?â
âStop!â 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 sheâs seen in the book, but you know that itâs far too late- the book is no longer a sacred little thing between you and Jisung.
âWhat do you want?â You say to her quietly, sniffling as you tuck the book under your duvet.
âWhat do I want?â She echoes.
âYes,â you huff frustratedly. âAnything. Just please donât tell the dean about this- or anyone, for that matter. I promise to do whatever it is that you ask, especially since-â
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.
âDo you think Iâm gonna blackmail you, or something?â She questions between laughter, meeting your gaze with tears in her eyes as she continues giggling between words.
âI always knew you were weird,â she remarks. âNot like, âfuck a professorâ weird. But it is weird that you think Iâm gonna blackmail you.â
You donât 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.
âYou mean⌠you⌠wonât tell?â
âIâm impressed,â Mina replies, now lying on her side and propping her head up in her hand. âHe is the hottest professor on campus. But no, Iâm not going to tell anyone. Contrary to your belief, I really donât care to ruin either of your lives. I have more important things to worry about.â
You sigh a heavy breath, relieved that Minaâs taken the high road and chosen to ignore the situation altogether. But you canât cease the heavy weight it bears within you, one that fears not for your future, but for Professor Hanâs. You know the majority wouldnât believe it, the tale that this was a mutual thing between the two of you, that heâs just a pained divorcee, and youâre 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. Itâs more irresponsible on his end than it is yours- and although you both know itâs wrong, it still feels different. It still feels as though itâs rooted in yearning.
âI still need a textbook,â Mina says, breaking the silence between you two. âLike, for this weekâs chapters.â
âOh, right,â 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 elseâs 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.
*
Jisungâs apartment doesnât feel the way it normally does later that week- not when youâre first sauntering in with meek steps, being flooded by a barrage of questions about why youâve 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 sheâs 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 doesnât matter by this point. Youâve stopped reading the textbook entirely, coming to terms with the fact that youâll 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.
âYouâre going to be so mad at me,â 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 heâs adamant that nothing could make him hate you- that whatever it is youâre facing can be worked through, and that heâs 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.
âAre you sure she knows itâs mine?â He asks, pulling away to stand in front of you. He feels much taller when heâs towering over you like this, pacing frantically along the wooden floorboards and chewing on the inside of his lip nervously.
âIâm sure,â you reply quietly. âShe mustâve been reading it the entire time I was out. It has your name in it and everything.â
Jisung is quiet again, thinking over your words, and then he places his hands on his hips as he speaks again.
âDid she say anything else?â He inquires.
âShe said that she wouldnât tell anybody. As far as I know, she hasnât. I just feel-â
âIâm never going to get it now,â he then says, running his hands through his hair nervously and glancing around the room.
âGet what?â
âJesus,â he says, almost chuckling in disbelief. âI spent all this time interviewing, and if this gets out it could ruin everything.â
âInterviewing?â You echo meekly.
âJust 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.â
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 youâre also scared of him when heâs like this, knowing heâs reverting back to the version of himself who puts music above everything.
âYou couldnât just make something up?â Jisung then asks, scoffing lightly as he finally meets your gaze.
âWhat?â
âYou couldnât just fucking lie? Why on earth would you admit to it?â
âLie?â You repeat to him with a shaky voice. âWhat did you want me to say?â
âSay I wasnât interested in you,â Jisung retorts. âSay you were writing the letters to yourself. Youâre putting my entire career at risk because you couldnât be bothered to put my book away?â
Youâre taken aback momentarily by Jisungâs words, hardly making sense of them at first. Thereâs no way he could be blaming you for this- not when heâs 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- youâre 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 hadnât just lied, or made a bullshit excuse, or something, the message is conveyed loud and clear. Heâs blaming you entirely for being found out.
âThis is about directing,â you say when the realization hits you, almost laughing at the sheer absurdity of it.
âOf course itâs about directing,â he retorts, throwing his hands in the air and scoffing loudly. âI 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 itâs going to be my divorce all over again.â
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.
âItâs not going to get out,â you say to him softly. âMina hasnât told anybody, and Iâll make sure it stays that way.â
Jisung gives a small nod at your words, and then he slides his hands into the pocket of his jeans.
âI hate that you donât realize when youâre doing the same thing all over again,â you then say to him, averting his stern gaze.
âWhat are you talking about?â
âWhy are we even doing this?â You continue, scoffing lightly. âIs 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 youâre doing the same thing, making your shortcomingâs everybody elseâs fault except your own. I think youâre more afraid of not being able to relive your glory days than of losing anybody you love.â
âThatâs not what this is, and you know that,â Jisung retorts. âYou know how I feel about you.â
âJust admit that Iâm a distraction because you miss your old life,â you continue, a little calmer now. âItâs the first time your career felt like it once did when you were directing, and in love, and Iâm just some good fuck who takes genuine interest in your stories.â
âThatâs not what Iâm-â
âDo you ever imagine Iâm her?â You ask him, meeting his concerned gaze. âWhen youâre fucking me in your bedroom? Do you ever imagine Iâm your ex-wife waiting up for you the way she used to? Pretend youâre still a director and that you finally have everything you want?â
âThatâs enough,â Jisung voices, and you shake your head at him.
âYou 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 canât seem to understand when your interests take precedence over your emotions.â
Jisung is silent as his lip quivers in response, experiencing all over again what he did on the night his ex-wife left him. Heâd 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. Itâs dizzying, and itâs painful, and heâs 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.
âY/n, please wait,â Jisung calls out, but he canât 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.
âI really think you ought to find what resolution means to you,â you say to him finally. âRepetition isnât always it.â
*
The dingy old hallway within the radius of the old east lecture hall is indeed just as undesirable as you remembered it- itâs 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 donât 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 Hanâs 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. Heâs sleeping with a student.
Of course some of them come close to the truth, but theyâll never know for sure- not unless theyâre 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 youâd known he was leaving, but not before tears are streaming down your face, your words coming out between hiccupped sobs. And all that sheâs 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 Hanâs 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 âwasting timeâ, yet the students are well aware itâs because he simply doesnât have the answers they seek. Your classmates donât care of course, their grades cushioned by the generous 20 points, instead of 10, which Professor Han opted to distribute for the dead composerâs 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, youâre 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 heâs truly just incapable of loving without the limitations of his work. Like the famous composers you learn of, heâs 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.
âThe old lecture hallâs finally been torn down- all that remains are gray dust and pieces of the old stair banister. Theyâve 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 donât even look up from their laptops when your replacement speaks. Thereâs nothing to look at, of course- not when youâre absent.
We finally reached Constanzeâs 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 donât know it, but I think back to your old videos, when youâd wave around that black baton of yours and lead symphonies. I understand the fear you harbored in letting all of that go.
Youâre the most stubborn person Iâve ever met. I wish you hadnât told me that you were falling in love, and I hope youâre doing terrible-â
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. Itâs a jarring fact, coming to terms with the notion that youâre likely never going to see him again. But you know itâs his way of resolution- repeating the same process as before, hoping for a different outcome.
*
âYouâre starting the tempo change too slow,â Jisung says with a heavy sigh, setting his baton down on the music stand and waving his hand. âPick up from measure three, on your own this time. Iâll be back in five.â
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 heâs this mentally exhausted, shutting his eyes momentarily and exhaling.
Heâs directing again, conducting symphonic pieces heâs 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 heâs compiled a generous collection of gold and silver cufflinks the way he once used to. But something feels different- and itâs felt that way for months now.
Sometimes Jisung canât recall if symphonies were always this arduous to lead. Heâs almost certain heâs 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, theyâre too slow.
Slow enough for his mind to wander elsewhere- like whether theyâll 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 heâs not yelling at them.
And occasionally, as much as he hates to admit it, the thoughts involve you. His prideâs 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 heâs doing- whether it be conducting grand symphonies, lecturing facts heâs 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 canât 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 Mozartâs Sonata no. 12, complete with his scribbled annotations, and yours, so perfectly complementing all of his remarks.
âCoda?â 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, youâd inquire about his need for a musical epilogue. One that you didnât believe was necessary within the piece, feeling as though the repetition equated redundancy in this case. âI think the listener should just appreciate that it ends where it ends,â youâd 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 Mozartâs 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 doesnât need to be any form of repetition, or even the need for a coda. Maybe those fading, discoordinate notes are enough- maybe thatâs 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.
âJisung?â Somebody asks, and he glances up to catch the gaze of who he remembers to be a third chair woodwind player.
âWe practiced measure three again,â he says cautiously. âCould you⌠have a listen one more time?â
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 donât look back the way heâs done for so long.
âSir?â The student asks again, twiddling his fingers together in front of his collared shirt.
âNot now. Iâm leaving early today,â Jisung says, buttoning his blazer closed and giving the student a small nod. âPractice measure three until itâs perfected for next time.â
And then he begins toward his car, taking purposeful strides with a plan he hasnât even conjured up yet, only knowing he has to keep looking forward if he wants any sort of resolution to all of this.
âAnd for godâs sake,â Jisung then calls out suddenly, stopping in his tracks to convey the message clearly.
âGet the tempo right, next time, will you? Iâm tired of hearing the same thing over and over again.â
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 canât 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 youâve gotten so accustomed to.
âAre you using that box?â She asks, loudly sealing one with packing tape and setting it on top of another.
âNo,â you say plainly. âItâs all yours.â
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 youâve 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 youâll be right back to appreciating the intricacies of music theory and piano.
Everything should feel as though itâs falling into place- and yet it doesnât. It feels different- and itâs felt different for months now.
In a perfect world, you reckon youâd 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 canât 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 lifeâs 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 canât. Not when the yearning had quickly transitioned to unrequited love the same way it did for Brahms, and itâs 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 Mozartâs letter to her father, one thatâs now been tainted by his poetic words to you along the margins of his course textbook.
âY/n, youâre never going to finish packing today at this rate,â Mina remarks, occupying a spot next to you on the bed. âDo you need help or something?â
âIâm good,â 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.
âYou know,â she begins. âYouâre the smartest musician Iâve ever met. Itâs a little weird how much you know sometimes.â
âThanks,â you retort with a small chuckle.
âAnd I donât think messing around with anybody got you where you are today. You did that yourself.â
You meet her gaze finally, not speaking as she shrugs softly. Youâre a little surprised at the kind tone she assumes, wondering briefly if thereâs some sort of catch to her words.
âJust⌠give yourself what you deserve,â she finishes. âWhether that means going back, or looking forward. But donât settle for less than you really want. I did, for so long. And Iâll be the first to tell you itâs not worth it.â
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.
âMina,â you say to her. âWhy didnât you tell anybody? What did you get out of keeping my dirty secret?â
She chuckles softly, throwing her head back and shrugging before speaking again.
âThose annotations,â she begins. âTheyâre not just some dirty little secret. Thatâs⌠a sort of thing Iâve never seen at that proximity. They way you speak to each other, itâs 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.â
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.
âIt just kinda sounded like you two were in love,â she finishes. âI wouldnât get in the way of that.â
You hold her gaze for a moment as she stands up again, brushing off her jeans and hoisting another box into her arms.
âAnyways,â she continues. âIâm out of here. Good luck in the city, and-â
âMina,â you interrupt her, sitting up to look at her properly.
She blinks a few times, surprised youâre sitting up in bed for the first time today, and holds your gaze over the sealed top of her cardboard box.
âThank you. Iâm sorry I didnât say it enough.â
Mina smiles, her pink glossed lips pulling into a kind grin, and thereâs no remaining tension between the two of you for possibly the first time since youâve lived together.
âYouâre welcome,â she replies, accompanied by a gentle nod. âOh- 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.â
And then sheâs 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 theyâve 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, youâre 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 youâve already missed for the better part of the semester following its demolition. As you round the corner, you can make out the new gymnasium thatâs already partially erected in its place. Itâs 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 shouldnât, you canât help yourself, hoisting your legs over the orange fencing to the other side, your feet planting into the grass lining with a gentle thud.
Thereâs 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 nobodyâs 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 hallâs staircase, replaced instead by the woody notes of sawdust and fresh paint. The walls are white, true to the rest of the schoolâs buildings, and along the walls which are finished, the signature cobalt blue stripe. At this proximity, itâs almost humorous to bask in the putrid colors youâre grateful youâll never have to stare at again.
As you take in your surroundings, you remember Minaâs words from earlier, recalling a new piano they placed here, and you scan the room from left to right- only thereâs 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 Minaâs way of sending you off with one final bout of animosity?
Youâre doubtful- that isnât Mina. You know her way of comforting you earlier was rooted in the good intentions sheâs 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. Itâs 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.
âWhat are you doing here?â Is all you can say to him as he approaches, his hands shoved in his pockets and a leather bag slung over his shoulder.
âMina practically chased me when I was leaving,â he says, gesturing to the empty space around you both. âSaid I had to come see some new piano they put in here.â
He glances around the room, eyebrows furrowed in a confused manner, and then he turns to face you.
âWhere is it?â
âThere is no piano,â you say to him, crossing your arms frustratedly. âShe told me the same thing.â
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.
âGraduated, huh? Howâs it feel?â
âFine,â you reply in a reluctant tone. âI leave today.â
âWhere are you headed?â Jisung asks, swallowing nervously.
âLanded an internship in the city,â you tell him. âItâs close by. Just some piano thing.â
Jisungâs lips pull into a grin, chuckling lightly as he nods in response. âI always knew youâd land something good.â
You remain quiet, looking around the gymnasium once again, and then you turn to him with some hesitation.
âWhat are you doing here?â
Jisung sighs deeply, looking around the gymnasium, too, before speaking.
âI had an interview. Quit my directing gig.â
His words take you aback momentarily, a million questions racing through your mind about why heâs no longer directing and why heâd be interviewing here of all places.
âYou interviewed here?â
âWasnât so much of an interview as it was a conversation,â he retorts. âThey even had my old badge. I really need to get that updated considering my hairâs not technically black anymore-â
âWhy would you interview here?â You emphasize to him again. âYou hated it here. I thought you wanted some fancy directing thing.â
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 heâs still consumed with an overwhelming amount of selfish pride. But he also knows that heâs 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.
âLook, I fucked up, okay?â Jisung finally says, taking you by complete surprise.
âThe minute I started there again, I knew that wasnât my calling anymore. Maybe it was back when I was still young, and all starry-eyed for the stupid baton and the fancy suits.â
He turns to face you at this point, taking a step toward you and almost physically demanding you reciprocate the eye contact.
âBut you were right- that chapter of my life is finished now. And yeah, maybe the students donât pay attention when I stand up there and lecture. And sure, Iâm just going to be some lousy assistant college band director out here. But finding you- and the way youâd 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.â
Jisung canât 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 isnât putting his dreams of a past life before the people he loves.
â⌠and then I couldnât 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.â
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 donât 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.
âMusic isnât the same without you,â he finishes. âNone of this is.â
You lock your gaze with Jisungâs, 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.
âIs this how it unfolded back then, too?â You ask calmly. âWhen you begged somebody to stay after the first time you made this mistake?â
Jisungâs lips part to say something, but then heâs quiet again, waiting for you to continue, praying for something better than this.
âI think youâre a genius,â you continue. âI think youâre remarkable, and talented, and loving you comes so easily. But you make it hard when you do the same thing to everybody youâve ever loved.â
âYouâre the first woman Iâve ever loved,â Jisung blurts promptly, and a deafening silence falls over the room. He hesitates to continue at this point, fearing as though heâs going to scare you off, but heâs also never verbalized it to you despite thinking about it every waking second of the day, and heâs determined not to form new mistakes he could risk repeating.
âI let it happen back then because music was the only thing I loved,â he explains. âIt 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 donât need to direct when I have you. Iâll be a teacher- hell, Iâll be a fucking janitor if thatâs what you want. You were my sign to move on from repeating the same fucking thing all over again- you are my end.â
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 Mozartâs Sonata no. 12, complete with all your annotations alongside his. Only his are no longer visible- theyâre 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 heâs kept it after all this time. And then he sags his shoulders a little, gesturing to the page still in your grasp.
âI passed my sign once,â he says sheepishly. âJust please come back to me.â
Jisung doesnât 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 donât 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 heâs 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.
âCan we just start over?â He asks you innocently. âNo repetition, no secrecy. Just start anew.â
You chuckle lightly at his proposal, nodding in his embrace, and then he pulls away entirely to hold a hand out to you.
âHan Jisung,â he says. âIâm an assistant director for the college band.â
âY/n,â you respond with a smile, shaking his hand firmly.
âSo lovely to meet you- can I interest you in a tour of the gymnasium I work in?â
He throws an arm over your shoulder, beginning down the length of the vast space and gesturing to the walls beside you.
âThis is where I yell at students to fix their tempos,â Jisung explains, giving your shoulder a little squeeze as you chuckle in response to him.
âAnd 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?â He then asks with a smile.
âI canât say I do,â you play along, earning an exaggerated gasp from him.
âWell then Iâd love to tell you all about it. How do you feel about art galleries? Thereâs one not far from hereâŚâ
And Jisungâs 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.
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âĄThe Silk Thief's Embrace - Han Jisung
MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY MEMBERSHIP//M.LIST
pairing: perv! Han Jisung x fem! reader
summary: You've been Han Jisung's neighbors for a few months now and he's only spoken a few words to you. But when you invite him over to help around the house, he helps himself to a little souvenir to take back to his bedroom.
warnings: panty stealing, panty sniffing, pervert behavior!! masturbation, humiliation
âOn earth; or damned because, half animal, One lacks direct instinct, because one wakes, Afloat on movement that divides and breaks.â
Han stood in front of his bedroom fan as it ocellated back and forth across his body. With the cold air only lasting a few seconds as it swept across his bare skin. Summer had swooped in and landed smack dab in the middle of his apartment complex. The entire building felt like a sauna and Hanâs tiny fan was doing little to relieve him. The one solace he had, however, was seeing you. Thursday was laundry day. So he knew that meant for just a few brief moments of the day, he would stand with you in a cramped laundry room and talk about your days.
Han gathered his clothes in a small laundry basket and made his way down the hallway towards the laundry room. It was still early and he knew you wouldn't be there yet, but he was hoping to snag the two good machines that actually worked properly. He turned the corner to see you already standing at the washing machine. You turned and smiled, taking notice of him almost immediately.
âOh, hi Han! So hot today, huh?â
You pulled at the collar of your shirt and obnoxiously fanned your face. Your skin was glistening and glowing with small dew drops of sweat. Your hair clung to your forehead, while your cheeks blushed a flattering rosy hue.
Han stood in the doorway for a moment before coming back to his sensing and making his way to you. He loaded up a machine of his own and nodded his head meekly.
âY-yeah⌠Hot.â He said under his breath, barely above a whisper.
You continued to fan your face and you leaned actually against the washing machine behind you, your arms bent back at the top like a model on the beach, advertising for beer or sunglasses. Hanâs eyes raked over your entire body, his hands still loading the machine with clothes. His eyes trailed up from your legs to your hips. From your hips all the way up to your breasts. Then from your breasts to your lips. Hanâs vision lingered on your lips for a moment before tracing back down to your hips. You wore these jean shorts that hugged your body perfectly. Every curve and dip of your figure poured into those shorts like a fine wine.
In another life, I want to come back as a button on her jean shorts.
Han stood up slowly and pressed the START button on his machine. The cycle began whirling and thumping around as the two of you stood in the noise for a moment.
âHan, could I ask you a favor? It's kind of last minute.â Your soft voice cut through the rumble of the laundry machines.
Han perked up, his eyes wide and attentive. He nodded his head slowly,
âSure. What's up?â
You looked down at your feet for a moment, as if the favor you had for him was something awful or embarrassing. Eventually, you looked back at him with an unsure expression.
âMy A/C unit has been acting up and I really don't want to have to buy another one. Do you think you could come take a look at it?â
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Hanâs hands were beginning to sweat more than they already were. His mouth turned dry and the air in his lungs seemed to disappear for a moment. Somehow he willed the words âYesâ and âSounds greatâ to come out of his mouth. You thanked him profusely and told him to be at your place at 6pm. You said you needed time to fold your laundry but Han didn't hear that part, his mind was elsewhere and now he just had to wait until 6pm.
Han stood outside your door that evening at 5:58pm. He fist hovered over your door and he stared at his watch. But without warning, you opened the door. You yelped at the sight of Han already standing there but quickly laughed it off. You motioned your hand inside and Han followed you. You started to walk towards your bedroom and Han was soon to follow. He immediately loved the smell of your apartment. The first scent was definitely your laundry detergent, something with lavender and lemon. The next scent was something sweeter, like baked goods. Had you been baking? He loved the idea of you baking muffins and cookies and other sweets.
âHere it is.â You stopped in front of your bedroom window where a large, and slightly rusted, air conditioning unit was wedged into the open window.
Han has recognized the model of a/c unit from his mother's house. She had never bothered to install central air so every summer Han went down to the basement and lugged up this behemoth of a device and placed it snug against the window of his mother's living room. Han looked over your air conditioning unit and gave a firm nod.
âI'll take a look.â He said confidently, giving you a soft smile.
You returned the smile and told him you would just be in the living room if he needed anything. And just like that you were gone. Han stood frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do next. He looked over the unit before crouching down in front of it. He noticed a small drip coming from the side and decided to follow it to its source. The search led him to a small tube that has been disconnected from the unit entirely.
Han smirked to himself and plugged the tube back into its proper place. He switched the unit on and soon felt the cooling arctic breeze of a functional air conditioner. Still crouched, he turned his body to shout the good news to you when his eyes caught something interesting.
Below your dresser, almost completely out of sight, was a pair of black lace panties. You must have missed them when you were putting your laundry away. They lay there on the carpet, almost calling out his name. Hanâs breath hitched in his throat as he took in the sight. He was frozen again and unsure of what to do. His mind was scolding him, telling him to get that perverted idea out of his mind. But his cock⌠his cock was pleading with him to grab those delicate lace panties and shove them around his shaft. Han shifted a bit in his crouched positions, eyes still fixated on your panties.
âHow's it going in here?â Your voice rang out from the living room but was drawing closer.
Han had to make a decision. It was now or never. As you stepped closer to the bedroom doorway, Han reached his hand out instinctively and grabbed for the misplaced underwear. He hastily shoved them into the pocket of his jeans and stood up from the floor.
âAll good! Got it working now.â He responded, still a bit out of breath.
You ran over to the A/C unit and breathed in the cold air. You shamelessly moaned from the sensation and thanked Han in an equally breathless voice.
Han walked out of your apartment as quickly as he could. You offered to pay him or even split a pizza but he made up some excuse about needing to get home right away. When he finally reached his own apartment, his heart was nearly beating out of his chest. He slid his hand into his pocket and felt the lace material against his fingertips. He groaned low as he slowly pulled the panties from his pocket and brought them up to his face, breathing in deeply.
The first initial contact of your scent flew up through his nostrils and straight to his brain. Every cell was on fire with lust. Desire was pumping through his face and it was all he could do not to whimper directly into the fabric draped across his face. He let your panties lay along the top of his face as he slid his hand down his pants. Any common sense that once occupied his mind was wiped away with the first whiff of your scent.
His hand slithered down past his waistband and found his cock easily like it had so many times before. But now there were already small beads of precum beginning to form and drip out of his needy tip. He was so achingly desperate for you. He could feel it. The way his hips moved into his hand like he was moving into you. He gripped his shaft tighter and picked up the speed ever so slightly. He leaned his head back against the door and imagined you sitting directly on his face. Perhaps he just pushed your panties aside. He imagined each lick he gave you, his tongue also gliding across the fabric of your panties. Just the edge of them, as you rocked your hips with the motion of his head. His tongue flicking and lapping your most sensitive spots.
Your panties shifted and moved on Hanâs face as he continued to give his hard cock long, pleasing strokes. He whimpered softly into the material as it made its way to his open mouth. He tongue lolled out of his mouth as your lace panties coated his tongue. Hanâs whimpers soon became louder and more pathetic as he tasted you. His tongue swirled around the delicate fabric of your stolen lace panties.
Hanâs hand pushed through the final pumped until hot, thick ropes shot out and onto the floor. He let out a low, animalistic growl as he sprayed and covered where he stood. He laid his head back on the front door and sighed heavily. He felt satisfied and disgusting all at the same time. And he couldn't wait to do it again.
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