#r: nsfw/18+ only

[altarecs]

note: love you bennieweenie. this made me tweak the first time i read it, and then again now.

you don’t own me —- c.sc

☆ pairing: choi seungcheol x fem!reader ☆ genre: club owner!seungcheol, established relationship ☆ wc: 1.2k ☆ warnings: 18+ MDNI, possessiveness, jealousy, dom!seungcheol, toxic relationship, spit kink, fingering, unprotected sex (that's a no no), multiple orgasms, creampie, name calling (slut), public sex, exhibitionism

Choi Seuncheol was not a possessive man, or so he says, however, the grip on your thigh told you otherwise.  The comments he made minutes ago dragged the silence on and you wished that he would drive faster.  If he needed space, by God you would make him regret it.

“Listen…” Seungcheol started when he was putting the car into park, unfortunately for him you were out of his grasp and out of the car as soon as it stopped moving.  He groaned and slumped in his seat. It was going to be one of those nights.  Plastering on your favorite smirk, you approached the door with your boyfriend trailing behind you.  

Your favorite bouncer smiled at you as you pushed past the entrance, you are always on the list so no need to check your ID.  He chuckled to himself as you sauntered in, knowing exactly what kind of night you were trying to have.  

“What did you do this time, boss?” he asked, trying not to laugh.

“Mingyu just do your job” Seungcheol muttered and the taller man held his hands up in surrender, still smiling.

Choi Seungcheol was not a jealous man, but he knew when something belonged to him. Watching you, his girl, from across the bar flirting with some stranger just because he made some off handed comment about needing space. His grip on his glass tightened, almost sending shards splintering across the freshly waxed bar top. 

You didn’t look at him as he approached, pretending to be interested in the one sided conversation this poor guy was trying to have with you. He was nothing to you besides a pawn in the little games Seungcheol and yourself like to play. 

Seungcheol pushed past the crowd and gripped on to your seat, spinning it towards him. His eyes were wild and you knew you had riled him up. He didn’t even give you a chance to smirk before taking hold of your chin, 

“Open up,” he commanded, not even looking at you. Confused, you did as you were told. Without breaking eye contact with the guy you were previously talking to, Seungcheol spit into your waiting mouth. “Swallow that for me,” he gives you two slightly stinging pats on your cheek. 

Choi Seungcheol knows when something belongs to him, and everyone else should too. 

With that Seungcheol turned and didn’t look back at you.  He knew he had you in his grasp now, he knows how to play your game and he beats you at it every time.  Wordlessly you rose from your chair and followed him into the hallway where the bathrooms were.  He turned to face you hearing your footsteps in the quieter secluded area.  

“You always ruin my fun” you blurted into his face, he cocked an eyebrow in response,

“Oh really?” he smirked, “I found it fun” he moved closer to you, putting one hand on the wall beside your head. 

“Well..” you avoided his piercing eyes, “I didn’t…” you knew the comment was in no way convincing. 

“Oh really?” he trailed his other hand across your soft skin, getting higher and higher.  You feel his calloused fingers drag up the length of your thigh and under your skirt. His fingers reach the apex of your thighs and you know you can’t lie anymore, “Doll, you’re so wet,” he shoves his hand on the wall into your hair and briefly massages our clit through your soaked panties.  You have to bite your lip to stop a moan from escaping your lips at the sensation.  

A whine of protest does tumble out of your mouth when Seungcheol removes the hand under your skirt.  He pulls you by your hair off the wall and positions you in front of him and pushes you into the men’s bathroom straight ahead.  Once the two of you were through the door you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.  The visual of yourself being utterly controlled by the man behind you filled your body with heat that rushed straight to your core.  

Seungcheol pushed you further into the bathroom before letting go of your hair and moving to check the stalls.  He all but punched each door open before returning to you. 

“Turn around,” you did as you were told once more and he wasted no time bending you over the sink in front of you, “Teasing me all night has consequences” he rasped, pulling your underwear aside.  He almost moaned aloud seeing your glistening cunt on display like this.  He easily slipped two fingers in, surprising you.  You whined at the feeling of being filled, wishing for more.  Seungcheol sets a swift pace, you know he is nervous for someone to interrupt even if he would never admit it.  “You like that?” he watches his fingers disappear and reappear.  

“Yes, oh my God” you mewl. 

“That’s right, you love my fingers,” he punctuates his sentence by adding a third finger, making you shiver with pleasure, “but you’re a slut for my cock, isn’t that right?” You nod in response, not quite able to form a response.  He pulls his fingers almost all the way out of you, “No you use your words with me” 

“Y-yes, I’m your slut” you choke out.  He shoves his fingers into the spot that drives you crazy, coaxing you to the edge.  

“That’s what i thought,” you were starting to become overcome with pleasure, “You can cum now, Doll” with his permission you let go, white spots overtaking your vision.  You cry out from the intensity of the orgasm.  

You feel Seungcheol pull his fingers out and you hear his belt hit the floor.  He pulls his pants down just enough.  You hear him spit into his hand and he grunts giving his cock a few pumps.  Lining himself up he uses the reminisce of your orgasm as lube.  Sliding in easily he gives you a few moments to adjust to the difference between his fingers and his thick cock.  

He begins thrusting into you, setting yet another bruising pace.  Despite the swiftness of his movements you could feel every inch of him each time he pulled out and slammed back into you, you couldn’t control the noises coming out of your mouth nor the squelching of your pussy each time.  

“Doll” he grips your hair in his hand and pulls you up slightly, “Look at you, getting fucked in the bathroom of my club,” he smiles wickedly between thrusts, “Look at yourself getting fucked, don’t forget who you belong to.” You look at your own fucked out face and the face behind you twisted with pleasure.  You feel a second orgasm creeping up on you.  Seungcheol is approaching the edge as well, judging by the fact that his hips are sputtering and he can barely manage to keep quiet anymore. “Gonna cum” he grunts. 

White hot spurts of him begin to paint your walls white as the coil in your stomach snaps.  You take all of it, like the good slut you are.  Seungcheol’s hips still, the two of you breathing heavily for a moment.  Slowly, he pulls out of you, staring at his seed spilling out of your perfect cunt.  He takes a moment to push it back in with his fingers as best he can before sliding your underwear back into place and putting his fingers in your mouth.  You clean them off greedily.  

“Hold on to that for me,” he pats your clothed cunt twice, “I will check when we get home later.”      

[altarecs]

note: i fear that the seungkwan brainrot continues despite me telling myself i'd force myself out of it after writing my behemoth (aka my proudest work.) thanks to ren for keeping the brainrot deeply ingrained in my brain.

office hours — bsk

♡ pairing: boo seungkwan x afab!reader ♡ theme: college au, nonidol!au ♡ wc: ~6.2k ♡ warnings: swearing, smut, reader is gender neutral but wears a skirt, fingering (f. receiving), unprotected piv sex (stay safe y’all), creampie, petnames (f. receiving - baby), fluff at the end if you squint ♡ a/n: this whole thing is a highly self-indulgent fic so if reader is down horrendous for bsk… u know why

‧₊˚✩彡 moodboard by @myhimbomingi ‧₊˚✩彡

You fucking hate Tuesdays. 

There’s nothing actually wrong with your Tuesday schedule - on the contrary it’s probably the best day of the week in terms of lectures and extracurriculars. Your first class of the day, Developmental Psychology, doesn’t start til 11am, so you get to sleep in - always a win in your book. Afterwards you have an hour and a half break, usually spent by eating lunch in the student center and then a visit to the campus library to get some studying done. Then your 2pm Discussion for your Intro to Fiction class, followed by yoga at the gym - and since your work-study job at the Cognitive Research Lab doesn’t have you scheduled for Tuesdays, you get to go home right after. All in all, a pretty laid-back day in your hectic college life.

Except for that stupid 2pm Discussion. 

As a Psychology major you didn’t anticipate having to take any Literature courses, but you needed to fill an elective and Intro to Fiction had a reputation for being a fun, low-stakes course. It also fit conveniently into your Fall Semester schedule, so you signed up. Professor Mendoza turned out to be super nice and never gives any bullshit extra homework, and the assigned books have been surprisingly enjoyable. No, none of that is the problem. 

The problem is the hot TA you’ve inadvertently fallen in love with. 

Your first encounter with Seungkwan had been a bit embarrassing - the first week of the semester you somehow went to the completely wrong building, and even with speed walking you arrived to Discussion about five minutes late. You tried to sneak in quietly but the loud, creaky door hinge had other plans. Twenty-some pairs of eyes turned to stare at the idiot latecomer, but the pair you locked onto were the soft brown ones surrounded by long dark eyelashes, belonging to the blazer-wearing grad student standing at the front of the classroom. 

You would’ve been embarrassed in this situation anyway, but the unexpected eye contact made your stomach drop and your face turn hot. You stood there for a few moments too long, before muttering a feeble “sorry” under your breath as you made your way to the only empty seat in the room - which of course was located at the very front, immediately before the TA. You quickly took your seat and pulled out a notebook (not even the right one, but you were too frazzled to notice). The TA, whose name you missed due to being late, resumed his lecture. You started writing down everything he was saying - definitely not necessary, but you were doing your best to focus without looking up. 

Your face eventually stopped burning up, but this classroom was particularly warm and stuffy. You set down your pen and took your cardigan off, hanging it over the back of the chair. Mindlessly looking up, you look at the TA for the first time since sitting down. He too had discarded his outerwear - the muted brown herringbone blazer now laying aside on the teacher’s desk upon which he was leaning. His dark brown shoes matched his dark pants - which weren’t tight but certainly hugged his thighs nicely, but you tried not to think about that - and he was currently rolling up the sleeves of his medium gray button down - and you definitely tried not to think about that. You put your head back down and focused on your note-taking, transcribing everything without actually processing any of what he said. This was all very strange for you - sure some of your past TAs had been nice looking, but why was this particular one making you this flustered? 

The clock ticked on at an unbearably slow pace. You took your notes and paid no attention, not joining in on the conversation even once. You just have to make it through the hour, you kept telling yourself. But the hour seemed to never end. 

You snap out of it as the TA finally wraps up the class. 

“Don’t forget to read through chapter 5,” he reminds everyone. You realize you don’t even know which book you’re supposed to be reading, but it’s too late to ask now - you’ve looked like enough of a fool today already. Quickly packing your bag, you try to make your escape but as you are heading toward the door the TA calls out to you. Shit.  

“I just need to get your name - for attendance,” he tells you as you turn back around. 

“Oh… yeah,” you reply. You silently curse yourself for how stupid you sound. You tell him your name and he makes note of your attendance in his notes. You try to escape again but not before he sticks his hand out to you. 

“Seungkwan,” he introduces himself. You make the mistake of looking into those big round doe eyes again. He was even more beautiful up close. SHIT. 

You shake his hand, trying to do so as quickly as possible, but he has a very strong grip. 

“Nice to have you in class,” he says warmly. 

“Nicetomeetyoutoo!” you reply, taking your hand back and turning to dart out the door before he can get another word in. 

You don’t look back, so you don’t see how his eyes are glued to you as you hurriedly exit the classroom. 

—

You thought after a few classes you’d get over your dumb little crush on your TA, but four weeks into the semester and it’s only gotten worse. Now that you know where the stupid building is, you always make sure to arrive to Discussion early so you can snag a seat in the very back - as far away from him as you can manage - but this only allows your mind to wander. Watching him from the back of the class, you’ve unintentionally memorized his subtle habits: the way he takes his glasses case out of his bag at the beginning of each class, opening it and wiping the lenses clean with a cloth before placing them on his face with two hands, delicately moving his hair off to the side as not to obscure his vision; the way he leans against the desk, resting his weight on his palms as he listens to the students engage in conversation about the current book; the way he holds his well-worn copy in his left hand when referencing the text, flipping through the dog-eared pages filled with highlights and notes written in ink in the margins, laying the book on the desk pages-down to preserve his place when he goes to write important points on the chalkboard; the way he carefully erases the board as not to create a cloud of dust, wiping his hands together away from his body as not to get chalk on his perfectly pressed clothes; the way he focuses so intently when somebody is speaking, maintaining eye contact and nodding his head slightly, giving them his full attention.

That last one is why you never say a word in that class. You’re pretty sure you would combust on the spot.

Unfortunately, your entire grade for the Discussion portion of the course is based on actually engaging in the discussion - and based on your participation thus far you were right on track for getting an entire zero. I’ll say something next week, you tell yourself - then next week rolls around and you don’t say a damn thing. And repeat. You just hope Seungkwan doesn’t say anything to you. 

But he does. 

You freeze upon hearing your name as you’re gathering your belongings at the end of session. You look up and meet his gaze, doing your best to maintain a relaxed demeanor. It’s only a little eye contact, just chill. 

“Yeah, what’s up?” you respond nonchalantly. He gives you a bit of an inquisitive look, so you add on a polite smile.

“I’ve noticed you haven’t participated at all during discussion so far - you know that’s what I have to grade you on, right?”

“Oh yeah, um- I’ve been… I’ll work on that.”

The look on his face tells you he’s not convinced. “I graded your first essay - you showed exemplary comprehension and your analysis was one of the best ones I’ve read.”

You feel your stomach do a flip. The sudden praise caught you off guard. 

“Oh uh, thank you,” you stammer, trying not to display how flustered you are but undoubtedly failing. 

You make the mistake (again) of making direct eye contact with Seungkwan. It lasts maybe two seconds, but feels like time has slowed; the world has stopped; nothing matters but you and him, standing alone in this room together. You’ve never wanted to impulsively kiss somebody this bad in your life. 

You force yourself back to reality. 

Seungkwan continues. “But, if you’re having some trouble with this particular novel,” he says as he holds up his book, “you can always stop by my office hours with any questions.”

You glance at his copy of Dracula. It’s a standard size paperback, but it looks small in his hand - a hand so strong and defined, yet elegant, fingers long and graceful…

Nope. Not gonna think about that right now. 

“I hold them every Thursday from 3-5pm - in this building, room 430. Top floor - all the way at the end of the hallway.” 

You nod - looking at him without making direct eye contact. “Cool cool. I’ll uh… Thanks, I might take you up on that.”

“Of course,” he replies matter-of-factly. He pauses, then adds with a slight smile, “It is my job after all.” 

Picking up his coat, he heads toward the door, and you follow. He holds the door open for you; as you pass by him you catch the scent of his cologne: woody but fresh, notes of patchouli and bergamot. You utter a soft “Thank you”. He nods chivalrously. 

Exiting the discussion room, he starts heading in the opposite direction as you. “See ya around!” you blurt out suddenly. He pauses - turning over his shoulder, he nods once more at you. “Have a good one,” he responds cordially. Maybe you’re seeing things, but his eyes seem to linger on you for a split second longer than one would expect. 

You watch him walk away for as long as you can get away with without being detected. 

As you make your way to the gym you ruminate over what he told you. Office hours. You didn’t really see a need to go - you weren’t actually having any trouble with the book. And of course office hours are open to all students, but the chance that you might be alone in a room with him again, having a one-on-one conversation…

You try to push the thought aside. You arrive to yoga, prepared to clear your head - but you spend the whole class thinking about Seungkwan. You head home after class, sitting on the bus with your headphones in, blasting your favorite album - but still your mind dwells on your TA. You get home and sit down to continue the novel, reading the next chapter - but you quickly give up. You’re absorbing none of the story, so you’d have to reread it anyway. 

Maybe you will go to office hours after all. 

—

Thursday. You’ve been trying not to think about Seungkwan’s office hours, but of course it’s just the white bear experiment all over again - the harder you tried, the more you ended up thinking about it. Your last class - Statistics - ends at 3:30pm, so you have all day to debate whether to go or not. Damn him for holding them so late in the day. 

Your Stats professor could not be a more uninteresting lecturer if he tried. You spend most of the class stifling your yawns as you do your best to pay attention, to no avail. Finally, the clock hits 3:30 and class is dismissed. You have to make your decision now - so naturally you end up going to the library to procrastinate said decision and mull it over some more. 

After many wasted minutes trying (and failing) to get some homework done, you check the time: 4:19pm. With a sigh you open up your book to leaf through the pages, looking for something you could make up some bullshit question about. Nothing. Mildly peeved, you open your laptop and pull up trusty sparknotes.com. All the discussion questions seem too juvenile, and you’re pretty sure you’d manage to make a fool of yourself if you tried to ask a question you already knew the answer to. 

You decide to abandon your plan to drop by with specific questions and instead just hope and pray there will be other students there so you can simply join in on their conversations. If there aren’t… you’ll just have to figure that out when you get there. 

You make your way to the Literature Studies building, realizing upon your arrival there is no elevator - and your destination is on the top floor. Cursing the building for being old, you trek up the stairs in search of room 430, which - as he mentioned - appears to be at the very end of the hallway. Nearly there, you abruptly decide to backtrack to the restroom you passed to check yourself in the mirror real quick, which turns out to be a mistake because now you’re hyperaware of how anxious (and for some reason, frumpy) you look right now. Nice going you idiot. 

Doing your best to make yourself presentable, you tussle your hair a bit and fix the collar of your shirt back to its proper position. You decide it’s good enough and go to exit the bathroom, pausing when you remember that you have a tinted lip balm you threw in your bag last minute. Rummaging through your bag for a solid 20 seconds, you find the tube at the very bottom and hastily apply it to your lips. Taking a step back, you take a final glance at your reflection - the balm is neutral-colored and fairly subtle, but makes you look slightly less dead. You’ll take the W. 

You make your way back down the hallway toward room 430. Approaching the end of the hall, you hear voices engaged in conversation. You pull out your phone to quickly check the time: 22 minutes of office hours remaining. Good enough, I guess. You’re three steps away from the doorway when you hear a familiar voice chime in - a voice soft and soothing, confident without being cocky. You proceed to enter the office before you have a chance to process how it’s making you feel. 

You find yourself in a room small yet cozy - bookshelves built into the wall that go all the way up to the ceiling, stacked with endless literature: many classics you’ve heard of, many others you haven’t. There’s no overhead lighting, but two antique-ish looking floor lamps illuminate the room with a warm-toned glow. An old, large mahogany desk fills nearly half the room, its accompanying chair vacant. Two fellow classmates are seated in the two smaller chairs facing the dark leather loveseat upon which your TA is currently sitting - reclined, one leg over the other knee, hand on the open book laying face down on the couch next to him. The three faces turn to look at you as you enter, bringing their conversation to a halt. You fucking hate being collectively perceived in any circumstance, but something about the intimacy of the room makes this particular situation even worse than usual. You feel your face start to turn warm but you quickly shove the embarrassment back down. Not today. 

Seungkwan greets you amiably, your name sounding sweet in his mellow voice. “Glad you could make it! Come on in, have a seat.” He picks up the paperback by his side and sets it on his lap, motioning for you to sit next to him. 

Right. Next. To. Him. 

Ignoring the million panic alarms going off in your head, you force a small smile and take your seat. The couch is even smaller than it seemed - there’s maybe two feet between you and him. You’re greeted with the inviting scent of his cologne. 

The two students resume their discussion. You sit there mostly in silence, nodding along, trying not to fixate on Seungkwan’s closeness. But it’s hard to focus on anything other than that - like, really hard.

The twenty-ish minutes pass rather quickly, and the conversation that you’ve contributed nothing to starts to wrap up. The two other students begin packing their bags. You pull out your phone to check the time - 4:57pm. A sense of relief washes over you as you’ll be forced to leave now - no more sitting there anxiously not knowing what to say - but you’re also feeling a little sulky about leaving so soon. You politely say goodbye back to your classmates, who are already on their way out the door. You go to put on your jacket only to discover you never took it off (no wonder it felt so warm in here). Grabbing your book and tossing it in your backpack, you hurry to leave as well before you manage to do or say something to embarrass yourself. 

“Bye! Thank you!” you say cheerily as you step out the door.

“Y/n?”

You stop in your tracks. You turn around to face Seungkwan, who is still sitting on the couch, reclined, with his arm now laying across the back where you just were. That makes you feel a lot of things, which you promptly ignore.

“Yeah?” you reply, hoping a smile will cover your nervousness.

“I believe you took my book.”

You stand there for a moment, confused, before you realize you never took your own copy out. The one you hastily threw into your bag was his. So much for not embarrassing yourself.

“Oh my god I’m SO sorry!!” you blurt out, swinging your backpack around and hurrying to retrieve it.

“It’s alright,” he says with a soft chuckle. “I did set it right next to you.”

You grab his copy out of your bag and hold it out to him sheepishly. He stands up and takes the book in his hand, his fingers brushing yours slightly. You’ve never been electrocuted, but you’re pretty sure what just jolted through your body was a similar sensation.

“Did you have any questions about the book?” he asks before you can bolt out the door. “You didn’t say much in our discussion today-” You open your mouth to apologize again, but he gently puts his hand up to stop you. “I just want to make sure I can help you if you came here with something specific in mind.” 

“Oh, um…” You hesitate, fiddling with your coat sleeve. You decide to tell the truth.  

“Honestly, not really. I kinda just came here to get an idea of how I can participate during class. Cuz, y’know. Don’t really want a zero.”

Seungkwan nods. “Your essays have been very good, I know you’re a highly capable student.” 

You try not to blush. You know he’s just talking about your coursework, but accepting compliments is not your forté. 

“I’m just… not a literature student, so I’m not used to taking classes like these. I guess I just get a little nervous that I’m gonna say something stupid.” You’re not sure why you’re telling him all this. 

“As long as you’ve read and understood the text, you won’t sound stupid - I promise.” 

You look down at the floor. Maybe these are normal things for TAs to say to students, but the fact that you’re kind of in love with him is not helping right now. 

“Besides,” he continues, “I’m the one grading you. I assure you you’ll get a good grade as long as you participate.”

“Well, that’s good news,” you say with a contented smile. You do feel reassured by his words. “Thanks again,” you say, as you turn to leave. 

“Oh, and y/n?”

You lock eyes with him, a recurring habit you seem to be unable to quit. 

“If you ever can’t make my office hours, feel free to email me. I’m sure we can find another time to meet one-on-one.”

One-on-one???

“Oh cool, I… appreciate that.” Does he say that to all his students?? He must, right? Don’t be delusional…

He nods courteously. “See you in class.”

“You too!” you add brightly as you finally head out the door. This time you do look back to see him still looking at you, with an ambiguous look on his face that you cannot decipher.

For the rest of the week, for once, you find yourself looking forward to Tuesday.

—

Tuesday. You resume your usual very-back-of-the-room spot for Discussion - but this time you finally engage in the class’ conversation. You still feel kinda dumb about it, but your TA’s promise of giving you a good grade so long as you participate sticks with you. Besides, who gives a shit what the other students think of you. There is only one person in that room whose opinion you care about, and you seem to have his approval, for reasons unclear to you. Maybe you are just a decent student. But the fact that there’s maybe something else there… You don’t let yourself develop delusions of grandeur, but there’s no crime in being cautiously optimistic. 

On Thursday you find yourself back at office hours, this time arriving a bit earlier - though much to your chagrin the two other students from last time are there again. You’re not sure exactly what you were hoping for if it was just you alone, especially considering you still don’t have any specific questions about the book, but you were kind of hoping it would happen anyway. But alas, you partake in office hours with company. You actually find yourself enjoying these literary discussions a bit, now that you (sort of) know how to engage with them properly.

And so you become a regular at Seungkwan’s office hours - Thursday afternoons quickly becoming the highlight of your week. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happens between you two - and there’s always other students there whenever you attend - but you don’t see any harm in enjoying your time spent with him. 

Per usual, though, as finals approach more and more students start attending as well. One week you show up at 3pm sharp, only to find five students already there asking questions about their essays. You acknowledge that it’s probably just wishful thinking, but he does seem genuinely pleased to see you - pausing his conversation briefly to greet you, your name spoken warmly with a smile on his face. You make a mental note that he doesn’t greet anyone else who enters by name.

Seungkwan maintains a very patient and polite composure, but you get the sense that he is rather irked at the several students who are more or less trying to get him to write part of their essays for them. You chat for a few minutes with a friendly classmate you’ve become acquainted with, but ultimately you both give up on trying to talk to the TA and decide to leave. You sneak a quick glance back as you exit, catching Seungkwan’s eye right before you’re out of his line of sight. Though perhaps you weren’t so sneaky, because once you’re in the hallway your classmate nudges you with her elbow and teases, “Ooooh you have a crush on him don’t you?”

You scoff. “Oh please.”

“No seriously, he looked like a sad puppy seeing you go. You should ask him out.”

You roll your eyes and give her a “Yeah, right,” before casually changing the subject. But her comment sticks with you, and for days your mind keeps coming back to it. You’re hesitant to jump to conclusions, but the fact that she noticed it too… Perhaps you will shoot your shot after all. 

—

Taking advantage of the fact that you didn’t get a chance to speak with him during his regular office hours, you decide to take Seungkwan up on his offer. You did rewrite the email about 15 times, erase it repeatedly, and almost give up entirely, but in the end you came up with a message you deemed solidly good enough:

Hi Seungkwan, I was wondering if you have any availability to meet to discuss the current essay. I have a few questions that I feel would be easier to convey in person. I understand finals are a very busy time though, so if you aren’t available I completely understand. Thank you.

You hit send at 11:57pm on Sunday night, so you figure you’ll get a response the next morning. Before you can even close your laptop, you get an email notification.

Hi y/n, I’d be happy to meet with you. Are you available Tuesday evening after 6pm? I apologize for the odd hours, but that would be the most ideal time for me. However, if that does not work for you I’m sure we can figure something out.  Seungkwan

You sit and stare at your screen rereading it for a good five minutes. You hit the reply button.

Sure, that works for me! Thank you - I really appreciate it.

The light ping of a notification returns within seconds.

Of course, y/n. See you then.

You shut your laptop, your hand resting on top of it as your mind races, rapidly cycling between excited and anxious. You keep telling yourself to lower your expectations: you’re simply meeting with your TA to discuss your essay - which, you don’t actually have any questions about, so now you’ll have to make some shit up. But that can be a tomorrow problem. Tonight, you go to bed, half-coherent thoughts of literature, exams, and a certain pair of soft brown eyes floating around in your mind as you drift off to sleep. 

—

You wake up on Tuesday and immediately enter into panic mode. You can’t seem to focus on anything other than your date meeting with Seungkwan later - which of course you expected, but it’s pretty inconvenient considering you have so much to do with finals rapidly drawing near. Your Discussion class is finished for the semester, so you won’t be seeing him until evening - you’re not sure if this makes things better or worse, but it is what it is. You spend the entire afternoon in the library, sitting amongst the stacks, sort of studying but mostly doing a whole fucking lot of daydreaming instead.

After several hours of minimal productivity, you check the time: 5:36pm. You feel your heart start to beat faster. Since you’re clearly not going to get anything else done, you pack up your belongings and make your way to the Literature building. Might as well get there a little early.

You climb the four flights of stairs to the top floor, the building strangely empty. Making your way down to the very end of the hallway you wonder if Seungkwan will even be there yet or if you’ve arrived early for nothing - but as you approach you notice the door is ajar, the unexpected sound of alt rock music greeting your ears. You knock lightly on the doorframe as you poke your head into the office. Seungkwan, seated behind the large mahogany desk, seemingly absorbed in something on his laptop, looks up - you’ve clearly caught him a bit off guard.

“Hi, sorry - I’m a little early,” you apologize.

His face lights up in a warm smile. “No, uh - that’s alright!” he replies cheerfully. “Go ahead, take a seat,” he says as he gestures to the couch. 

You plop your backpack down on the ground and remove your coat, carefully tucking your skirt (a rare choice of clothing for you, but you figured fuck it, why not) under yourself as you take a seat on the comfy sofa. Seungkwan turns the music down to a faintly audible volume and rises from his desk chair, making his way over to you. You expected him to sit in the armchair across from you, but he comes and joins you on the couch instead. You can practically hear the rapid thumpthumpthumpthump of your heartbeat. 

“So, tell me about your essay,” he starts. His eyes linger on yours.  “What did you have questions about?”

Nonchalantly taking a deep breath, you take out your laptop and open it, pulling up your draft file. You basically had your paper planned out already, but you made up some questions to ask so as not to give away the fact that you literally had no academic reason to be here. You begin to explain your first question, which turns out to be an extremely difficult feat with him not only sitting so close to you, but also gazing at you softly, listening intently. You decide to avoid eye contact almost entirely. 

You chat about your essay topic for what feels like an eternity (you glance at the clock on your computer - it’s been 14 minutes). You’re in the middle of discussing the second point of your thesis when he interjects.

“Y/n, why are you really here?”

You feel the blood drain from your face. He’s onto me. It’s over.

“It’s very clear that you understand the book perfectly well. I really don’t think you need my help.”

You slowly look up at him, hesitating before opening your mouth to try and bullshit some response, but nothing comes out. 

“You know, I don’t normally schedule one-on-one office hours with students outside of my usual times.”

The blood comes rushing back to your cheeks. You feel like a fucking idiot.

“I’msosorry,” you blurt out. “I really wasn’t trying to waste your time I-”

“That’s not what I mean, y/n.”

You freeze. Does he mean…

Before you can even finish that thought he kisses you.

His hand cradles your face gently, drawing you closer to him as he presses his lips onto yours, electricity pulsing through your entire body - all you can think about is the way his lips feel, the way he softly brushes your cheek with his thumb, the way you want to throw your laptop across the room and throw yourself onto him so you can kiss him even more. 

As if he read your mind, he reaches down (still kissing you) and closes your laptop, picking it up and setting it aside carefully. You lap now vacant, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling your body into his, his soft kiss becoming more fervent. Your hand rests on his chest as you kiss him back - you feel the energy of his heart beating, at the same pace as yours, through the cozy sweater he has on. After several seconds (minutes? hours?) his lips part from yours, the sudden lack of sensation leaving you immediately longing for more; they linger mere inches from your face as your eyes meet his sensuous gaze. 

“Just one second,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper.

Seungkwan gets up and swiftly shuts the door - you hear the deep, satisfying thunk of the old door closing, followed by the subtle click of the lock. He then walks over to the desk to turn the music up to a decent volume before making his way back over to the couch. He barely resumes his seat before grasping onto you desperately, his face buried as he begins to kiss your neck. You let out a sigh at the unexpected sensation, wrapping your arms around his torso and drawing him in even tighter. His large hands caress your back as if trying to commit your shape to memory, as your hand slowly makes its way down his side - stopping when you reach his belt, resting on the waistline of his jeans which are very obviously becoming tighter by the second. 

You hesitate at first, but eventually your hand continues downward; Seungkwan sharply inhales as it lands on his growing bulge, his body tensing up against yours. He pulls his face from the crook of your neck, his lips immediately finding yours again, indulging in another kiss as he pulls you over onto his lap. You begin making out with him, your hand holding his warm, flushed cheek; your core, now exposed aside from the barrier of your underwear, presses against the hardness in his pants, causing soft moans to escape from the both of you. Before long, your hips begin to rock back and forth, grinding on his clothed cock - lightly at first, but with increasing intensity. You break away from his kiss; he looks at you, his eyelids heavy.

“Y/n…” he breathes out as he starts to kiss you again, “you don’t know how… wanted you so bad…”

“Me too,” you mutter.

He slides his hand under your skirt, finding your clit and beginning to circle it gently through your soaked underwear, causing you to whine softly.

“Oh fuck, you’re so wet,” he says in a low, husky voice, his fingertips increasing their pace against the sensitive bud. He then slips his finger under the hem of your panties, pulling them aside to expose your already-swollen cunt, the sharpness of the cool air hitting its wetness. You cry out as he slides one finger into you, followed by another, his thumb continuing to caress your clit. Your hips begin to rock again, fucking yourself against his perfectly-curled fingers that are hitting you in all the right spots, your speed quickly increasing with the overwhelming pleasure that has taken over your entire body. You feel it welling in your stomach, your orgasm growing nearer with each movement. You’re about to lose it when he slows your pace, looking at you with lust-filled eyes - you can tell what it is he wants. 

You reach down and undo his belt, unfastening his button and drawing down the zipper. His jeans out of the way, you pull the band of his underwear down, freeing his hardened cock - he lets out a groan as you begin to stroke its length. Precum has already begun to form, your fingers taking the wetness and gliding it over the head. 

“Please… wanna fuck you so bad…” He’s practically whimpering at this point.

You slide your pussy up and down his length a few times, causing him to recline his head against the couch as he breathes heavily. Finally you take his cock in your hand, placing it at your entrance and lowering yourself onto him, crying out at the sudden sensation of fullness. He groans as you slowly begin to ride him, his length hitting you in the perfect spot; you have to bite your lip to control yourself from becoming too loud - it feels even better than you’d ever imagined.

You begin to pick up the pace, bouncing on his cock as the sensation in your stomach begins to build again, even stronger now with him inside you. Your cries involuntarily become louder, prompting him to place his other hand over your mouth.

“Shhh, baby - don’t want anyone to hear us.”

You nod, tears welling in your eyes.

His soft grunts become more frequent - you can tell he’s getting close. Your walls squeeze around him tightly as you’re also nearing orgasm. He drops his hand from your mouth so he can grab onto your hips with both hands, holding you tight as he thrusts into you, full of vigor. 

“Fuck, I’m so close,” he says, his voice low and gruff.

“Want you to cum in me,” you reply breathily. He nods eagerly. You’re nearly there yourself. You cling to his face, giving him one more kiss before you can’t hold it in any longer.

“Oh fuck I’m gonna cum,” you manage to get out before the white-hot sensation takes over your whole body. You cry out, your walls clenching around him, immediately sending him over the edge - his cock pulses as you feel his cum release inside you. 

As you come down from your high your body melts into his as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in. He plants a few soft kisses on your cheek as you sink into him, his cock still inside you. You lay there peacefully for an unknown amount of minutes, the rock music still playing in the background as he rubs your back gently. Eventually you sit up, pressing your nose against his.

“Does this mean I get an A?” you ask jokingly.

He laughs, his nose crinkling as he smiles. “You were going to get one anyway, I assure you the fact that I just had the best sex of my life will have no impact on your grade.”

You break out into laughter. You pause, then ask hesitantly, “Soooo, what does this mean?”

His brown eyes rest on yours. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to figure that out later,” he says pragmatically. A slight tinge of sadness comes across your face, but before you can say anything he continues.

“How does tonight over dinner sound?”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help but smile back at him. 

“I think that sounds perfect.”

[end]

[altarecs]

note: reading this after enduring a situationship 'break up' of my own, i genuinely feel a lot better. this is incredibly well written and so very well descriptive of the turmoil you feel in situations like this, and as someone who has endured a few of these situations, it feels insanely real. wonderful job, thank you for writing this. take care. 10/10.

falling rain

falling rain — one shot [ back to general masterlist ]

this series (and this blog) are 18+ !! minors, please do not interact!!

• bang chan x female reader, other stray kids members are mentioned/featured, as well as other idols (itzy’s yeji, ateez’s san, nmixx's lily).

• non idol au, friends to lovers. angst, fluff, post breakup sadness and melancholia. drinking. explicit language. smut, oral sex (f receiving), protected sex.

• word count: 11k (11,199)

You fell out of love. It happens. All you need is time to piece yourself back together. But as you and your friends meet for a movie night, you don’t expect your ex to be there - yet he is, and it looks like he’s doing much better than you do. Luckily, your friends are there for you - especially Chan.

• permanent taglist: @ughbehavior​ ; @upallnight-s​ ; @changbinluvr​ ; @rosexjimin ; @nasiaisan

• story taglist: @tanyas97 ; @hyynee ; @moonlightcandy00 ; @drhsthl ; @flakeisthebest

• author’s note: Here it is! Thank you for your support on the preview, I am so glad you guys liked it and were excited for the full story. I hope you enjoy it! Take care <3

The rain is cold against your skin. 

You look up at the sky through your transparent umbrella. Swirls of pale gray cover the horizon, blurred by drops of rain sliding down the plastic material. It was darker earlier - the rain will stop soon. 

The bus stops in front of you, its brakes squeaking. You close your umbrella and get on, sitting where you usually do, at the back, next to the window. Placed between your legs, your umbrella is getting your jeans wet, but you don’t care. You close your eyes, letting the music in your ears soothe you. You’ve been taking the same bus route everyday for years, so you know exactly how much time you have before your stop. It’s not like you’re afraid of falling asleep, anyway. You never sleep in transportation, and it’s not like your mind has been able to rest easy recently. 

Your playlist transports you through melancholic melodies, pianos and violins lulling your senses. Your favorite songs do not let you forget the ache - they remind you of it, softly, tenderly. That’s what you want, anyway. 

You’re not interested in forgetting. You just want to heal.

When you open your eyes, your stop is a minute away. You press the button and get up, ignoring the inevitable looks of the other passengers on the bus. People are always staring. Always judging. Often, you care. These days, not so much. You can’t control them, what they do, what they think. They’ll see the shadows under your eyes, the pale skin, the chapped lips, and they’ll tell yourselves, she isn’t sleeping much. She looks terrible. She must be going through something. 

So what if I am, you want to tell them? Aren’t we all? 

When you step off the bus, it’s barely raining anymore and you decide not to open your umbrella. You let the rain slide through your hair, against your hands. You’re so cold but you’re used to it. You haven’t been able to warm up in a while. The rain feels good, actually. It makes you aware of your body, of your skin. As you walk towards your apartment building, you tilt your head backwards and let the rain fall down your cheeks like tears. 

Daylight has almost vanished when you unlock your apartment door, and you step inside with a sigh. You’ve grown to hate this place so much, but there is nowhere else to go. You should look for another apartment, but moving seems like an insurmountable amount of shit to go through and you just don’t have the energy. Maybe in a few weeks. Maybe in a few months. Maybe. 

You start by taking a shower, the boiling hot water contrasting with your icy cold skin. You wash your hair, apply lotion. Your movements are slow but you get there eventually. Wrapped in your bathrobe, you open your closet and stare at your clothes. It’s not that you hate them, you just have no idea what to choose. You’re not going someplace fancy, so you end up slipping on a simple pair of jeans and a warm sweater. 

You should probably eat something, but your stomach is in a tight knot. There will be food at Yeji’s place, anyway. 

As you check your phone and realize you still have some time before you have to leave, you let out a long sigh and sit on your bed. You’re not sure you really want to go, but your friends organized this movie night a while ago and they are excited for it. Yeji’s place is perfect for it - she has a projector, which allows the movies to play as wide as the wall. Everyone has been tasked to bring their favorite snacks and drinks. It’s going to be a chill night, and you’ll be happy to see your friends, but everything feels exhausting. 

You promised you were going to be there. So you will go. 

It’s not like they will bother you, anyway. They all know you pretty well, although some more than others, but they are all aware of what is going on with you. No secrets to have. Still you don’t want to be a bore, and you know you’ll do your best to smile throughout. It’s not that they want you to - but you’ll still do it. It’s just who you are. 

At least he won’t be there. Yeji said he wouldn’t - had plans already, apparently. It would be okay if your ex was there - actually, you’ve seen him a couple of times already since your breakup. But you need to be in the right mindset - and today you aren’t, so it’s good he’ll be absent. 

You let out a long sigh and stand up to dry your hair. 

You apply simple makeup, a bit of eyeliner, some mascara. You put on your favorite necklace. You decide to wear perfume. Little things to make you feel better, like you aren’t crippled inside, like you don’t have a decaying organ in your chest. It’s recent, that you’re able to do that. A week ago you would’ve showed up in sweatpants and messy hair. 

Little steps. 

As you grab a tote bag to fill it with the snacks you bought yesterday, you get a text from Yeji. 

Everything okay? 

Come anytime <3

She’s checking up on you and you’re grateful for it. Not a lot of people do, not even your closest friends. You don’t blame them - you haven’t been good company and sometimes it’s hard to find the right words. Some of them have been anxious that your breakup with San will mess up their friend group, and in fear of seeming like they’re taking sides, they just decided not to say anything. They take care of you differently - but sometimes you hate that they can’t talk about it with you. 

Yeji doesn’t do that. She’s been there for you at every step - and it’s not because she blames or dislikes San. It’s just different for you and her, because your friendship not only goes way back when your friend group got together, but also way beyond. 

Leaving in 5, you text back, and she sends a heart emoji. 

Once you’re ready, you slip on your jacket and stare at your reflection in the hallway mirror. You look your normal self, except for the obvious exhaustion on your face, and the slightly vacant look in your eyes. 

You can do this. 

You won’t let your stupid, broken heart define you or your life. 

When you get to Yeji’s, she pulls you into a tight hug. A few people are already there - Jeongin is already snacking on a huge bowl of popcorn, talking to Lily, who’s on her phone scrolling down Pinterest boards. Changbin and his girlfriend, the newest addition to your friend group, are bundled up under a blanket on the couch and wave at you. 

You follow Yeji to the kitchen, putting the cans of soda you brought in the fridge, adding your snacks to the pile on the counter. 

“You look really pretty,” Yeji tells you with a smile. “Is that the sweater we got together the other day?” 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’m still not sure about the color, though.”

“No, it suits you. I promise.” 

You give her a sincere smile as she empties a bag of potato chips in a bowl. It’s quiet in the apartment, but you know it won’t last very long - except for Changbin, the loudest people have yet to arrive. 

“How was work today?” Yeji asks. 

“Fine,” you shrug. “Boring.” 

She gives you a long look. 

“You know you don’t have to stay there, right? You can find something else. With your skills it would be easy -”

“I know, Yeji,” you say in a low voice. “But not right now.” 

You play with your nail polish, chipping a small piece from your thumb. 

“Right now boring is good,” you nod, your voice a little more firm. “When I can focus more, I’ll look for something else. Promise.” 

She smiles, taking your hand to give it a squeeze. “I just don’t want you to waste away where you don’t belong. You’re worth so much more.” 

“I appreciate it.” 

You put your head on her shoulder for a second as Jeongin’s laugh resonates through the apartment. It’s a sweet and familiar sound, and you start to believe it was a good idea to come. 

Grabbing the filled bowls of potato chips, you and Yeji join the others in the living room. You sit down next to Jeongin, who quickly shows you the funny puppy video Lily has shown him, and you giggle at the screen. As Yeji starts to set up the projector, the door opens on a few more of your friends and you know it won’t be quiet anymore. 

Chan, Jisung and Minho are yelling about something, raising the volume of the conversation a million dozen decibels, and you shake your head at the sight of them. Chaotic and loud as they are, even in your state you are grateful for them, because whatever the circumstances they can always make you smile, or, at least, provide welcome distractions. 

They drop down in the remaining spots, either on the couch or the floor, Minho diving his hand down Jeongin’s popcorn bowl and Jisung arguing with Changbin about the type of beer he bought - of course, as usual, Jisung’s only answer to Changbin’s complaint is a simple traitor. 

“THIS AGAIN…” Changbin yells at the top of his lungs. 

You can’t help but smile. That game has been going on since Changbin moved out of his apartment with Jisung and Chan to move in with his girlfriend - Minho took his spot since, and there really isn’t any bad blood between them, but Jisung loves to remind Changbin how he abandoned them. 

“Hey, Y/N,” Minho says, sitting down between you and Jeongin. You took the spot at the end of the couch, a blanket covering your legs. “How’s it going?” 

“I’m okay,” you say with a smile. “What about you?” 

“Fantastic. Did you check out that link I sent you?” 

You start to talk a little - you and Minho work in a similar domain and it’s always nice to exchange ideas and anecdotes. You find yourself immersed in the conversation, the noise of all your friends chatting and laughing mixing into a background noise you can’t get enough of - it definitely helps the black hole inside your chest. You don’t feel so cold, you don’t feel so empty. You know it won’t last, and reality will catch up to you quickly, but for now you allow yourself to relax. 

“Y/N.” 

You turn towards Chan, who has stopped at your level. He’s smiling kindly at you, looking a little tired - but that’s nothing out of the ordinary. Like you, Chan barely sleeps. Neither of you can stop the ceaseless train of thought in your heads - while you stare at the ceiling, Chan works. 

“Hey, Channie.” 

“You want something to drink?” 

“Yeah, maybe a soda.” 

“Cool, coming right up.”

“Oiiiii, what about me?” Minho whines. 

He asks for a can of beer, followed by Lily who has finished her previous one, and soon everyone is yelling at Chan to bring them something to drink. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, and you chuckle. 

“Let me help you,” you say, standing up. “Y’all are lazy,” you add, squinting your eyes at your friends. 

Their protests all tangle together and you laugh, following Chan to the kitchen. 

Your friends. 

They are all precious to you, all in their own way. 

But Chan. Chan. 

The first time you met him you felt your heartbeat accelerate because he looked so damn charming. A kind smile, eyes like stars, and an energy that immediately soothed you. It did not take long for you to develop a crush on him. How could you not? He was kind, funny, talented, and smart. He truly cared for the people in his life and never broke a promise. Handsome, too, of course. The kind of guy that made you weak in the knees, that sent your thoughts reeling whenever he touched you. 

Your crush had always been one-sided though, which was fine. You had quickly worked to overcome your physical attraction to him and made it a priority to develop your friendship. Because Chan understood you. You found yourselves exchanging looks and agreeing on similar things often enough so that one day, you sat down next to him during a party to ask for advice and you ended up talking for hours, forgetting to get drunk like everyone else. 

You are not particularly close. You don’t know everything about each other. You mostly see each other with the rest of your friend group - rarely alone. You don’t text each other everyday - in fact, you barely do. But he’s a steady presence in your life, a friend you rely on, and you know it’s the same for him. 

Tonight, you’re especially grateful for him. 

Chan gives you a smile as he opens the fridge. 

“I like your sweater,” he says, handing you a pack of sodas. 

You put it on the kitchen island, smiling. 

“Thank you. I like your earrings. Are they new?” 

You’re used to Chan wearing his silver hoops, but today he’s sporting a simple black dot on one ear, a small lightning bolt on the other. 

“Yeah, I felt like a change,” he nods. “They say it’s good for us, right?” 

“I guess,” you answer simply. “It suits you.”

“Thanks.” 

You exchange smiles, gathering all the desired drinks slowly. You glance at him sometimes, at the angle of his nose, at the dark curls that brush his ears. Your crush on Chan eventually faded away, although never entirely. You have just buried it so deep inside you sometimes you forget it is there - you haven’t thought about it for a long time.

Then again, your heart has been entirely occupied by San. 

Heart.

Body.

Soul.

All of which lay in pieces, now. 

Chan must see the shadows in your eyes, because he frowns a little, looking intently at you. 

“Is something wrong?”

You shake your head, trying to shake the bad thoughts away at the same time.

“No, no, don’t worry.” 

Chan gives you a smile and a short nod, although he’s still frowning. He can feel you don’t want to linger on it - you hope he knows it’s not that you don’t trust him. Besides Yeji, Chan is perhaps the friend you trust the most. 

You remember every single hug he’s given you. 

Always so warm. 

Always at the right time. 

He probably doesn’t know some of them gave you the strength to hold on. The most recent one, about two weeks ago. 

“Can I have another one, please?” 

The barman gives you a nod and turns to prepare you another beer.

Besides you, Yeji gives you a long look. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” 

“Just one more,” you tell her, lifting an index. 

She smiles, throwing an arm around your neck. She keeps a close eye on you - that’s why you feel comfortable to indulge in another drink. You need it, after all. Since your breakup with San, you’ve barely touched alcohol, choosing instead to drown in snacks and utter isolation. 

So for your friend, it’s a step forward that you’ve agreed to come tonight. 

It’s just you, Yeji, Chan and Jisung. A quiet night at the local pub. 

A few beers, a board game.

When you have a new full pint, you and Yeji head back to the table and sit down. All of you decide to play another game, and Jisung starts shuffling the cards, telling you some dumb joke. You know he’s doing that to make you feel better, and it works. You find yourself smiling so much your cheeks hurt a little. 

You place your head on his shoulder, affectionately, and cross Chan’s gaze. He’s smiling, too, fondly. 

Your friends are talking and your heart hurts so fucking much.

You miss San. You’ve fallen out of love a long time ago, you now realize, but it’s still painful. You have to start over. You have to find yourself again. It’ll be long work - but you’ll do it. And as you look at your friends, you think to yourself they will make it easier. You’ve been drinking a little, and the emotion swells in your chest. 

“Y/N, don’t cry!” Yeji cries out, noticing the tears on your cheeks.

You have not even realized you are crying. You touch your skin in surprise, letting out a giggle.

“Awwww, no, honey,” Jisung says, drawing you in his arms. 

He rocks you like a child and you laugh as more tears drip down your eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I love you guys so much.” 

“Nooo, you’re gonna make me cry too,” Yeji cries out, taking your hand.

“I know it’s not… Not easy for you, because San is your friend, and…” You sniffle. “I don’t want this to be difficult for you.”

“Don’t say that, Y/N,” Jisung whispers. “We’re your friends, too.” 

“We’re here for you,” Chan nods. 

Crying and laughing at the same time, your friends decide to keep playing to get your mind off of things. You’re grateful.

Yeji wins, of course. She always does. Once all your beers are finished, you agree to go. Chan will drive Yeji home - he’s only had one pint. Jisung lives close to you, so you decide to walk together. 

You say goodnight to Yeji. She places a kiss on your cheek, squeezes your hand. Chan draws you into a hug. 

It’s so loving. So steady. 

It takes the breath out of your lungs. 

“I love you, Y/N,” he says in your ear. “I’m here if you need me.” 

You’re too dumbstruck to reply. But you know you’ll remember those words for a long time.

You do. 

You still remember the words - you can still hear them. 

He’s here.

He loves you.

Like a friend, of course. 

But that is more than enough.

“Y/N?” 

Chan’s voice brings you back to the present. You shake your head and chuckle.

“Sorry. I was just lost in thought.” 

He nods, biting his lip nervously. “By the way, I wanted to ask. There’s this concert next -” 

That’s when you hear the door open - followed by a voice.

His voice.

Your blood freezes in your veins, and you stare dumbly at Chan, unable to move. 

You feel like bursting out in tears. No, no, no. 

Not him, not tonight. 

You feel Chan’s eyes on you. Yet, you don’t really see him. He delicately puts a hand on your wrist. 

“Y/N…” 

You try to gather your thoughts. You should’ve prepared, just in case. You feel so stupid. Of course it was all going too well. 

You’re startled when Yeji bursts in the kitchen, puts her hands on your shoulders and seeks your eyes. 

“Y/N, I’m so sorry, honey -” 

“What the hell?” you hear Chan mutter next to you. “I thought he wasn’t supposed to come.” 

“He wasn’t,” Yeji hisses. “I swear, he told me he couldn’t.” 

“Fuck’s sake, this dude…” 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. 

Slowly, you look up at your friends, gathering a smile. 

“It’s okay,” you say, your voice clear. You take Yeji’s hands in yours, nod at her. “I’m fine.” 

“Y/N…” 

“I’m fine,” you repeat. “I’ll be fine.” 

You look at Chan next, and you feel like your heart will burst out of your chest. There’s something in his eyes you can’t identify, a spark that is also a shadow. He’s frowning, his body slightly bent towards you, like he’s about to pull you into a hug. You clear your throat and nod, praying to all you can not to let your voice tremble. 

“It’s all right,” you say. “He’s our friend. He should be here.” 

And to some degree, you mean it. 

Yeji gives you a tight hug, and you can hear Chan let out a long sigh from behind you. You can’t linger on it - you have to focus on yourself. 

Stay calm. Breathe. 

You can do this. 

The breakup was hard for the both of you, you remind yourself. You loved each other, you really did, that much you’re sure of. San was never that good of a liar. You have a much more vulnerable nature than him, which was always a source of conflict between you, but you know your breakup affected him. You remember the tears in his eyes. The vein in his neck, pulsing, as he held them back. You remember the way his hand clenched yours. The way his words came out broken from between his teeth. 

It’s over, isn’t it? 

You fell out of love. 

It happens. 

You take a deep breath. You still want San to be your friend. You’ve agreed that you would try, and you intend to follow through on your words. 

You take a step to follow Yeji back to the living room, but Chan puts a delicate hand on your shoulder. You turn around, plunge your eyes in his. You’ve always thought of them as a haven, a night sky full of stars, both deep and bright.

He stares at you with a clenched jaw and a furrowed brow. He smells as he always has, a smell you’ve wanted on your pillow for so long - and it still makes you slightly dizzy although you know there’s no chance with him. 

“If at any moment you want to go home, tell me, yeah?” he whispers to you. “I’ll drive you.” 

You’re a little entranced by the soft lines on his full lips and the way his low voice scrapes - but you manage a nod, after what feels like a long second. 

“Thank you.” 

He nods, gives your shoulder a squeeze and lets you go. The warmth of his hand lingers there, and it gives you courage to move forward. 

San has already taken a seat next to Jisung and glances at you when you walk into the room. Your friends are kind enough to keep the conversation going, so the room doesn’t fall silent, but your heart sinks at the bottom of your chest. 

Because San doesn’t look tired. He doesn’t look sad. 

In fact, he beams. 

Eyes sparkling. 

New clothes, new watch. 

A smile so wide it slices right through your heart. 

Fuck, he looks so happy. 

You have to bite your tongue so you burst out crying. You stagger a little bit, but Chan is right behind you and it prevents you from falling back. His warmth, the voices of your friends, everything makes it better. 

“Hey,” you manage to say, although you’re not sure how. “You look good.” 

“Thanks, you too,” he tells you, but his voice is distant. His eyes are too, like he doesn’t even see you anymore. Not like he did before. 

It’s abundantly clear - your ex has moved on. 

It’s not that you still have feelings for him - you just need time to grieve what you had. San was a huge part of your life for a long time, and suddenly he isn’t there anymore. That absence, that void, that’s what is difficult to deal with. Being so goddamn alone all the time. No one to make you feel loved. No one to love, either. 

You’re still putting yourself back together. 

You’re still healing. 

Not him. He’s done it. 

You should be happy for him, and in a way, you are. You’re not mad he’s moved on. But it happened so quickly. It hasn’t even been two months. You were together for more than a year. Maybe you’re jealous, maybe you’re bitter. But mostly it hurts. 

How long is it going to take you? Why are you so goddamn sensitive? 

You breathe out and help Chan bring everyone their drinks. San’s laughter is a haunting melody and you can’t wait for the movie to start so you can think about something else. You take your previous seat, and Jeongin rubs your back affectionately, offering you the bowl of popcorn. 

Chan sits at the opposite side of the room. Pathetically, you wish he was still next to you. Instead you focus on the images that start playing, projected on the white wall in front of you. It’s a movie you’ve already seen, but that’s ok. It’s not like you can really focus, anyway. 

Because all you can see is San. Funny, clever, happy. You know him, you’d know if he was pretending, but he isn’t. He’s liberated. It’s the only word that comes to mind. You wonder for how long you’ve been bringing him down. If he realized it and hated you for it. If he couldn’t wait to get rid of you. If he was just looking for an excuse and -

You close your eyes and put a stop to the intruding thoughts.

No. It wasn’t like that. 

Was it? 

You don’t know anymore.

You barely follow the movie because your thoughts keep spiraling. Around you, your friends are chatting, making jokes, and commenting on the movie. Jisung’s laugh is so loud it takes over sometimes and you take refuge in it. But your heart feels frozen in place, in the middle of two beats, unable to go forward. You stare into nothing. You don’t even touch your soda. The popcorn, either - so you hand it back to Jeongin. His presence feels good, too. 

You hate yourself for being unable to live in the moment. For letting your mind wander like it is, dizzy and unkind. 

In the movie, people say what they think. 

In the movie, loving doesn’t seem so hard. 

In the movie, it doesn’t rain. 

It’s a blessing and a curse that everyone is watching the movie, and that you’re sitting in the corner, in the dark. Your eyes are filled with tears and suddenly one escapes and slides down your cheek. You fidget in your seat, faking a yawn to wipe it away. You pull the blanket over your trembling body. You laugh when the others do, although it’s heartless. Nobody notices - or so you think - and it’s a good thing. 

You try to focus on the movie. It’s entertaining, it’s funny, and for a minute, maybe, you succeed in feeling better. Then you see, from the corner of your eye, San pulling out his phone. He stares at the screen, and in the dark, its blue light illuminates his face. He smiles at it and types a few words. You know that smile. Fuck, you were that smile, once. 

You clench your jaw, hard, and wanting to look away you accidentally fall into Chan’s eyes. He’s looking at you, and although you can’t see his face very well in the darkness, you notice the worry in his eyes. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t say anything - but you hear his silent question. You need to go?

You shake your head slowly, forcing a smile. I’m fine. I’m fine. 

He nods. He doesn’t believe you. 

You stand up on shaky legs and head to the bathroom. Once you close the door, you don’t even open the light. You wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of your own reflection. You just breathe out, breathe in, and then breathe out again. The tears fall down your cheeks, warm. They taste bitter on your lips. 

Why can’t you be like him? Why can’t you move on, be happy? 

You take a few minutes to collect yourself. It’s fine - you don’t mind seeing San. It’s good, if, unlike you, he’s able to rebuild himself. It’s all you wish for him, and you know it’s all he wishes for you, too. He’d probably be honestly sad to know you aren’t doing well. You can never tell him, of course. You’ll pretend as well as you can - you can’t allow yourself to be vulnerable with him for now. You’ll keep it for yourself, shamefully, selfishly. 

It will be fine. 

You’ll get over it. He did, so why not you?

Once you feel ready, you head out the bathroom, and Chan is there, leaning against the wall. 

“Oh, shit, sorry,” you chuckle. “I didn’t realize someone was waiting. Did you -” 

You stop as Chan puts his hands on your shoulders and pulls you to him. You fall into his arms, and you’re a little shocked so you don’t move at first. Still, Chan holds you there. You stammer. 

“C-Chan, I’m okay, you don’t have to -” 

“Y/N,” he says, and there’s something about the way he whispers your name that makes your heart ache. “I saw you crying. Please. You don’t have to hide.” 

Gently, you let your head fall against his chest. He hugs you a little tighter. 

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” he whispers. “You don’t have to hide.” 

You nod. He said it in such a way, you don’t know what it is. 

You are friends. 

You’ve been for a long time. 

Despite your crush on him, despite the awkward period where he was aware of it but didn’t say anything, despite all of that, you are friends. 

But Chan has always been more than that for you.

Chan is a pillar, Chan is a mess. 

Chan is both the lighthouse and the storm. 

You like the feel of his arms around you. The way his chest moves as he breathes. The texture of his t-shirt. 

Oh, God. Not again. 

You can’t let your crush come back running. You’re just sad. You’re just lonely. It wouldn’t be fair to Chan, would it? He’s your friend. He’s not a pretty face you can choose to lust over whenever you’re lonely. 

Don’t do that to yourself, Y/N. 

Don’t do that to him.

Chan is your friend and he is only trying to be here for you. 

“Do you want to go home?” he whispers in your hair. 

You take a deep breath and nod. Chan takes a step back, smiling kindly at you. You do the same, although it’s a little faint. He bends his knees slightly to be at your height, gently rubs your cheeks to remove the tears and replace your hair. 

“Let’s go, then, love.” 

You don’t have time to gawk at him for using a nickname he’s never said before, because he turns and waves at you to follow him. 

He tells your friends you’re feeling a little sick and he’ll drive you home. You say there’s the flu going around at the office, and you hate lying to your friends, because you know some of you will believe you and some won’t. Right now you don’t really care - even if they all knew it was a lie, they wouldn’t judge you. You make sure to not avoid San’s eyes and smile at him. You don’t want him to start asking questions. 

You get your things. Yeji gives you a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, making you promise you’ll text tomorrow. You nod, squeezing her hand and glancing at your friends. There will come a day when you’ll be yourself again. 

You just need time.

Time and a lot of courage.

When you step outside, with Chan right behind you, you realize it’s raining again. You look up at the sky, now a profound black painted by hints of grey clouds. You run to his car, the rain heavy and cold.  

The car is clean and smells nice. Chan pulls back his hoodie, starts the engine and drives away as you look back at the apartment building. You wish you were stronger. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Chan says, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping on his thigh to the rhythm of the song on the radio. 

“Do you?” you tell him with a smile. 

“I do,” he nods, matching your smile. “You’re telling yourself you should be stronger.” 

You gawk at him, feeling both embarrassed and scandalized. He shrugs. 

“Didn’t I ever tell you I can read you like an open book?” 

“Tsk,” you retort. “Wasn’t that when we played Mafia?” 

“Whatever applies to Mafia applies to real life.” 

“Not sure that’s true.” 

“This is.” 

You glare at him and he does the same, playfully. You feel much more relaxed now that you’re here. It was always easy to talk to Chan - never does that change, whatever the circumstances. You are much alike in that you tend to put others before yourselves, often at the sacrifice of your own feelings. For some reason, though, that didn’t work between you. The walls immediately fall apart.

“So I’m an open book, huh?” you say, staring at your hands. 

“To me, yes. When I have my eyes on you.” 

“And you had your eyes on me tonight?” you ask without thinking. 

“Of course,” he answers, stopping the car at a red light. “I stayed sober, kept a close eye on you. Just in case.” 

You wince. “Just in case I started crying hysterically or made a scene?” 

He shakes his head, looking at you. The red light reflects on his face, enveloping the car in its hue. The rain thumps on the car in soft sounds. Chan’s dark hair is messy on his head, charmingly curled at the tips. 

“More like in case he did something,” he eventually says. 

“Why would he?” you ask with a frown, assuming he’s talking about San.

“Well…” Chan sighs. “He can be a dick sometimes.” 

You’re surprised by his words - you never would’ve thought that Chan disliked San. On all accounts, they are good friends. Chan chuckles nervously at your look, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sorry. I know you were a thing for a long time, but… It’s just what I think.” 

“Did he do something?” 

Chan shrugs. “It’s just a feeling. Never really did anything. Except breaking up with you, of course.” 

You scoff. “He’s an asshole for breaking up with me?” 

“Yeah,” Chan stammers. “Just - like - who would ever let a girl like you go?” 

His words don’t make a lot of sense to you. They come to you muffled, as if you are plunged in a dream or in a drunken state. You honestly can’t believe your ears. 

“What are you -” 

He quickly waves his hand, looks away from you to the road ahead - and fortunately for him, the light turns green, so he has a good excuse to change the subject. 

“Don’t mind me. I’m just rambling.” 

You really don’t want to let this go. Your heart is racing, and you honestly wouldn’t know San’s name if someone was to yell it in your ear right now. All you can see is Chan, his tightened jaw, gripping the wheel of his car, driving you home. His words echo in your head, and you’re trying to put everything together. 

Did you miss something? Clearly, Chan has something on his mind, an itch he can’t scratch. Have you been so intoxicated by your grief and sadness that you blacked out? You haven’t been a good friend, that much you know. You just wanted to feel better, first. You were of use to no one feeling this sad and broken. But Chan’s agitation has clearly been there for a while. How long have you been this blind? 

You open your mouth, trying to find the right words. Chan, what is going on?

Chan, are you angry at me?

Chan, please, tell me what’s on your mind. 

You sigh in frustration. You’re silent for a while, your thoughts spiraling, and just when you’re just about ready to ask, your phone rings. You glance at the screen instinctively, and San’s name is like a slap on the face. 

Are you okay? he asks in a text. Tell me when you get home. 

Hints of your boyfriend. Remnants of the past. The text feels like a ghost is speaking to you. It makes you angry. It makes you ache. 

You might not love San anymore, but you miss him. 

“Are you okay?” Chan asks.

“Yeah,” you nod. 

You’re about to say you’re fine, which has become an automatic response, but you remember what Chan said. I can read you like an open book. So instead, you take a deep breath. 

“It’s San,” you explain. “He’s asking me if I’m okay and to text him when I’m home.” 

Chan scoffs, and there is nothing amiable in the sound. “The guts on this guy,” he mutters. “I’m literally driving you and he knows that.” 

You frown, sensing the anger in his voice. 

“Seriously, Chan, did something happen between your two?” 

Chan shakes his head. He doesn’t want to look at you. 

“Chan,” you insist. “Tell me, please.” 

He lets out a sigh, gripping the wheel tighter. 

“We might’ve had… an altercation.”

“An altercation?” you repeat. “Like a fight?!” 

“Not a fight,” Chan sighs. “Not a physical one, anyway.”

“What the fuck happened?” 

The words escape your mouth. An uneasy feeling washes over you. Nobody has told you about this. Nobody has said a word. 

“When did this happen?” you ask when Chan doesn’t answer.

“Like… a week ago, I think.” 

“Why didn’t no one -” 

You interrupt yourself and close your eyes. Looking out the car window, you realize you’re already parked in front of your apartment building. How did it go so fast?

For how much longer are you going to keep losing track of time? 

“Chan,” you say, your voice shaking. “Please tell me what’s going on.” 

He looks at you with timid eyes. They shimmer in the darkness but you can’t focus on them. You are trembling and you can’t hold on to a single clear thought. Your mind is a blurry mess.

Chan looks out through the window before he takes a deep breath. 

“I didn’t want to do this tonight. You need to rest, you -” 

“If you don’t tell me now, I’ll never be able to sleep, so it will be worse.” 

You feel your hands shaking, so you clench your fists. Outside, the rain accelerates, pounds loudly on the car. The sound is almost unbearable but you don’t care. 

“If you’re trying to protect me, I’m grateful,” you add, when you see he’s still hesitating. “But I can take it. I’d rather know.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, his voice quivering. 

“We’re friends, right?” you tell him. “That’s what you said. Be my friend, Chan.” 

He sighs and rubs his eyes. You’re scared, and yet a part of you feels perfectly calm. You hate the fact that something was hidden from you, but you’re so ready to withstand whatever storm is heading your way.

You’d rather stand in chaos than into nothingness. 

At least the chaos makes a little sense. 

“Before I say anything…” Chan sighs. “I don’t want you to take any of this on you, yeah? I know you’ll feel bad, but please, just remember -” 

“For fuck’s sake, Chan,” you say with a nervous laugh. “Get to the point.”

“He has a girlfriend.” 

You stare back at him. 

“What?” 

“San. He has a girlfriend. I thought it was too soon, that it was disrespectful of you, so I told him and it got heated, but… Yeah. Shit. I’m sorry, Y/N.” 

It’s like the rain suddenly got quiet. 

A girlfriend. 

You should’ve known. You saw it, after all. The phone, the text, the smile. The happiness in his eyes. The trendy clothes, the new watch. All the hints were there. 

He has moved on. 

More than you expected. 

Everything happens quickly. Your body acts before your brain registers it, and in the blink of an eye you’re outside in the pouring rain. You slam the passenger door behind you, you forget your bag, you don’t even think about it. You just walk forward.

It’s bitter cold. 

In seconds, you’re drenched. 

Your knees feel weak and you’re sure you are going to fall.

A sob escapes your throat. 

It shouldn’t hurt that much. 

You hate your heart. 

You hate how vulnerable it is. 

You want to move on, too. 

“Y/N!” 

You turn around, halfway to the door of your apartment, to find Chan running towards you. You raise your hand slowly. It’s shaking like a leaf.

“It’s fine, Chan. I’m f-” 

“Stop saying that!” 

You’re a bit surprised at the sudden anguish in his voice. He stops inches away from you, getting soaked by the heavy rain. It slides down his cheeks like tears, strands of dark hair sticking to his forehead. He looks at you fiercely, his eyes blazing with light. 

“I’m sorry, I just - I see you’re hurting and it’s killing me.” 

You don’t know what to tell him. You wish he would go away. You wish he would hug you. You wish the pain would just stop.  

“Y/N -”

“I don’t care!” you scream, the sound getting lost in the rain. 

Chan frowns. 

“I don’t care if he has a girlfriend,” you cry out. “I just…” You shrug, your eyes lost in Chan’s. “I just want to heal, too. I want to move on, too. I’m sick of being sad. I’m sick of hurting.” 

There is such despair in Chan’s face you can hardly bear it. You wish you could tell him not to take the weight of your pain on his shoulders, but you know him better than that. He can’t help it. That’s why he’s here with you.

“You just have to give me time,” you say, your voice falling apart. “I’ll be fine eventually.” 

He lets out a sigh, slides a hand through his drenched hair. A raindrop slides down his face, gets caught on his lips. 

“Please, let’s go inside,” he pleads. “Let me be here for you.” 

You hesitate, but the cold rain keeps you on your toes. You want to be home, in your own space, but you also don’t want to be alone. So you nod, and Chan lets out a sigh, thanking you in a whisper. 

When you step inside your apartment you’re a little shy to turn on the lights because it’s messy, but you can’t really be bothered about that right now. Chan waits on the other side of the door, a hesitant look on his face. 

“Come in,” you tell him. 

He nods, closing the door behind him. Your place is modest, just big enough for one person, situated in the semi-basement of the building. It does not get much light, but it feels cozy and it is cheap. 

The first thing you do is get a towel for Chan so he can dry his hair and his clothes. He hangs his hoodie on a hook near the door; luckily the t-shirt underneath is only damp. His dark blue jeans took the worst of the rain. You suggest giving him some dry clothes, but he insists he’ll be fine. 

You tell him to get comfortable and go to change in your room. Your limbs feel weak as you slip on a pair of sweatpants and a crewneck. You cannot stop thinking about Chan's words. 

San has a girlfriend. 

He has opened his heart to love again. 

The rain keeps falling. 

It’s time you heal. 

When you come back to the living room, Chan is anxiously staring at his phone. He puts it away when he sees you, smiling a little timidly. 

“Feel better?” 

“Yeah,” you nod. “Want a drink?”

“Sounds good.” 

You give him a gentle smile and you both head to the kitchen, where you fill two glasses of soju. He takes one, clinking it against yours. You drink it in one go. 

“Now that feels better,” you sigh. 

Chan smiles at you fondly, and you nudge his arm. 

“Chan. It’s all right. It had to happen.” 

“So quickly, though?” he winces. 

“We all heal at different paces,” you say softly. “Or maybe it’s his way of healing. Either way I’m happy for him.” 

Chan leans one elbow on the kitchen counter, giving you a long look. You hold his gaze, confused at the sudden calmness you feel.

“You said you can read me like an open book,” you remind him, pouring yourself another drink. “Am I lying?” 

He smiles briefly. “No.” 

“Cheers.” 

He takes another sip, and you imitate him. 

“How about we sit down?” you propose. 

Once in the living room, you sink into the couch. Chan sits at a comfortable distance, twirling his glass between his fingers. It’s strange to see him at your place - because of the size of your apartment, you rarely have friends over. You remember him driving you home a couple of times, but he must have been inside only once or twice in the three years you’ve lived here.

You talk a little, about everything and nothing. You drink some more, perhaps a little too much, but the soju warms your body. Chan relaxes, too. The bottle is quickly empty. 

You both fall silent, and you stare at the bottom of your empty glass. The tears come back too easily. 

“Chan?” 

“Yeah, love?”

You peck your lips. Hearing him say that feels too good. It’s so new, but you already don’t want him to ever stop. 

“Is she pretty?” you utter.

“Y/N…” 

“She must be. Pretty and smart.” 

“Don’t say that.” 

“Do you know her?” 

You look up, and Chan shakes his head. His hair is untidy, his cheeks a little red, his full lips as inviting as ever. 

“I don’t. Ji told me they met at a party.” 

You let out a shaky sigh. “So everyone knows?” 

You hate the way your voice shudders, but you can’t help it. Chan shuffles closer to you, gently taking your hand in his. It’s warm and familiar. 

“No,” he answers in a soft voice. “Just a few. We wanted to wait for the right moment - well, actually, I thought San should be the one to tell you.” 

You laugh, wiping your tears. “No offense, but that would’ve been worse.” 

Chan snorts amusingly. “Oh. Good thing it didn’t happen, then. I thought it’d be a good idea.”

“It’s a terrible idea.” 

You both end up giggling, and Chan doesn’t let go of your hand. You sniffle. You don’t let go either.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” you say. But why are you so invested in this?”

“In your breakup?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m not invested in your breakup,” he shrugs. “I’m invested in you, you’re my friend.” 

“But it’s - you don’t have to, you can just be like the others, not take a side, you don’t have to fight anyone.” 

“Why wouldn’t I speak out? It bothers me, you know me, I don’t shut up when it comes to people I care about.” 

“But San is your friend, too.” 

“But you’re -” 

You frown. “I’m what?” 

“You’re Y/N.” 

The tenderness in his voice takes you by surprise. It seeps through his lips, echoes in his eyes. You feel your heart twist and turn - and just like that, his fingers slip away from yours.

“Sorry, I…” He closes his eyes, shakes his head. “Hell, I’m doing it all wrong tonight. And I should really stop drinking. How the fuck am I supposed to drive back home?” 

“Chan, wait,” you say, ignoring him. “What are you trying to say?” 

He sighs heavily. His face falls in his hand, and he breathes there for a second before he looks back up at you. He looks so tired.  

“I know you had a crush on me,” he breathes. 

You smile nervously. “Why are you bringing this up?” 

“Because I have a crush on you, too,” he says. 

You blink, and it’s like the world tilts. You haven’t been drinking that much, it can’t be the soju. Still, you feel dizzy and warm. Chan is looking at you with fondness and anguish. 

He didn’t say had.

He said have.

His words are right there, still on the tip of his tongue. 

In his eyes. 

So damn bright. 

No - he’s here because he’s your friend. That’s it.

Isn’t it? 

“I don’t understand,” you breathe out.

“I never acted on it because San had wanted to ask you out for a while,” Chan explains with a shrug. “And you know me. I never put myself before others. And although I sorta knew you had a crush on me, I convinced myself San was better for you.” 

You look down at your hands, feeling completely overwhelmed. 

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” you whisper. 

“Because you were so happy with him,” Chan says, his voice shaking. “You found each other and it was good, and who was I to say anything? At one point it didn’t even matter anymore, and I buried it deep inside of me, told myself I was over you. You were over me, after all. It was just a crush, anyway. I was so sure you’d be in this with San for the long run.” 

So did I, you want to say. Your throat feels so dry, however, you can’t say anything. You can just stare at Chan. He smiles at you almost carefully. 

“When I heard about your breakup… Everything came rushing back. The other night, after we got drinks, and I saw you crying… I was just so worried about you. So gutted to see you hurt, it was almost unbearable. And then he said he found someone else and I couldn’t understand, and we argued. It was heated, but it’s fine now. We’re good.” 

You close your eyes because the world can’t stop spinning. You were so cold earlier, but now you’re almost sweating. You’re too warm. The world is ablaze. 

Chan is your fire.

“I’m not saying I’m in love with you. I can’t say I am. But if I let myself go…” He stumbles on his words. “I just might.” 

Time has stopped. You can barely breathe.

You feel the sting of shame.

The delightful warmth of Chan’s confession.

You’ve been so blind.   

“You just mean so much to me,” he says, his voice both low and soft. “I just want you to be happy. I just want you to be loved as you should be loved.” 

When you open your eyes, it feels like he’s sitting closer to you although he hasn’t moved. He’s not touching you, but his smell overwhelms your senses. You can’t look away, and he watches you back.

“How I wish I could,” he breathes, his eyes drilling into yours. “Fall into you. Show you how you could be loved. ” 

You drink his words like they’re the essence of life. You feel, in each one, a wish, a hope, a possibility. Ropes that were drawn and never knotted together. Lifelines, waiting to be grasped. 

“I never was,” you breathe. 

He frowns. “What?”

“Over you,” you explain. “I never was over you. I’m not.” 

He closes his eyes. 

“Fuck, Y/N, don’t tell me that.”

“It’s true,” you say, voice trembling. “I loved San, of course I did. But you were always in my heart and you will never not be.” 

Chan’s eyes drip down your eyes to your lips. You feel an ache inside your chest. It’s like it’s starting to rain indoors. What an odd feeling. 

“You don’t love him anymore?” he asks carefully, weighing every word.

“No.” 

Your voice comes in a whisper, but it’s full of certainty. 

“But Chan, I…” You swallow. “I can’t - I can’t listen to what my heart says about you, it’s not fair, you’re not… You’re not a stand-in, you’re not - you’re more important than that, and…” 

“Can I kiss you?” 

The question catches you off guard. 

“Just once,” Chan smiles. “I want to taste your lips. Just once.” 

What could you say to that? How many times did you dream about Chan’s lips on yours, wondering what they felt like? Were his kisses kind, delicate, hungry? You’d see him drink whiskey and wonder if the taste would linger on them. You’d see him kiss another girl and picture yourself in her place. 

And now he was offering you a kiss.

Hell, he wanted to kiss you. 

So you find yourself nodding, and Chan takes a long look at you, as if he’s waiting for you to change your mind. You remain immobile, lips parted, awaiting his. Slowly, he plucks them, grazing them against his - and they sink into yours, soft, like a cloud, deep, like the ocean. 

You collapse in his arms, wrapping yours around his neck. He slides his fingers through your hair, his other hand embracing your waist to pull you closer. You can’t hold back a sigh from escaping your lips, and Chan responds by kissing you deeper, the movements of his lips getting almost feverish. 

“Chan,” you moan when you gasp for breath.

“Fuck, I can’t stop,” he growls, placing small kisses on your lips.

His fingers dig in your skin, and you desperately want to disappear against him, so you move your leg so you can straddle him. Chan wraps himself around you, and you feel the dampness of his clothes but you don’t care. You take his face in your hands, plunging back into a needy kiss. Chan’s hands wander on your back, on your hips, on the back of your neck. You can only lean into him. His tongue teases your lips and you open your mouth to let it in. It plays with yours, and you can feel walls tighten. 

By now you are fully making out, your hips grinding against his. You can feel him getting hard, and it sends your mind reeling. 

“God, you’re so perfect,” he moans around your lips.

“I’ve thought about this so often, Chan,” you admit.

“Same,” he grins. “I… Fuck, I can’t tell you this.” 

“Tell me,” you insist, trailing kisses alongside his jaw, on the delicate skin of his neck. It makes him shudder, and can almost feel his cock pulsating under you. 

“I thought about your lips,” he breathes out. “Your body. How you would sound moaning against me…” 

“Fuck, Channie…” 

You clench at his words, pressing your core on his erection. He grunts, his fingers slowly making their way under your shirt. You tug at his, and suddenly, like a flash of lightning, you realize what you are doing. Your heart skips a beat, and your mouth dries. Everything rushes back. You stop, and he does the same, leaning back. 

He looks more attractive than ever with his hair tousled by your fingers, his full lips red and wet from your kisses. 

“I’m sorry, I just -” 

“Is this going too fast?” he asks you gently. 

You hesitate. “It’s not that. I just - I don’t want to give the wrong impression.” 

Chan frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Like you’re just a rebound or something,” you shrug.

Chan smiles - that cheeky grin of his, his eyes sparkling at the same time. It toys with your heartstrings. How could anyone not adore this man? 

“I don’t care,” he answers. “I’ll be your rebound.” 

“Chan, I’m serious,” you sigh.

“So am I,” he says, twirling a strand of your hair around his index. “If it’s something you want, then I’m here. I want to. And it doesn’t have to mean anything tomorrow, or ever. We’ll always be friends.” 

You breathe out, briefly closing your eyes. All you want is to keep kissing him, to forget the world in his arms. To be desired, to be loved. 

It’s all you want.

But your heart still aches.

So much has happened tonight - you feel so heavy. 

You sigh again. “I just… Fuck, I’m sorry.” 

Chan cups your cheek. 

“It’s okay, love,” he says, placing a kiss on your forehead. “It’s all so fresh. I can leave if you -” 

“No,” you quickly interrupt him, pushing a finger against his plush lips. “Please. Stay with me.” 

Chan nods, his eyes not leaving yours. You should move. You should get going - get a glass of water, sleep it all off. But you can’t move, lost in Chan’s gaze, your body a bundle of nerves. You lean forward, settling your forehead against his. 

“It’s killing me,” you chuckle nervously. 

Chan giggles, and the sound is delightful. “We have time, love. I won’t let you go, now. I got you.” 

He places a soft kiss on your lips.

“If you’ll have me.” 

As an answer, you give him another kiss. You slide your fingers through his humid hair, inhaling his scent. 

“Will you sleep here tonight?” 

“I’m here, baby.” 

The word makes something melt inside of you. You shiver, and instinctively, he sprawls his warm hands on your back. 

You’re overwhelmed by the tenderness and the hurt. 

You feel so loved. 

So abandoned.

So alone.

So supported.  

So seen. 

Your lips find him again like a magnet. You kiss him deeper than before. You’re losing your mind. 

“Y/N,” he breathes in your mouth.

The words escape your lips. “Fuck it, I want you.” 

He groans, his fingers diving in your skin. His cock twitches under you, making you lose all sense. 

“I want this, Chan,” you sigh, biting his lip. “But I don’t - I don’t want you to think I’m using you, all right? You’re my friend, I care about you, I -” 

He laughs. “You can use me all you want.” 

He starts kissing you again, feverishly, as if it hasn’t just been a few seconds since he last did it. You arch your back, closing all distance between your bodies. Chan starts placing kisses down your neck, his tongue teasing your thin skin. 

“I’ll make you feel good, baby girl,” he whispers. “I’ll make you forget for a little while. Do you trust me?” 

“Yes.” 

“It’s just you and me tonight. Let the rest fade away.” 

He puts his strong hands on your ass, and slowly moves it. You sway your hips, and the friction of his erection against you makes you moan softly. You plunge your face in the crook of his neck, kissing his shoulder blades. 

“Just you and me, yeah?” he whispers.

“Just you and me,” you nod. 

In a swift move he removes your shirt, groaning at the sight of your bralette. It’s made of a thin lacy material, so he can perfectly see your nipples, and immediately leans in to brush his lips against them. You shudder, your nails digging in the back of his neck. 

He removes your bra to gain access to your breasts, gently massaging them in his hands and sliding his tongue around them. Meanwhile, you caress his cock above his jeans, loving the way he tenses at your touch. 

“Hold on to me,” he tells you in a breath.

You wrap your arms around his neck and he lifts you up, only to gently lay you down on the couch so he’s on top of you. 

“Let me see you,” you breathe, grabbing his t-shirt. 

He obliges, removing the piece of clothing so you revel in the sight of his toned chest. You take off your sweatpants and stare as he removes his jeans as well, giving you a better sight of his athletic body. His boxers do nothing to hide his erection.

“Before this goes any further,” he says, and his voice sounds so raw it sends shivers down your spine. “Do you have -” 

“Bathroom,” you say with a nod. 

He smiles, bends to steal a kiss and disappears. You look up at the ceiling, suddenly very aware of your nakedness, of what you are about to do. 

It feels like you’ve been through ten days in one. 

This morning you woke up with dread. 

Now you are filled with hope. 

Is this going too fast? Should you wait? 

Maybe. 

You don’t want to. 

This feeling in your chest, that Chan helps surge, that threatens to burst - all this light, all this love. It’s been a while since you’ve felt that. From someone else, from yourself. 

So what if it’s too fast? You want to live. 

And if there’s a person you trust, it’s Chan. 

“Got it,” you hear him say as he reappears. 

You don’t really know what to say because you have all this love and light inside your chest and words would not feel enough, so you stay silent, only pull him back into a kiss. He lays on top of you, warm and a little unsteady. You can feel he’s a little nervous, just like you, but you don’t mind. You need his softness. You need his realness. 

You push his boxers down, feeling his cock touch your stomach. The sensation is enough to clear your mind, and you bite Chan’s lower lip a little. He answers with a slight chuckle. 

You want to tell him how crazy he makes you. How nice it is to feel him so warm and hard. How much this means to you. But for some reason, you can bring yourself to say anything, and neither does he. You just breathe together, febrile and eager. His fingers graze your wetness, and you shiver. Sensing your pleasure, Chan applies some pressure on your folds, leaning two fingers on your clit. You arch your back, moaning a little louder than you expected. Your hands reach for him, palming his cock, your own fingers brushing his tip. 

“Fuck,” Chan grunts. “Y/N…” 

“Channie, please,” you whisper. 

“Wait,” he answers. “I want to do something first, if this is my only chance.” 

You frown, opening your eyes as you feel him move. You quickly understand what he means, however, as his lips trace a path of wet kisses on your stomach and your thighs. Soon his breath is against your core, and you forget how to breathe. 

When his tongue touches you, it’s like a hundred sensations at once, and you can’t hold back a shaky moan. Your fingers grab the couch as Chan pushes your legs further apart. He kisses you, pressing his tongue into you, attentive to your reactions. 

“You’re gorgeous, you know?” he says, although you barely hear him. “Keep moaning for me, baby girl.” 

A surge of pleasure goes through your body, enveloping you in silk, and you grab Chan’s hair, instinctively pushing him against your clit as his tongue encloses it. 

“Fuck, fuck, Chan, I’m…” you whimper.

“Are you coming?” 

You nod, and he buries his nose in you, embracing your sensitive spots. Your orgasm makes your whole body tremble against him, and he holds your legs as you do, making sure to accompany you throughout. 

As you come down, slowly, you blink back into reality. You look at him a little timidly, realizing your fingers are still tangled in his hair. You place your palm against his head, caressing it tenderly.  

“I’m so sorry,” you mutter. “Did I hurt you?” 

“Not at all,” he chuckles. “It was beautiful.” 

You bite your lip and he moves so he can kiss you. Your taste is on his lips and his tongue and it’s making you a little dizzy. 

It’s been a while since you’ve felt as good as this. 

Not that the sex with San was bad - but it faded at the same time your love did. When you broke up you had not touched each other like that - barely kissed, even - for weeks.

Although you’re sensitive, you really want to make Chan feel good. You need him inside you, stretching you, making you whole. You align your legs so his cock falls between them, and you grind slowly. His breath hitches against your lips, and you take it as a hint he likes it. 

“You made me feel so good, Channie,” you tell him in between kisses. “I want to do the same for you.” 

“Fuck, you’re so warm,” he lets out. 

“I want you inside me,” you say. 

He nods fervently, puts on the condom he got from the bathroom and aligns himself with your entrance. You feel so relaxed and tense at the same time, tucked in his arms on the couch, the rest of the world faded away. He enters you slowly, letting you time to adjust to his size, and you breathe out slowly. 

He feels so different. He feels so right. You are a bundle of nerves he unmakes.

He thrusts his hips at a measured, exquisite pace. Each time he goes deeper, and you cry out in pleasure, your fingers digging in the skin of his muscled back. You feel the fever, you feel the want. He breathes heavily against your neck, holding you tight. 

“You okay?” he asks in a whisper. 

“Don’t stop,” you tell him, arching a little to facilitate his movements. 

Chan doesn’t stop. As he makes love to you - because it is what he is doing - you sense his thrusts getting a little more erratic. In the quiet of the living room you hear nothing but the sound of him plunging inside you, his cock smeared by your wetness, his breathing mingling with yours. It is so erotic, so loving, your second orgasm is building quickly and deliciously. 

Chan accelerates. You pant, moaning nonsense. 

“Come with me,” he breathes, and that is the last thing you need to come undone. 

It’s enthralling how your soul escapes you and yet stays right there, against Chan, around him, with him. As you clench around his cock, you hear a delightful moan escape his throat, rough and hoarse, and it keeps you right above the clouds with him as he comes inside of you. You feel him twitch before he relaxes slowly. 

His lips find your forehead and he plants the softest of kisses there. 

As you sink into the couch, he removes himself from you, and lays down on top of your body. You don’t mind the weight - in fact, it feels just right. His nose is in your neck, his breath tickling your sweat-covered skin. Your fingers slide in his hair, and you close your eyes. 

You give yourselves time to recover. As the high fades, you feel Chan’s breathing relax and get more steady. 

“Channie,” you whisper with a smile. “Don’t fall asleep.” 

“Hm?” he groans, lifting his head to look at you. 

With his hair all over the place, his small eyes and swollen lips, he looks ready to pass out. It elicits a large smile from you, and you tenderly caress his cheek. 

“Let’s get to bed,” you tell him. 

He nods. You stand up on shaky legs, and help him on his feet. Together you close the lights in the apartment, and then you take his hand to guide him towards the bathroom. You take the time to clean up and head to the bedroom. The lights are off except for the fairy lights hanging above your bed. Once you’re there, you open a drawer, take out a t-shirt that will fit him. 

You slip under the sheets, Chan next to you. He pulls you into his arms, and you put your head on his shoulder. 

The rain has slowed to a drizzle.

Who knows what the sky will look like tomorrow? 

For now you just want to sleep against Charm’s warmth.

“Get some rest, love,” he whispers to you. 

“Goodnight, Channie.” 

“Goodnight.”

Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a comment or reblog with a word in the tags if you can. It's truly appreciated ♡

[altarecs]

note: you did so well. wonderful job. loverboy!mingyu with a bitchless agenda is my favorite trope.

Work Me Out

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x fem!reader

Genre: Smut, 18+

Warnings: working out, flirting, touching, almost car sex, making out, breast play, fingering, oral, face sitting, multiple sex positions, big dick mingyu, protected sex (gasp!), strength kink, dirty talk, choking, spanking :) lover boy gyu as always. let me know if i missed anything!

Length: ~5k

Note: y'all thought cheol rot was bad but the OG bias wrecker is back. dont come at me for gym terminology i go by vibes. replaced my gym crush with mingyu and this is what happened <3 i have a bonus/pt 2 in the drafts too but I'll wait to post it bc too much muscle pig mingyu is bad for the soul... and the [redacted]

to the anon that sent me a seok ask forever ago about his arms, im sorry i used it in this fic. but know i have a seok fic with exactly what you asked for in the works rn. everyone say thank you anon.

@bbychocolat do not hit my line about mingyu for at least 24 business hours i need to recover

Remember: Tumblr runs on reblogs and I run on validation in the tags and comments :)

read part II

read more here

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked!

Figuring out the ins and outs of a new gym isn’t easy but it isn’t impossible. Go too early and you’re surrounded by creepy men old enough to be your grandfather. Right after work is a sure way to experience hoards of gym bros crowding around machines like they own them. 

So you go as late as possible. 

Only a handful of people are dispersed through the large space. A few run on the treadmills lined on the catwalk of the second floor, several switch through different weights in front of the mirrors. You make your way through the maze of equipment towards the leg press; your final sets before you can go home and wash away the grime of the day.

Or you would if someone wasn’t occupying the one machine you need.

Peeping your head around, you notice a black backpack and matching water bottle on the ground. You glance around, unable to find a clear owner since the next closest person is halfway across the gym doing a different exercise.

Would it be that rude to take the machine out from under someone if they’re not even using it? You could probably get in all your sets before the person even came back if you moved quickly.

You wait a few minutes. How embarrassing would it be to have the mystery person walk back up the second you sat down? But after five minutes pass and no one emerges to claim the spot, you set about changing the weights out.

And just when you slip into the seat, you look up and find someone approaching.

He’s tall, he’s handsome, and he’s barely ten feet away. Your saving grace is that he hasn’t spotted you yet thanks to his phone. 

But that doesn’t last long.

“Oh! Sorry! Were you using this machine?” You ask, trying to sound cordial. 

“It’s okay!” He smiles at you. “Do you need it?”

Yes.

“No, I can find something else to do.” 

You rise to do just that when he stops you with a shrug.

“I don’t mind sharing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I take long breaks between my sets anyway so it’s no big deal.”

So that’s where he went.

“Okay, thanks.”

“No problem.”

He moves to lean against the wall, face buried in his phone once again as you work through your set. Honestly you think he forgot you were even there until you start standing up and he pushes off his perch. 

Exchanging polite smiles, you skirt around him and snag your water bottle before occupying the same spot against the painted bricks. You try not to be a creep but watching the way the muscles in his legs bulge and coil with each rep is impossible to look away from. Especially when there’s just so much to look at.

He racks up twelve reps with ease and switches back off with you before wandering out of sight.

You work through two of your sets before he comes teetering back. 

“I tried putting it back to your weight.” You laugh, sipping from your water bottle.

“Three forty? Ouch.”

“What? Should I have made it lighter?”

“Try heavier. Like four hundred.”

“My sincerest apologies.” You mock, placing your hand over your heart. “I’ll remember that next time.”

He laughs again before slipping back into the seat and working through the motions.

This time you don’t bother hiding the way you watch him over your phone. He looks good, it’d be a waste not to watch the swell of his chest or the stretch of his thighs. The gym shorts and snug black t-shirt only exacerbate how cut his physique is. 

And if he makes a comment you can always twist your not so subtle gawking into a compliment about his form.

When he finishes his set again, he snags his bag and water bottle off the ground before turning to you. “All yours. Have a good night.”

“Yeah, you too.”

And he’s gone.

Over the next few weeks, you learn mystery man works out at the same time you. He’s there when you arrive and remains when you leave after an hour and a half of sweating and gasping like a dying fish, only absent on Wednesdays when you manage the most last luster workouts of your life. The disappointment the first time you realized you were looking for the backwards cap sticking out amongst the free weights would have been embarrassing but what's wrong with a little eye candy while breaking a sweat? 

And what a great view he makes. Your brief peeks into the mirrored walls are full of nothing straining muscles and glowing skin. The first day he did arms in a cutoff tee will go down in history as the worst day of your life. Only rivaled by all the other days he works his legs in shorts accentuating just how nice his ass is with every squat.

Your friends all ask when you’re going to talk to him again. As if you’ll just walk right up and interrupt the best part of your day. No, you’d rather watch him move across the gym floor from the corner of your eye, throw him a friendly nod, and go about your business than run the risk of making things awkward.

Unfortunately, doesn’t possess the same desire to remain a friendly nameless face like you do.

His name is Mingyu. Or that’s what the employee with glasses calls him while they joke around one night. You don’t mean to eavesdrop but they’re loud and the only exit takes you right past the U-shaped desk. Mingyu throws a grin as you pass by on your way out and the flash of teeth spikes your heart rate higher than any exercise you’ve done that night.

When he officially introduces himself at the water fountain the next night, you have to bite the urge to tell him ‘I know.’ Instead you snort at his extended hand, providing your own name over the firm shake like you won’t be haunted by the feeling of the calluses on his fingers or the heat of his palm for the next week. 

What’s worse is how he says your name back, rolling the sound across his tongue and past his quirked lips. 

And the final nail in the coffin is when you leave and you see the way he turns in the glass doors to watch, bidding you a goodnight with your name signed at the end.

Mingyu might be the worst gym crush in the world. Mostly because your thoughts of him extend beyond the brick walls he should only exist in. And partially because he’s caught you staring more times than you care to admit. 

Not as many times as you’ve caught him, but the point stands.

No, the worst part, you find out, is Mingyu is an incorrigible flirt. And he knows it.

Tonight you’re off schedule, runny nearly half an hour later than usual.; work clothes sticking to your skin as you make your way towards the off shooting hall housing the entrance to the locker rooms. In a rush, you step around another body only to end up in front of one much more familiar.

“There's my girl.” Mingyu smiles. “Thought you were skipping out on me.”

My girl. My girl. My girl, my girl, my girl….

There isn’t a thought in your head beyond the bold casualness he drops that bomb on you with so you nod awkwardly and force yourself not to sprint the next twenty feet to hide.

Half an hour later, when you catch him watching you in the mirror over his own weights, the bastard smiles like the cat who caught the canary. 

But you end up on top when Mingyu offers to spot you while doing weighted squats. He’s at your back, an appropriate amount of space between your bodies you wish he’d close. You don’t need his help. Your form is better than his (you would know, his ass and thighs give you tunnel vision when its his leg day). And the weight on the bar isn’t even enough to make you strain but why pass up on the offer? Especially with how Mingyu meets your eyes over your shoulder in the mirror with each dip.

And then he cheers ‘that’s my girl’ again when you re-rack the equipment with ease and it's over.

“Shit,” you grunt. 

Mingyu pops up from his perch between your breasts under your shirt, hair a mess and eyes glazed. “Good?”

“No, your steering wheel is in my back.” You wince, attempting to wiggle away and ending up further up his lap.

“Sorry, let me just…”

The seat flies back under your combined weight, throwing your forehead right into Mingyu’s chin.

“Fuck!” 

“Oh my god!” You gasp. “Are you okay?”

Mingyu’s head falls back as he releases a massive sigh. Each second that ticks by has you both coming to the same conclusion.

“Yeah,” you breath, sitting up. “I think this was a bad idea.”

“Oh…”

“I just mean like your car is small and you’re too big and I—“

The guffaw Mingyu tries to hide slips free too easily. “That’s what she said.”

“God, you’re gross.” 

Your nose crinkles as you rise up, using his chest for leverage. It feels as nice as it looks and its the worst knowledge you’ve gained in you life.

“Sticks and stones,” he hums.

“Well this was fun. I’ll ugh… see you around?”

When you try to shift back into the passenger seat to exit, Mingyu’s hands flex over your thighs to keep you in his lap. His sweats do nothing to hide his semi. Something he doesn’t even seem to consider as a concern given the way he unconsciously curls into you.

“Or we can go back to mine.”

He’s trying and failing to sound nonchalant. Like he won’t go home and fuck his fist in the shower with the echoes of your sighs filling his ears if you turn him down. You can see it in his eyes. What hinges on his offer and how much you’ll both regret it if the tension fizzles and dies in his SUV.

From where you’re sitting, it’s incredibly difficult to think with your head and not your hormones. Mingyu is hot, he’s nice, he seems decent enough. His behavior doesn’t hint at him being a creep. If he’s normal enough to fuck in his car, is he not normal enough to fuck in the comfort of a bed?

The thumb stroking your thighs and the hopeful eyes staring you down make the decision for you.

“Yeah, okay.” 

With his address in your phone’s GPS, you trail after his SUV in your own car. The roads are familiar because they’re the same roads you drive when you return to your apartment that turns out to be only three blocks closer to the gym than Mingyu’s. 

All this time he’d been so close and you never even realized. Did he think about you the same way you thought about him when he drove home? If he did, you’re in for a night.

Rolling into a space only a few down from where he parks, you pause to hype yourself up. 

People have sex all the time. It’s no big deal. I can do this. 

A knock at the window interrupts your spiral, finding Mingyu smiling sheepishly through the glass. The muscles in your chest squeeze when he opens the door and holds it for you to exit; and threaten to explode when his hand finds the small of your back and guides you towards the stairwell.

Footsteps echo down to the hall, Mingyu only a fraction ahead to lead the way to a non-descript door with a seasonal doormat that's seen better days.

“Ugh, this is it.” 

His apartment is shockingly clean for a guy your age. Not clean in the ‘I don’t own enough shit to even be dirty’ way. No, Mingyu’s apartment is cozy. There’s throw pillows and blankets on the couch. He has a lamp and bookshelf in the corner and the walls are adorned with a collage of artwork thoughtfully pieced together. Several personal photos are littered throughout, some with an obviously younger Mingyu propped next to what must be a sister or a cousin, a few of him with friends. One of him and a familiar man with glasses, their faces blurry but the glee clear as they’re frozen in time. Your lips lift with a soft smile at the personal touches bleeding into every corner of his space.

Turning over your shoulder you ask, “You and the guy at the gym are friends?” 

Mingyu’s watching you with something unidentifiable in his eyes, stepping forward to figure out which frame you're looking at until he’s only a foot behind you.

“Yeah, we went to the same middle school.”

“And this one?” You say, fingers tracing the edge of the wooden frame.

“My little sister.” Mingyu follows, still only a step behind.

“And I’m assuming these are your parents?”

“Actually those are Wonwoo’s parents.” He chuckles. “These are my parents.”

Mingyu’s arm reaches around to point at the correct photo, his chest brushing against your back.

“Wanna give me the tour?”

Mingyu manages to show you everything in five minutes. The living room and connected kitchen you’re already standing in, the door of the hall bathroom, and finally his bedroom. You take a seat on the edge of the bed, discovering the new smattering of details that uncover more about the man waiting with baited breath in the threshold. 

“Why are you over there?” You ask.

With arms crossed and shoulders up to his ears, Mingyu resembles a kid waiting to be scolded rather than a man who tried to hook up with you in his car less than thirty minutes ago.

“I’m nervous.”

You can’t stop the satisfaction from spreading to your face. “I make you nervous?”

Mingyu pushes off the door jam, shuffling forward until he’s standing a foot in front of you. “Yeah. I don’t really do stuff like this.”

“Stuff like what? Try and fuck girls in your car?”

“Haha.” Mingyu mocks, face descending until he rubs his nose with yours.

Your eyes slip closed when his do, breathing each other's air. “Stuff like what, Gyu?”

Your hands find the material of his shirt stretched across his shoulder. Each brush of his lips across your cheek, down your jaw, until he finds your ear.

“I don’t sleep around with girls I’m not dating.”

Oh.

“We don’t hav—”

“Which is not the best way to ask you out.”

You press him out of your space, far enough that you can look him in the eyes and see if he’s serious. The tips of Mingyu’s ears burn red but he’s looking right at you despite how embarrassed he clearly feels.

“You’re asking me on a date?”

“Ugh, yeah. I think it’d be fun. But you don’t have to! If you just wanna do this that's fine t—”

Whatever words Mingyu was trying to say fizzle on the tip of his tongue as you pull him into a kiss. He curls over you, pressing you further into his bed with every fervent pass. Wedging one hand under the small of your back, Mingyu lifts you up and carries you while he crawls to the center.

Your mind wanders to all the other ways he can manhandle you into the mattress.

He settles flat against you, hips cradled between your own while delving into your mouth. You fill your hands with his ass, dragging Mingyu’s covered cock against your core. A groan backs apart your lips as Mingyu falls into the curve of your neck. 

“This is a yes to the date by the way.” You pant now that he’s taken over, hands scratching up his back in an effort to get rid of his shirt. “In case that wasn’t clear.”

Mingyu’s clothes disappear over his head and across the room, yours following shortly after. The heat of bare skin on bare skin is better than anything until he takes one of your breasts in his palm and the other in his mouth. 

Every curse you know flies through your lips as he sucks and pinches until you're sore between the legs.

He takes the squeeze of your thighs and the rock of your hips as a greenlight, hands leading where his lips follow until it’s nothing but your panty clad core an inch from his face.

“This okay?” Mingyu asks in the fat of your thigh, tongue trailing fire across the skin.

You nod with a sigh, “Mingyu, please.”

He doesn’t need much more than that, the fabric barrier gone in a blink and his nose traces your folds until he’s dying for a taste.

Mingyu eats pussy like he doesn’t need oxygen. The path of his pointed tongue around your clit is nothing short of precise, meticulously tracing every ridge and curve until the sheets stretch under your fingers. When he flattens it to pay broader attention, your legs squeeze and Mingyu’s hands force them wide around his shoulders.

Your feet flatten on the bed and thrust up his mouth, wet and crude with fingers in his hair and your whines in his ears. Every suck of Mingyu’s mouth forces the muscles in your neck to lerch until they hurt and your head falls back. He takes pride in the way you drip for him, making the best mess he’s ever had the privilege to clean up.

You reward him with an lavishing praise at the next twitch of your insides, “Fuck, just like that.” 

Taking advantage of the slight arch in your spine, Mingyu’s hand sneaks under your back, fingers unforgiving as they dig into your ass. He curls your hips up and buries a finger in your core with mortifying ease.

Between your legs, Mingyu catches your eyes. Pupils blown wide, mouths bruised around stuttered breath. A matching set of debauched expressions. He’s more familiar like this; skin glowing with sweat, and hair matted to his forehead. Next time you see him at the gym you know it's all you’ll think about. Next time you're alone in your room, or the shower, or the grocery store. Or anywhere you’ve day dreamed about him before.

He leans back to watch the digit disappear, only to reappear soaking. “Feels good?”

“Give me another and it will.”

You savor the rhythm he sets, thick fingers working to prep you for what you felt under his shorts. His tongue is hard and wet at your clit, fingers stretching and spreading until your stomach dips and you nearly buck him off as your clit swells from abuse.  

Your fingers pluck at your nipples and Mingyu apparently likes to watch because he manages more enthusiasm, forces his finger to crook just the right way, and continues to suck even after you start screaming.

“Oh fuck, oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!” You chant, voice cracked.

Something sounding suspiciously like a ‘thank you’ drops into the mix but Mingyu’s the only one to hear it. In his opinion, he should be the one doing the thanking; you just gave him enough spank bank material for the next six months.

You don’t dislike the taste of yourself on his tongue, his lips, his chin, his cheeks, and even his chest when you flip Mingyu over and aim to return the favor. He blushes when you lap against the hollow of his throat; embarrassed from the way he goes boneless with such simple affection.

He sinks into the plush of the mattress, propped up by the mountain of pillows at the headboard. Mingyu’s stomach stiffens under your tongue and the twitch blooms a smile on your face. Predictable.

“Sensitive?”

Your nails raking up the shape of his thighs turn the denial falling from his lips into a whine, and it makes you wonder what other sounds Mingyu will make with his cock in your mouth.

The vein bulging along the underside of his length gives your tongue something to trace along as you lap from base to flared tip, sucking down until it shines from spit and pre-cum. You take all you can until the curve of your throat protests.

Mingyu’s big and he’s loud.

“Oh God, shit.” He babbles with abandon, hands fisted at his sides until his knuckles turn pale.

You focus on the cock in your mouth rather than how pretty Mingyu’s chest would look covered in bite marks. How a bruise on his hip would be just visible when he reaches over his head to do pull ups, and red streaks from your nails on his bicep would make a great accessory.

A hand lands on the base of your skull, gentle until it's not. His thumb dips to stroke the bulge of his dick through your throat as you take him deeper. And like some ridiculous porno theres still an inch you’ll never be able to take even if you do nothing but let him fucking your mouth until the only thing you taste is cum.

“Fuuuuck,” Mingyu groans from a harsh suck on the upstroke.

He distracts you with his tongue on yours, keeping you from diving back down and destroying his ego from how quick you almost made him cum. Your one solace is the lazy grip you have on the base of Mingyu’s length, fingers tightening around the head while he cants into the squeeze.

You think Mingyu is going to plant you on his cock and make you ride it until one of you is crying. But he keeps pushing and pulling until you’re kneeling over his face, knees cushioned in the pillows and hands against the wall to steady you while he dives in again.

His head shakes back and forth, tongue out to swipe messily at your clit as you grind into his face. The last grip of sanity you have gives you the mind to reach back, jerking Mingyu off while he eats it, a cycle of moans moving through you; him into your folds when you squeeze from a grating pass off his tongue that has you whining to the ceiling fan.

“Shit, need you to fuck me.” You whine but don’t stop curling against the latch of his lips, legs stiff with ache.

It’s Mingyu who brings things to a halt, raising you away from his mouth until you're left on your knees while he stands to rummage in the drawer for a condom. You listen while the paint of the wall cools your forehead.

The hand at the dip of your spine makes you melt when he checks in, “Still okay?”

Nodding, you find him over your shoulder with a thick swallow. Mingyu’s nose follows the slope of your muscles, lips untying all the knots he’s worked into them over the past few weeks.

“Want it like this?”

“Yeah.”

You drop until your chest meets the bed and arch until it hurts just to put on a good show. Mingyu shuffles behind you, knocking your knees wider with his own, palms molding to your ass and spreading it apart to take a good look like he wasn’t tongue deep inside your pussy already. The room is nothing more than the sounds of grounding breaths; Mingyu watching the way your torso moves around the air, releasing a long exhale before moving closer.

The feel of his chest against yours was great, but the hard muscle of it along your back, his chain caught between and leaving a definitive mark, is life ruining. It shreds the last bit of humanity you’ve been clinging to since you dragged Mingyu to the parking lot and tried to stick your hands down his pants while leant against the passenger door.

No matter how well Mingyu stretched you for his cock it was never going to be enough. Taking the first inch nearly splits you in half. But you're soaked and needy; nothing short of the end of the world is going to keep you from getting the satisfaction of feeling him in your guts. You take it with measured breaths and affirmations to relax. Slow arches of his hips work him in until he’s flat with your ass and whispering absolute depravity into your ears.

“Fuck, you’re tight.”

Arching your ass higher, you whimper, “You’re huge.”

Your ass stings under his punishing hand, thrown forward by an involuntary buck of his hips.

“Don’t say that.”

You turn until you can look over your shoulder again, meeting wild eyes. “You feels so good.” You moan, eyelids low and wrecked.

“Didn’t—shit, think you’d have such a dirty mouth.” He bites into the side of your neck, sucking a bruise like a depraved teenager. 

“I knew you’d have a fat cock.”

You get what you want so easily it's almost insulting; Mingyu’s hand forcing your face into the sheets and his hips rushing into you with pure need. Every prod into your cunt has you wailing. It’d destroy your self respect if you could think of anything beyond how he’s ruining you for anyone else.

Pillows topple off the edge of the bed as you scramble for a hold. Anything to ground you against the burn in your veins with every tight squeeze around Mingyu’s cock. His balls slap against your clit teasingly, more degrading than the way he has you bent in half. 

“Harder,” you beg.

Mingyu falls back on his haunches, pulling you with him until you're sitting up right. His arm comes into view, curling around neck until your throat sits in the crux of his elbow and his hand latches on your shoulder; a crude headlock he uses as leverage to keep fucking into you. You’ve been choked but this is infinitely better. Whatever Mingyu wants to take from you, he’s in a position to do so.

“Gonna cum?” He nips into your earlobe.

His hand shoves its way between your legs, swipe roughly against your clit before you can even hope to answer.

A pathetic nod is all you manage thanks to the muscles gathered under your chin limiting your mobility.

Mingyu let's go then and your hands prevent a crash into the headboard, putting you back in the same position as before but you have to work for it now; ass bouncing in his laps as you ride him. Finding your balance, you drop one hand to your clit as Mingyu’s pinch your nipples.

“Let me have it, let me make you come." Mingyu pants into your spine. "Fuck you look so good like this, shit.”

He keeps rambling, flying with you towards the edge hand in hand; both breathless from the slap of your thighs against his.

“Mingyu, feel so good. Oh my god, oh my g—”

The softness of the pillows greets you once again while everything flashes white. Mingyu scrambles behind, fucking you into the mattress while you soak his cock. Muscles twitching, teeth ground till they crack, you come and come and come while begging him to do the same.

Mingyu gives in without hesitation, all his weight behind his hips as he fills the condom; dragging you back with an arm around your waist. Every jerk of his cock against your walls from the force makes you vibrate until he’s slipping out, soiled and used against the back of your thigh.

The last thing you register is his lips finding your shoulder again, rubbing back and forth as he comes down.

You fall asleep under the heat of his body for who knows how long, content in the mind shattering numbness of what just happened. Mingyu seems to feel the same, dead weight hanging half off you so you can at least manage to breath.

When you wake, whether it's twenty minutes or two hours later, Mingyu is snoring into the pillow, still naked. His lips pout in his sleep and you swallow the urge to shower them with kisses thanks to the drool at the corner of his mouth.

Even without the covers, you're warm. The kind of heat that slips over your skin, sinks into your bones and keens for you to fall asleep and stay. But Mingyu asked you on a date, not to spend the night. And you’d hate to assume and ruin whatever this is before it as a chance to start.

“Where are you going?” He pouts.

You don't make it two inches out of his arms before he’s pulling you back, tangling them around you so there's no chance of unnoticed escape. Mingyu digs his nose into your cheek and waits for an answer like he has all the time in the world.

Something tells you if he knew you were attempting to head home, Mingyu would throw a fit. And what use is that when you want to see what a night sleep with a giant human furnace is like?

“Bathroom.”

Adding to the list of information you’ve learned, Mingyu is a stage five clinger. He latches on to your back, guiding you into the shower stall for a quick spray down that leaves half your face, part of your thigh, and almost none of him clean.

He falls asleep against the base of your skull while brushing your teeth, because of course he has a stash of extra toothbrushes under the sink just in case. 

And when you crawl under the fresh sheets, he pulls you into his chest, leaves a kiss against your forehead, and tells you he can’t wait for your breakfast date tomorrow.

Taglist: @tomodachiii @cvpidyunho @miniseokminnies @ddaengpotate @arycutie @gaebestie @primoppang @gyuguys @mine-gyu @doremifasire @missminhoe @toplinehyunjin @crvs4vldtn @prettygyuuu

© highvern. copying/reuploading/translating my work anywhere is strictly prohibited.

[altarecs]

note: GOD this was a MASTERPIECE. the LOVE i have for the intensity, the details, oh god the brandenburg concertos. well fucking done. so well done, i could never say enough to let you know how well this is written — but i don’t need to, i hope you are already swimming in praise over this piece. wonderful job, 10/10.

Reckless Convictions

Copyright Ⓒ 2023 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), mention of cheating

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

18+. Mdni!

•

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

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

Come back to me.

•

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What time period defined Classical antiquity?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you do- you always do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Coda?” It reads simply.

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What extra credit thing?”

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

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

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

“This week?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you voice finally.

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Professor,” you say to him quietly.

“Hm?” He responds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” He coos back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it okay if-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile at him, shaking your head before responding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you still have your keys?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Da segno

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not like that-”

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

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

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

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

“What do I want?” She echoes.

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean… you… won’t tell?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did she say anything else?” He inquires.

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

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

“Get what?”

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

“Interviewing?” You echo meekly.

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you talking about?”

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

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

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

“That’s not what I’m-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coda

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” you retort with a small chuckle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Construction workers, you think to yourself. It’s going to be awkward getting out of this one. And as you approach the cutout in the concrete wall again, ready to conjure up some form of an explanation, another person does make entry, crouching so as not to bump his head, as he stumbles inside and regains his balance.

His hair is two shades lighter than the last time you saw him. He still wears the same dorky wireframe glasses as before. And he looks elegant, in a white button down and black blazer, the same canvas sneakers he used to love double-knotted at the laces and complementing his black slim-fitting slacks.

“What are you doing here?” Is all you can say to him as he approaches, his hands shoved in his pockets and a leather bag slung over his shoulder.

“Mina practically chased me when I was leaving,” he says, gesturing to the empty space around you both. “Said I had to come see some new piano they put in here.”

He glances around the room, eyebrows furrowed in a confused manner, and then he turns to face you.

“Where is it?”

“There is no piano,” you say to him, crossing your arms frustratedly. “She told me the same thing.”

Jisung begins to say something, and then he stops, giving a small nod as he averts your cold stare.

His thumb toys with a loose thread inside the pocket of his slacks, and then he meets your gaze again, strands of brown hair falling into the shy expression he wears on his face.

“Graduated, huh? How’s it feel?”

“Fine,” you reply in a reluctant tone. “I leave today.”

“Where are you headed?” Jisung asks, swallowing nervously.

“Landed an internship in the city,” you tell him. “It’s close by. Just some piano thing.”

Jisung’s lips pull into a grin, chuckling lightly as he nods in response. “I always knew you’d land something good.”

You remain quiet, looking around the gymnasium once again, and then you turn to him with some hesitation.

“What are you doing here?”

Jisung sighs deeply, looking around the gymnasium, too, before speaking.

“I had an interview. Quit my directing gig.”

His words take you aback momentarily, a million questions racing through your mind about why he’s no longer directing and why he’d be interviewing here of all places.

“You interviewed here?”

“Wasn’t so much of an interview as it was a conversation,” he retorts. “They even had my old badge. I really need to get that updated considering my hair’s not technically black anymore-”

“Why would you interview here?” You emphasize to him again. “You hated it here. I thought you wanted some fancy directing thing.”

Jisung is quiet again, digging the heel of his canvas sneaker into the thick layer of sawdust that lines the floor. He knows that his ego is far too big, and he’s still consumed with an overwhelming amount of selfish pride. But he also knows that he’s not going to find any form of resolution without breaking this vicious cycle of repeating his mistakes, especially when a resolution is finally within reach.

“Look, I fucked up, okay?” Jisung finally says, taking you by complete surprise.

“The minute I started there again, I knew that wasn’t my calling anymore. Maybe it was back when I was still young, and all starry-eyed for the stupid baton and the fancy suits.”

He turns to face you at this point, taking a step toward you and almost physically demanding you reciprocate the eye contact.

“But you were right- that chapter of my life is finished now. And yeah, maybe the students don’t pay attention when I stand up there and lecture. And sure, I’m just going to be some lousy assistant college band director out here. But finding you- and the way you’d listen to me, and the way you never judged me for my shortcomings, even though I was a shitty husband once, and a shitty professor and an even shittier boyfriend to you- you made me realize it was finally time to let go.”

Jisung can’t seem to cease his emotional speech once he begins, frantically gesturing as he continues speaking. He feels like a different person entirely in this vulnerable form- like the Jisung you knew when he was first breaking his walls down around you. And the Jisung you know when he isn’t putting his dreams of a past life before the people he loves.

“… and then I couldn’t stop thinking about Brahms and Clara, and how he died without ever having told her how he felt. Or Tchaikovsky who had to hide who he loved- and then Mozart! God, that stupid letter- she remarried, you know that? Did you ever get to that chapter? Of course you did, before I could tell you, at least.”

Jisung paces the floor in rushed motions as he speaks, his wet sneakers squeaking obnoxiously along the gym floor as the words escape his lips. You don’t try to speak for a little while, carefully soaking in what you assume to be an apology. And then he stops in his tracks, eyebrows arching into a pleading expression as he towers over you.

“Music isn’t the same without you,” he finishes. “None of this is.”

You lock your gaze with Jisung’s, his big brown eyes almost trembling as he awaits a reply. And simultaneously, you do your best not to let your guard down too quickly.

“Is this how it unfolded back then, too?” You ask calmly. “When you begged somebody to stay after the first time you made this mistake?”

Jisung’s lips part to say something, but then he’s quiet again, waiting for you to continue, praying for something better than this.

“I think you’re a genius,” you continue. “I think you’re remarkable, and talented, and loving you comes so easily. But you make it hard when you do the same thing to everybody you’ve ever loved.”

“You’re the first woman I’ve ever loved,” Jisung blurts promptly, and a deafening silence falls over the room. He hesitates to continue at this point, fearing as though he’s going to scare you off, but he’s also never verbalized it to you despite thinking about it every waking second of the day, and he’s determined not to form new mistakes he could risk repeating.

“I let it happen back then because music was the only thing I loved,” he explains. “It was a shitty thing, and for so long I struggled to move on because I was still lost in the only thing I ever loved. And then you came along; I don’t need to direct when I have you. I’ll be a teacher- hell, I’ll be a fucking janitor if that’s what you want. You were my sign to move on from repeating the same fucking thing all over again- you are my end.”

Jisung breathes heavily as he finishes, gauging the shocked expression in your trembling eyes. He waits for you to say something, and then without averting your gaze, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper and handing it to you.

You unfold it slowly, already knowing it by the familiar yellowing color and small printed font- page 256 of his course-assigned textbook, detailing Mozart’s Sonata no. 12, complete with all your annotations alongside his. Only his are no longer visible- they’re crossed out, completely scribbled over in black pen, concealing his call for any form of repetition within the piece. All that remains at the bottom of the page, in the same red pen you first marked in, is a single oval with a cross through it- a coda.

Your gaze meets his after examining the page briefly, surprised he’s kept it after all this time. And then he sags his shoulders a little, gesturing to the page still in your grasp.

“I passed my sign once,” he says sheepishly. “Just please come back to me.”

Jisung doesn’t wait for you to respond this time, instead cupping your cheeks gently with his hands and pulling you in for a passionate kiss, which you don’t hesitate to reciprocate, letting your hands wrap around the back of his neck to pull him even closer to you. His lips work against yours eagerly, but still tenderly, breathing all of his desire back into you and confirming the notion that this is all he’s ever really yearned for.

He smiles into the kiss against you, grazing his thumbs up to wipe stray tears that cascade along your cheeks, and then with one more chaste kiss to your lips, he pulls away once more, chuckling lightly.

“Can we just start over?” He asks you innocently. “No repetition, no secrecy. Just start anew.”

You chuckle lightly at his proposal, nodding in his embrace, and then he pulls away entirely to hold a hand out to you.

“Han Jisung,” he says. “I’m an assistant director for the college band.”

“Y/n,” you respond with a smile, shaking his hand firmly.

“So lovely to meet you- can I interest you in a tour of the gymnasium I work in?”

He throws an arm over your shoulder, beginning down the length of the vast space and gesturing to the walls beside you.

“This is where I yell at students to fix their tempos,” Jisung explains, giving your shoulder a little squeeze as you chuckle in response to him.

“And this is where I tell stories about famous composers and their love lives. Tell me, y/n- do you know the tale of Mozart and Constanze?” He then asks with a smile.

“I can’t say I do,” you play along, earning an exaggerated gasp from him.

“Well then I’d love to tell you all about it. How do you feel about art galleries? There’s one not far from here…”

And Jisung’s hand drops to yours, intertwining your fingers together as he lets himself start anew, alongside who he now knows to have been a sign for him this entire time- a coda, an epilogue, an offer for resolution.

[dazevi]

baby, can i? | vi x fem!reader, fluff, smut (18+ mdni) wc: 6k

synopsis: vi guides you through your first time. | masterlist

content warnings: modern au!, tiniest mention of hockey player!vi, virgin!reader/inexperienced!reader, experienced!vi, soft top!vi, needy vi, nsfw/smut; consent is sexy!!!!!!, kissing/making out, little bit of perverted vi, soft sex, fingering and oral (r!receiving) slight overstim, bit of praise kink for both reader and vi, a little sappy tbh

note: ok wait this actually is really sappy/cheesy/whatver ummm but i hope u like it (also i might be on a writers high a little bit > got a request for bartender!vi andi am very excited to write about it)

It was all innocent at first—a movie you chose playing on the TV in Vi’s apartment, her chin resting lightly on your shoulder, her thumbs gently brushing circles against your sides, and ever so often, her lips grazing the top of your head in fleeting, soft kisses. You were tucked between her legs, your back resting against her chest, and her arms were securely wrapped around your waist possessively, not wanting you to move away from her.

You were watching the movie—or at least, you were trying to.

But Vi wasn’t making it easy.

She’d been unusually affectionate all evening, her hands sneaking under the hem of your sweater to rest directly on your skin. They weren’t wandering; she wasn’t teasing you like she sometimes did.

No, this was different.

Her fingers were just there, pressed against your stomach as if she needed to feel the warmth of you. She was quiet, which wasn’t unusual when she was in one of these soft, clingy moods, but you could feel her every breath against your back, her chest rising and falling steadily. In different minutes, she would shift slightly, her legs tensing around you as if she were adjusting, but really, you knew it was just an excuse to pull you closer.

“Comfy?” she asked after a while, voice soft in your ear.

“Mhm,” you murmured back, turning your head slightly to look at her.

She only smiled.

“What?” You smiled back, a soft giggle falling from your lips.

Vi shook her head, placing a tiny kiss to your shoulder, “Nothing.”

She was so close, her face inches from yours, her eyes glinting in the flickering light of the TV. There was a small smile tugging at her lips, and when she caught you looking at her, she tilted her head, her expression softening in a way that made your heart flutter.

Vi had been head over heels for you from the start, though she’d never admit how fast it all happened.

She prided herself on being smooth, confident, and a little cocky—someone who always knew how to flirt, how to charm, how to make the girls swoon. And it worked for her, for the most part. Vi had never struggled to get attention; her charm, confidence, and maybe sometimes even her muscles, did most of the talking before she even opened her mouth.

But none of that prepared her for you.

When you first started dating, Vi tried to play it cool. She told herself she’d keep it casual, keep things easy. But then you smiled at her like she’d hung the moon, and that was it. Vi fell hard—headfirst, without a parachute—and it terrified her.

She couldn’t stop thinking about you, couldn’t stop replaying every moment you spent together like they were the best scenes in a movie she never wanted to end. Every time you laughed, her chest felt too tight, like her heart was trying to claw its way out of her ribcage just to reach you. She didn’t even realize how deep she was in until one day she caught herself thinking about you in the middle of practice, her teammates yelling her name because she’d missed the puck for the third time.

She told herself it wasn’t a big deal. People fell in love all the time, right?

Right?

And that scared her more than anything. Because Vi wasn’t used to feeling this vulnerable. She was used to being in control, to calling the shots, to knowing exactly where she stood. But with you, she felt like she was walking a tightrope, one misstep away from falling so deep she might never recover. And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Because as much as you terrified her, you also made her feel alive in ways she never thought possible.

And for the first time in her life, she wasn’t afraid to admit that someone else had her completely, utterly, helplessly wrapped around their finger.

And, truth be told, you’re not exactly experienced when it came to sex.

The first time you told her, it took Vi by surprise.

She had been getting touchy one day, as she always did when she was around you, teasing you with little brushes of her fingers against your skin, her lips grazing your neck as she whispered something playful in your ear. She could sense the way you tensed up, not in a way that made her think you were uncomfortable, but… uncertain.

“I—uh, I’m not really… experienced with all this,” you had admitted, your cheeks flushed a deep shade of red, eyes glancing away, as if you were ashamed to even say it aloud. “I’ve never… done it with someone before.”

Vi froze, her breath caught in her throat.

She hadn’t expected it—hadn’t thought that you might be nervous about something so natural to her. Vi had been with plenty of people, experienced in more ways than one, but she’d never really stopped to think about someone who was new to it all, someone who might feel hesitant or unsure. She paused, but then the softest smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she looked at you softly.

“Hey,” she said gently as she cupped your face with her hand, guiding your gaze back to hers. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, okay? I’m not in a rush. We’ll go at your pace, baby.”

You swallowed hard, the knot in your stomach still there, but hearing her words made it feel a little easier to breathe. She didn’t judge you. She didn’t make you feel small for being inexperienced. She understood your vulnerability because, in a way, she felt it too.

“I’m really into you,” Vi had said. “All I care about is being with you. So, if we go slow—if you need time—then we go slow. I’m not going anywhere.”

She kept her word.

She let you set the pace, kissed you slow and gentle, her hands always asking for permission before they moved anywhere further. When you’d get nervous, when you’d pull back, she’d smile at you, brushing your hair from your face, whispering how beautiful you were, how much she liked being close to you. She was kind of shocked herself. She had the patience to listen, the kind of patience she’d never thought she’d have for anyone, but for you? She’d have it for a lifetime if you needed her to.

But god, sometimes, it was really fucking hard.

She wanted to fuck you so bad.

Vi was, above all else, just a woman—a woman with desires that had been left unchecked for far too long. Everything you did made her heart race, made her head spin. You were so fucking pretty. It was almost unbearable. Vi wanted to get lost in you, wanted to feel her lips all over your skin, wanted to explore every inch of you until she knew you as well as she knew herself.

And she respected your boundaries more than anything. She wanted you to feel safe with her, to feel cherished, to feel like there was no rush.

But god, it was hard.

Every time you turned to her and smiled that soft, shy smile, when your fingers brushed against hers so innocently, it felt like you were silently asking for more—though you weren’t. The way you looked at her sometimes, the way you held her gaze when your lips brushed against hers, made it nearly impossible to keep herself in check.

In different situations, at a party, or even just in her apartment or yours, she’d excuse herself for a moment, retreating to the bathroom or something, just to compose herself. She’d close her eyes and huff a hard and heavy sigh, shamelessly picture it all in her head until it drove her insane. Then, she’d go back to you, a bit more touchy and loving, standing even closer than before, unable to get her eyes to look away from you. She’d smile that charming smile of hers when you turn to look at her and tell you it was nothing—even though it wasn’t nothing. Not when her eyes would keep falling to your soft lips, her hands itching at her sides to touch you in places people aren’t allowed to see, and her jaw clenching at the sight of you in such a pretty dress or whatever outfit you decided to put together that day.

Vi wasn’t perfect. Sometimes, she was just someone who wanted to touch you, to hold you, to feel your body pressed against hers. Every time you looked up at her, those soft eyes that sparkled when they met hers, she couldn’t help but think how much she wanted to kiss you, to make you feel as good as you made her feel.

But she holds herself back every time. And she’s quite proud of herself, actually.

Tonight, though, something felt different.

Vi couldn’t put her finger on it, but she felt it deep in her bones. It wasn’t just the heat in the room or the way the soft glow of the TV flickered against your skin. It was the how you’d been leaning into her a little more tonight, just enough for her to notice the subtle shift in your body. And it wasn’t like before, when you’d shift away slightly or look at her with wide, hesitant eyes, unsure of the closeness.

Tonight, you didn’t do that. You leaned in closer.

Vi’s heart skipped a beat as she felt the warmth of your body pressing against hers. Her breath caught, the movie fading into the background as her attention narrowed to you. To the way your body fit so perfectly against hers. Her hand, which had been lazily resting on your waist, hands underneath your sweater, now slid lower, just a little bit—no big deal, just a gentle touch—but the way you didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, made her pulse race. You didn’t look uncomfortable.

In fact, you looked like you were… waiting. Like you wanted her to touch you more.

Vi wasn’t one to back down from anything, but she had always been patient with you. Yet tonight, she felt the urge to push those boundaries just a little. Her fingertips slid from your waist to your hip, feeling the curve of you, the warmth of your skin beneath the soft fabric of your shirt.

Your breath hitched slightly, but you still didn’t pull away. Instead, your back arched just enough for her to notice, and your eyes flickered up to meet hers. That same shy smile of yours tugged at her heartstrings.

You didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Vi could swear there was something more in your gaze—something that matched the heat she felt rising inside her.

She could feel her chest tighten with as thoughts of you—only you—filled her mind.

She wanted you. So badly.

Her breath came out in soft, breathless whimpers, and your name—your sweet, simple name—fell from her lips like a prayer.

“Baby…” she whispered against you, closing her eyes and letting out soft sigh.

It was so desperate, so soft.

There was no mistaking the need in her voice, the way her breath quickened, the raw hunger she was trying so hard to control, to be gentle with you, but it was obvious to you now that she was practically using every bone in her body to stay patient.

You could feel it in every inch of her, in the way her hands trembled just slightly, in the way her breath hitched as shelingered just out of reach of the place you both knew she desperately wanted to touch.

She dropped her head to your shoulder, her forehead resting gently against the soft curve of your neck as if she was trying to hide her feelings, to keep herself under control, but you could feel it in the way her body tensed, in the way her hands hovered close to you, shaking with the effort of keeping her restraint. She was trying so hard to stay composed, to be gentle, but it was clear she was on the edge, barely holding it together.

She wanted you. Needed you. And her restraint was slipping away with every passing second.

“Vi…”

At the sound of your voice, so soft and gentle, Vi’s gaze snapped up to meet yours. Her eyes were wide, waiting, like she’d been waiting for this moment, for you to say something—anything—to pull her back in. She looked almost like a puppy, the look on her face soft and eager, her lips slightly parted as if she were holding her breath, waiting for you to speak again.

She searched your eyes desperately, wanting to know what you were thinking, what you wanted, because nothing else mattered more.

“I’m here,” she breathed out, barely more than a whisper.

She wanted you to know she was all in—her mind, her body, her heart. She was yours. And in that moment, it felt like nothing could tear her away from you.

“What do you need, baby?” she asked, the words falling from her lips desperately. “Tell me… please.”

Vi’s breath caught in her throat the moment you turned to face her, your eyes locking with hers as if everything else in the room disappeared. The movie was long forgotten by now and for a split second, Vi forgot how to breathe. God, you were so fucking pretty. She couldn’t help but melt as you reached up to gently brush a strand of her hair from her face.

She swallowed hard, fighting the urge to let out a shaky breath as you leaned in, your lips brushing against hers in the softest kiss she’d ever felt. It was sweet, but there was something more beneath it—something deeper.

You pulled away just enough for Vi to feel the coldness of the space left between you, and she immediately chased after your lips like a starved thing, her breath coming quicker, hands gripping your waist. Every inch of her body begged for you, aching to feel you pressed against her, to get closer, to melt into you until nothing else existed. She wanted more—needed more.

And then, your voice, soft and quiet, broke through the haze of her thoughts.

“I want you, Vi…” you whispered.

Your words were soft, almost shy, but they sent a wave of heat crashing through Vi’s chest. Her breath hitched at the sound of your voice, her heart racing even faster.

It was all she needed to hear.

She was lost in you, in the way you made her feel. She melted against you, her hands roaming up your sides, pulling you closer, her lips finding yours once again. This time, it was deeper, needier. She wanted you, more than she’d ever wanted anyone before. Every kiss, every touch, felt like it was both too much and not enough. Vi pulled you closer into her lap, her arms wrapping around you tightly as if she never wanted to let go.

“Fuck,” she whispered, voice shaky, a low groan escaping her throat as she pulled you even closer, her hands cupping the back of your head, deepening the kiss.

You could feel it—the heat building low in your stomach, the wetness pooling in your panties, spreading through your body in waves with every touch of Vi’s hands on your skin. Her grip was firm, her fingers tracing the curve of your waist like she was trying to memorize you. You gasped softly as she shifted you higher in her arms. It was impossible not to react to her—the way she looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world, the way her voice dropped low and raspy when she whispered your name.

Vi couldn’t focus on anything else but you—your soft breath against her lips, your body pressed so close to hers, the way your fingers brushed against her skin. The movie was nothing but background noise now, and all she could think about how you felt, how you tasted, and how much she wanted you.

Without even realizing what she was doing, Vi pulled you closer, your legs straddling her waist. She could feel the weight of your body, the warmth of your skin, and the softness of your touch. You were everything she wanted and more, and Vi’s breath caught as she watched your eyes flicker with the same heat, the same desire that had been building for what felt like forever.

“Need you…” she whimpered, low and needy, her hands already moving to settle more firmly around your waist.

She didn’t give you a moment to think before she stood up, lifting you with ease, her strong arms, muscles flexing, supporting you as if you weighed nothing, as if she’d done this a thousand times before.

You instinctively wrapped your legs around her waist, your arms around her neck, and the heat of your body pressed against hers, the way you fit perfectly, like you were made to be in her arms. She could feel your pulse against her chest, your body trembling just slightly as she carried you through her apartment, heading toward the one place that she knew would be safe—her bedroom.

Vi’s hands moved carefully as she gently laid you down against her bed, her touch lingering on your waist for just a moment longer than necessary. Her body hovered over yours, but she didn’t lean in right away. She paused instead, pulling back slightly to look at you. And god, the way she looked at you—it was like nothing else existed in the world except for you.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks under her gaze, her eyes roaming your face. Vi wasn’t in a rush now, even if her body ached for you. She could feel her heart pounding, her breath uneven as she just… stared. You looked so fucking pretty, she thought, her lips parting slightly as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

Her hands moved absently as she tugged at the hem of her own shirt, a random band tee she got on one of her birthdays, pulling it off in one quick motion and tossing it to the side without a second thought. Her toned body caught your attention immediately, and you felt your breath hitch as your eyes lingered on the taut muscles of her arms and the faint scars across her torso. But Vi didn’t even notice… not when her focus was entirely on you. She leaned back slightly, giving herself just enough room to drink you in.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured quietly, like the words weren’t meant for you to hear but spilled out anyway.

She reached for you again, her hands sliding over your waist as her thumbs brushed over your hips, thumbs tugging slightly on your shorts. Her mind was spinning, her heart hammering in her chest as she hovered over you. The reality of the moment hit her hard, making her stomach flip over and over.

Is this really happening? she thought, her hands trembling slightly as they rested on either side of your waist. Her throat tightened as she struggled to process it all. You’re really going to let me do this? You’re really trusting me like this?

She swallowed hard, her cheeks burning as her eyes roamed over your face. You were looking up at her with so much trust, and it was almost too much for her. Her chest ached in the best way, and a nervous, breathless laugh almost bubbled out of her throat. Vi was confident—she always had been—but this? This was something else entirely. This was someone she adored more than she could put into words, giving her something so special, so intimate, that she started to question if she even deserved it.

What did I do to deserve this? she thought, her mind racing. What did I do to deserve her?

Her palms grew clammy, nervous, and for a split second, she wondered if she was going to pass out from sheer excitement. Her head was spinning with a thousand thoughts—how to take her time, how to make it perfect, how to make sure you felt as loved and cherished as you deserved, as you made her feel.

“Vi,” you whispered softly, and she blinked, her trance breaking for just a moment as her eyes locked with yours.

Your breath caught as you reached up, your fingers gently brushing against her cheek. And as she dipped her head down, her lips brushing against yours in the softest kiss, you knew you were ready.

Vi’s fingers trembled slightly as they toyed with the hem of your shirt as she pulled back from the kiss for a moment. Her eyes darted between yours and the fabric she was clutching, her lips parted as though she was trying to find the right words.

Finally, she managed to ask, her voice low and almost shy, “Can I take this off?”

The eagerness in your nod made her breath hitch, and a soft, breathless laugh escaped her lips, sounding almost disbelieving.

“Okay,” she muttered under her breath, her cheeks pink and her grin wide as she tugged at your shirt gently, pulling it over your head.

“Oh, fuck,” she whispered as her hands came to rest gently on your waist again.

And she… stared again. Here eyes traced every curve and dip of your exposed skin. Her lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out. You blushed hard as the seconds pass, squirming slightly under her gaze, biting your lip as you glanced away, feeling shy.

“Vi… Stop looking at me like that,” you mumbled, but Vi didn’t listen.

Instead, she laughed, lie and warm, and dropped her head to your shoulder. Her strong arms wrapped around your waist as she held you close, her breath warm against your skin.

“Sorry, baby… Can you blame me?” she murmured, her breath tickling your neck as she continued, “I’ve got the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen… looking up at me… waiting for me…”

Her words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t help but smile, even as you playfully shoved at her shoulder.

“Shut up,” you teased, though your voice betrayed the way your heart fluttered in your chest.

She smiled cheekily and lifted her head just enough to press a quick kiss to your neck, her lips lingering for a second longer than necessary. Her hands moved with softly as they slipped to the waistband of your shorts, her fingers brushing against your skin so lightly it sent shivers up your spine. She paused for a moment, as if giving you the chance to stop her, her gaze flickering back up to meet yours.

When you didn’t protest, only nodding softly with a nervous but eager look in your eyes, Vi let out a small, breathy laugh, the sound filled with both excitement and disbelief.

“Wanna make you feel good,” she murmured, more to herself than to you, and then she began to tug your shorts down your legs slowly.

Her calloused fingers grazed against the soft skin of your thighs as she worked them down. She didn’t rush, like she wanted to savor the moment, the sight of you beneath her, the way your breath hitched every time her fingers skimmed too close. She let the fabric fall to the floor before leaning back slightly, taking you in with wide, almost awestruck eyes.

“Perfect,” she whispered. Her hands rested on your knees, gently spreading them apart just enough for her to slip between your legs.

Her breath hitched as her eyes lingered on the damp spot on your panties. Her lips parted slightly, her tongue brushing over them. Her hands trembled just a little as she reached up, fingers grazing the straps of your bra.

“Let me,” she said.

You nodded, cheeks flushing as Vi carefully unhooked your bra and helped slide it off your shoulders. She tossed it aside, but her focus stayed entirely on you. Her gaze roamed over your tits, her hands smoothing up your sides. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your chest, then another lower, and another, her lips trailing down the valley between your breasts.

“My beautiful girl,” she whispered against your skin, her voice filled with awe and something deeper—something that made your heart race. Her kisses became firmer, needier, and you felt her nose nuzzle against the swell of your tits as she breathed you in, the pads of her thumbs softly rolling over your hard nipples.

You couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh, your fingers threading through her short pink hair as her mouth moved lower, leaving hickeys as she went. Vi looked up at you briefly, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted as though she was about to say something. But instead, she simply smiled—soft and a little smug—and leaned back in, pressing another kiss to your lips that made your toes curl.

Vi’s voice was barely above a whisper, warm against your skin as her fingers toyed with the hem of your panties.

“Can I?” she asked, her thumbs hooked around the waistband, tugging gently, as though she was testing your reaction before going any further.

Her gaze flicked up to meet yours, her blue eyes searching, waiting for your answer. You nodded slowly, the movement almost shy, and Vi let out a soft, shaky breath, her lips curving into the faintest smile.

“Yeah?” she asked again.

“Yes, please…”

She smiled and hummed, leaning down to kiss your lips softly. Her fingers moved carefully, sliding your panties down your hips and over your legs, and the moment they were gone, she tossed them aside, her eyes never leaving you.

“I love you…” she murmured so quietly as she leaned back in, her hands settling on your thighs, pushing them apart to get a better look at your pussy. “So pretty…”

She pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, her lips lingering, her breath warm against your skin. Her hands, strong but gentle, rested on your knees as she eased them further apart, creating even more space for herself.

Her lips lingered just above your skin, her warm breath fanning against you as she whispered, “You’ll tell me if you need me to stop, okay?”

You looked down at her, her face framed by the dim light filtering in, her pink hair tousled and her eyes staring with need and want, waiting for permission.

“I will,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat. Your fingers instinctively moved to thread through her hair, pulling her just a little closer. “I trust you, Vi.”

Vi smiled softly at your words, and the sight made your chest tighten.

“That’s my girl,” she whispered, her lips brushing your skin again, and then she kissed you, slow and deep, as her hands moved to hold your thighs, her thumbs tracing lazy circles over your skin.

Her breath hitched as her fingers dipped lower, finally brushing against the wetness that had been teasing her imagination all night. When she felt just how slick you were, her chest rose and fell with a shuddering sigh, her lips parting in awe.

“Fuck…” she whispered, her voice breaking softly as she let the sensation sink in.

Her forehead rested briefly against your thigh, and you could feel the way her breath trembled, betraying just how much she’d been holding back. You squirmed beneath her touch, your breath catching at the slow pressure of her fingers as she explored you. She looked up at you then, her eyes heavy-lidded.

“You’re so wet,” she whispered.

Her fingers teased along your folds, and when she finally slid one inside, the quiet, shaky groan that escaped her lips sent a jolt of heat through you. Your soft moan filled the room, and it sent a shiver straight down Vi’s spine. The way you reacted to her touch, the way your body seemed to move with hers—it was intoxicating. She couldn’t stop herself from curling her finger inside of your pussy, and the sound you made in response nearly undid her completely.

“Tell me how it feels,” she said softly, her eyes searching yours as her finger moved slowly, her thumb grazing over your skin. “I wanna know… everything.”

Your voice came out in a shaky breath, soft and airy as you tried to keep up with the overwhelming sensations.

“F-feels good, Vi—” you managed to whisper, your hands gripping at the sheets beneath you.

Vi’s breath hitched at your words, a flicker of pride and hunger lighting in her chest. She wanted to do good. For you. She paused only for a moment, her eyes never leaving your face as she carefully added another finger. The stretch was new, different, and it made you gasp sharply, your body tensing for just a second before melting into her bedsheets.

“Yeah?” Vi asked, raspier now, almost shaking with how much she wanted to do this right, to make you feel good.

Her lips brush over the soft skin of your inner thigh as she fucked her fingers deeper into your pussy, curling just right. Your moans spilled out, filling the room, and Vi felt her entire body tremble with excitement.

“God, you’re so tight,” she groaned, her movements growing a little more confident as she found a pace that made your hips buck and your head fall back.

She quickened her pace, completely entranced by you. The way your face twisted in pleasure—cheeks flushed, mouth parted with those soft moans—sent a bolt of heat straight through her. She couldn’t look away.

She whimpered softly as her thumb circled your clit, drawing a sharp gasp from you that sent a wave of pride through her. But what really did her in was how fucking wet you were, the way it coated her fingers, the lewd squelching sounds filling the room with every thrust. Her mouth went dry, and her stomach flipped as she watched her fingers disappear inside you over and over again.

“Oh, fuck,” Vi murmured, her voice husky and low, almost as if she were talking to herself. “You’re so—so wet… baby, I—”

She cut herself off with a groan, unable to even form a coherent sentence, too lost in how good you felt clenching around her fingers. Her thumb pressed harder against your clit, rubbing slow circles that had your back arching and your hands clawing at the sheets.

You looked so fucking pretty, it made her head spin.

Vi’s breath was shaky as she moved her fingers faster, desperate to pull you over the edge. Her thumb never faltered, pressing and circling your clit with just the right pressure.

She leaned closer, her forehead brushing yours, her voice soft but needy as she whimpered, “Tell me how good it feels, baby. Please… I need to hear you.”

Your moans spilled from your lips like music to her ears. She couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t slow down—not when she felt the way your wet pussy fluttered around her fingers, not when she could see how close you were.

“It’s so good, Vi—oh my god, it feels so good,” you managed to gasp, your voice breaking as your hips bucked against her hand.

Her focus entirely fixated on you, on the way your body responded to her touch. Her biceps flexed with every thrust into your pussy, the veins in her arms standing out as she poured herself into the task of making you fall apart. She groaned softly as she watched her fingers disappear into you, only to reappear glistening and slick before plunging back inside. The sound of it—the wet squelch—had her nearly delirious.

“So fucking pretty like this, baby.”

Her pace quickened, her fingers curling with precision, hitting that spot that had your back arching off the mattress. Your moans grew louder, less controlled, and Vi swore she could feel your body trembling as your thighs quivered against her.

“V-Vi! I-I’m gonna… cum! Gonna cum—“

“That’s it, pretty girl,” she rasped, her lips parted as she leaned closer, her forehead brushing against your stomach. She looked up briefly, her eyes dark as she took in the sight of you. “You’re so close—I can feel it. Cum for me, yeah? Please, I need to feel you.”

And then it happened.

Your body arched, your moans spilling out in broken cries as you clenched tightly around her fingers. Vi groaned loudly, the sound guttural and needy, as she felt you come undone around her. But she didn’t stop—not yet. Her fingers kept moving, her thumb circling your clit as she worked you through every wave of pleasure, desperate to draw it out for as long as she could.

“Fuck, that’s it,” she whispered, “You’re so good for me, baby. So, so good.”

Vi let out a breath, a soft sigh of disbelief, as she pulled her fingers from you slowly after she let you ride out your high, her gaze never leaving your face. Her fingers were glistening with your cum, and she couldn’t help but stare in awe. The way you looked—completely undone, lost in pleasure—had her feeling like she was floating, the reality of what had just happened still sinking in.

Blue eyes traced the curve of your body, watching the way your skin glistened with sweat. She couldn’t help it—her mind blanked, a single thought echoing through her: God, she’s so fucking pretty. She was overwhelmed, feeling like she could never get enough of you, of the way your body responded to her, how perfect you were in her eyes, like you were made just for this. Every movement, every little breath, it was all just… mesmerizing.

She brought her fingers up and slid slowly them into her mouth, her gaze never leaving you as she savored the taste of you on her tongue. Oh, fuck! She needed more. Without thinking, her hands moved quickly, spreading your thighs further apart and her voice came out in a soft, needy whisper.

“Gotta taste you… just real quick,” she murmured so quietly, you barely heard it.

A gasp escaped your lips before you could process anything else, your body already reacting before your mind caught up. Instinctively, your fingers tangled in the strands of Vi’s pink hair, pulling hard, making her groan right into your wet pussy.

This was when you learned that Violet was a messy eater.

Her tongue pressed against folds, inside of you, occasionally sucking around your clit, the feeling of her mouth, wet and needy, sent a shiver through you. You couldn’t help but notice how she lost herself, her sounds louder and messier than you’d expected—like she was devouring you. She slurped everything up and you could feel yourself dripping and soaking her bedsheets beneath you.

God, her tongue felt so fucking good. It was almost too good. Fuck, she’s so good at this.

“V-Vi—” you cried out, your voice trembling, but she didn’t seem to hear you.

You tugged at her hair to let her know you were close, that you were going to cum again, and she didn’t slow down. If anything, it only spurred her on, her mouth sucking and slurping more and more, faster and harder. You cried out, the tension building in your lower body, and before you could even process it, she quickened her pace, her hands shifting from your thighs to intertwine with yours. The way she gripped your hand made you feel like she was holding you in place, ensuring you couldn’t pull away, even if you tried.

“I-I’m cumming again—Fuck—Vi-Violet!”

With a final gasp, your body tensed, waves of pleasure crashing over you. The wave hit you all at once, and you came right on her tongue, your breath ragged, moans slipping from your lips uncontrollably. Vi held you through it, her grip on your hand tightening, her tongue slowing down on your pussy.

After a while, she finally lifted her head up and looked at you, her eyes half-lidded and hazy with exhaustion, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips. Her face was flushed, her skin slick with sweat, and her chin glistened with your cum, like she was wearing it with pride.

She moved slowly, her lips trailing up your body. Her kisses were gentle at first, but the further she traveled, the more urgent they became, each one pressing deeper against your skin, right over each mark and hickey are left behind earlier. She kissed your stomach, your ribs, each kiss a little firmer, a little more hungry, until she reached your chest, her breath mingling with the heat of your skin.

When she finally reached your neck, she paused, her breath shaky against your skin, and you felt the faintest tremor under her fingertips. Then, without warning, she was kissing you again, her lips pressing against yours with a hunger that mirrored the one she’d just left between your legs, whimpering and moaning right into your mouth. You could taste yourself on her lips, a faint sweetness that made your pulse quicken all over again.

When the kiss broke, both of you were breathless, your lips swollen and tingling. Vi pulled back slightly, her eyes heavy-lidded, a soft smile playing on her lips as she gazed down at you.

“I love you,” she said.

You barely caught your breath, the lingering aftershocks from everything that had just passed through your body.

“I love you, too,” you managed to say, words coming out breathlessly.

Her smile softened, her gaze melting into something tender as she stared down at you.

She bit her lower lip nervously before asking, “Did I do okay?”

You couldn’t help but smile lovingly at her, your heart swelling with affection. Without a word, your hands reached up to brush the mess of pink hair from her face, the softness of the gesture grounding you both in the moment. Her hair was tangled, strands sticking to her skin, but she was beautiful—more than beautiful, especially in this moment where everything felt real and raw.

“It felt… so good, Violet… You were perfect,” you whispered.

She held your gaze, her eyes flickering relief and pride. You leaned up slightly, brushing your lips against her forehead in a tender kiss, as if to reinforce what you’d just said. Perfect. In every way.

Vi’s lips curled into a smug, satisfied smile as she heard you, and you couldn’t help but notice the gleam in her eyes—proud, almost playful, like she knew exactly what she had just done to you. Without missing a beat, she leaned down, pressing soft, teasing kisses along your neck. She let herself collapse on top of you, her body heavy and warm, her big, strong muscles wrapping around you firmly. She nuzzled her face into your neck, her breath warm against your skin, close to your ear.

“I… I’m gonna let you rest, but…” She said quietly, almost shy. She paused, just for a moment, before continuing, her words sending a thrill through you, “I wanna go again...“

You looked up at her, eyes widening slightly as you tried to catch your breath. Your arms wrapped around her loosely around her neck, your fingers brushing the hairs at the back of her head. Vi sighed at the feeling, closing her eyes for a brief moment before opening them again to look at you, to plead with her eyes.

“Can we?”

That playful, confident side of her was back again, and you knew then, with absolute certainty, that you were in for a very long night.

thank u for reading :) | masterlist

[altarecs]

note: i'm not going to lie, i was kind of zoned out the first few words of this fic. not at all because it's bad -- because its not, i was just in my own head. i went back and reread the beginning. it was beautiful, and it was painful, but i think my mind was elsewhere. i wasn't listening to the songs either, instead fade into you by mazzy star. on repeat. i listened to the song over and over as i read this, and i cried. i cried the entire time. this isn't really something i should share but i genuinely felt really emotionally pent up for a few weeks now, so thank you for writing something that brought me to tears so easily. i appreciate your creative genius and i hope to read more of your work soon, and i will listen to the suggested now, as i reread this again.

the cities in which

summary. three lives are tied together across cities and oceans. in this life, and perhaps in others. ft. lee seokmin, chwe hansol, afab!fem!reader genre/tags. angst, fluff, romance, inspired by past lives (2023), "what if vernon never emigrated", copious wong kar wai mentions, one (1) glück poem mention, there's korean but you'd understand the convo even wo translation, unbeta'd and not proofread (mistakes my own) warnings. alcohol, two allusions to offscreen sex, no physical description of reader but she grew up in skorea and speaks korean wc. 10k 17k suggested listening. hey, that's no way to say goodbye, leonard cohen // quiet eyes, sharon van etten // paper houses, niall horan // when we were young, adele // stay, cat power // the view between villages, noah kahan

notes. a day late (crying) but happy birthday 218 bros! i followed a lot of the original (full credits to celine song and the writers for those parts), but deviated as well ! no photo borders for each small scene jump cos of the limit. korean dialogue is only italicized when all three of them are together. not fully happy so may return to it for edits, you have been warned.

ACT I: SEOKMIN

24 years ago

“Do a diamond next.”

You oblige him, yet the marker barely touches his skin before Seokmin snatches it out of your hand.

“Hey!” You whine.

“Don’t use red, that’s for rubies!” 

He hands you a pale blue marker, already uncapped, before resuming his former position, shoulder to shoulder with you. His forearm is nestled between both of yours, which are already covered in his doodles. Seokmin’s breath ghosts over your cheek as he leans in, observing. Unbothered, you carefully draw a crystal shape, adding sparkles around it for good measure. He giggles as the felt tip drags on his skin.

“Don’t move, you’ll ruin it!” You swat his back. He yelps.

“But it tickles!” You just grip his arm tighter as he whines and giggles.

It’s as easy as breathing to lean into his weight as he curls against you, laughter shaking his shoulders. The rest of the classroom fades away, nothing else being quite as important as the way your sides almost fully touch each other, despite sitting on separate chairs.

--

You first befriended Lee Seokmin on the margins of one of your mother’s bookclubs. Fellow skirt-clingers turned partners in crime. He told you he would often nag his mom to finish her book more quickly just so that he could come over sooner; what a revelation it was, then, that you could see each other outside of those chatter-filled meetings. More so when you found out you’d be going to the same elementary school.

It was an easy friendship, one filled with scabbed knees and marker-filled arms. The occasional covert homework-copying. He keeps two extra pencils with him in the same way you have an extra stash of pad paper (which unfortunately the rest of the class has become privy to). Your parents would scold you for the telephone bills because of the days you’d spend ours talking, as though you hadn’t just spent the whole day in school together.

In the years you were not in the same class, Seokmin would wait outside every day without fail, just to walk home together, until the fork in the road where he’d bid you goodbye with the same blinding grin. Sometimes, you’d buy hotteok wrapped in newspaper from the stands and laugh when the print transfers onto the fried dough. He tried some tteokbokki from the stall a few streets down, but forced you to finish it once he realized it was too spicy for him.

These were days when sunlight streamed, golden, through the windows of both your lives.

--

Boxes litter the floor of your home, some full, but most still half-empty. Sunlight filters in through the windows, skimming over cardboard and wood tile alike and casting a burnished-golden glow. From your father’s office, there are soft strains of music and the faint lingering smell of tobacco smoke. 

You look around. The posters have been taken down, separated into those you plan to bring and others you are either to throw or give away. Nothing else is on the once-messy desk save for the notebooks and pens needed for this week’s schoolwork. The walls are bare, the only reminder of the pictures you had being the faint tape marks and spots where the paint peeled off as you tried to remove them. Even your bed is absent of the plushies you used to have surrounding you, most of them already sealed and packed in one of the boxes outside. All that’s left is the bedsheet, so that you won’t be sleeping on a bare mattress.

Your room no longer seems your room.

--

“Darling.” You don’t look up from the book you’re reading.

“Hm?”

“Is there anyone in school you really like right now?”

You think about it. A smiling face emerges in your mind’s eye. The ghost of a weight presses against your side. 

“…Seokmin,” you decide.

“Lee Seokmin? Why?”

“He makes me laugh. I think I’ll marry him someday.”

“Really? Does he want to marry you too?”

“I think he does. Or he will if I tell him to, anyway.” You shrug.

Your mom mulls over this as she sorts the papers on her desk. On it are your immigration documents, including passports, birth certificates, and the family registry. The edge of your picture can be glimpsed from where the passport lifts, not quite laying flat on the wood.

“Do you want to go on a date with him?”

You nod enthusiastically.

--

“Seokminnie.”

“Hm?” he peeks at you from behind the concrete block. You giggle, shoving his shoulder in a clear message of tag! before sprinting away. He lets out an indignant squawk before giving chase. 

You evade him for a few breathless minutes before he eventually swipes his hand across your back. Shrieking, you shift your weight and lunge with your hand extended, which Seokmin swerves to avoid with a triumphant cry. Gleeful taunts echo across the space.

Your mothers have taken you both today to an unfamiliar place, one somewhat reminiscent of both a yard and fortress. There are large stone installations in the outdoor space, ones perfect for chasing each other around until you are out of breath from both running and laughing. Eventually, too tired to continue, you both lean against the twin stone faces, facing each other. Your eyes rove over Seokmin’s features, watching him do the same.

Though she did not say it outright, a little part of you senses that this date was part of a goodbye. She had warned you, as you all began to pack, that you might need to begin your goodbyes soon, lest dumping the surprise of your moving on your friends ends with you leaving on bad terms.

Your classmates, you did not mind; but Seokmin is your best friend. You know he would sulk and hold it against you to the ends of the earth if you could not even say goodbye. Yet goodbye feels too real for a day that has been as light as a dream.

As you leave, the sun is just beginning to set; the car was a wash of orange and pink light moving across the seat. Leaning your body on Seokmin, you rest your head on his shoulder, and feel a responding weight on the top of your head. Fingers tangle with your own, slotting together as they had done a thousand times before. Like this, you drift further into dreams.

--

You break the news over recess. The marker hovers over his skin. Sighing, you remove the cap nocked on the top of the marker and closing it over the tip. Seokmin glances at you, confused.

“My family…we’re leaving.”

“Like, a trip?”

“No. Forever.”

“Forever? But…why?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug helplessly. “Mom and Dad said so.”

“Do you want to?”

And because you cannot be anything but kind with him, you try to play it off. “No. But,” you inject the truth this time, “I don’t hate Mom and Dad for deciding to leave. It could be fun.” Seokmin stares at you, his gaze unreadable. For the first time in what feels like forever, the air between you is tense

“Huh, you’re leaving?” A classmate interjects. 

The moment is broken; you look up, a little startled. It takes a moment to reply.

“Yeah. To America.” More people begin to crowd your space, and Seokmin untangles his arm from you. You glance at him. Seokmin’s face is a mask.

“Like, never coming back?” Another classmate asks. You turn your focus back to the growing crowd.

“Yeah.”

“But why?”

“Because Mom and Dad said so. Besides,” you puff your chest, “I want to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Can’t really do that here.”

Your classmates tilt their heads, completely clueless. Seokmin says nothing.

--

Today is your last day in Korea. Seokmin still hasn’t spoken to you.

As the clock strikes for dismissal, you wonder, for a split second, as you have these past few days, whether Seokmin would even want to walk home together. Each time you flounder, unsure, yet each time all he does is stand and look at you expectantly. Today is no different. Almost robotically, you sling your back and follow behind him. You leave together as always, and you wave at the classmates shouting their well-wishes with a smile.

There is a conspicuous distance between you as you trudge up the sloping roads. The silence stretches it even wider. Neither of you try to bridge it, not even as you reach the fork in the path where you part ways.

After a long moment, Seokmin whips around to face you. “Hey!” he says, voice loud. 

You turn, finding the tears shining at the corners of his eyes. A part of you, the one always helpless to his tears, bursts into life, surging painfully against your chest. The leaving never felt real until now.

“Seokminnie—” 

He gathers you in a hug, nothing like the gentle embraces you used to share, even as the contours of his body is familiar. He shoves you away, still roughly. 

Something opens up here. You gaze at each other from opposite sides of a chasm too wide to cross for two people so young. Seokmin stares at you hard, struggling to speak.

Eventually, he just slumps. “Bye,” he settles on, before walking away.

There is nothing to do but watch him leave.

12 years ago

You flick through the papers, skimming the notes you made from the feedback session on your latest screenplay draft. The desk is white and sparse, nothing like the gorgeous mahogany you remember of your mother’s study from your childhood. Overall, the dorm is just a generally unremarkable space, though it does its job of being a place for eating and sleeping in between your writing classes.

The comment about your lackluster desk makes it to your mother, on the phone as you prepare the takeout you had just bought from the Chinese place at the ground floor. She laughs.

“Yes, well, you should have the shitty desks before you have the nice ones, so you appreciate them more.” You laugh, nodding along as you open the still-hot pack of chow mein, tilting the water on the lid to flow into a napkin. Your mother carries the conversation along as you begin to eat.

“Have you tried looking up some of your old classmates on Facebook?”

“No? What’s up?”

“Do you remember Jiwon? She’s a lawyer now.”

An image of a girl tilting her head at your mention of the Oscars flashes across your mind. You swallow your mouthful before responding.

“Really? I never would have thought. We covered up for each other once when she forgot her homework and I peed my pants.”

“A forgetter and a bedwetter, making their way in different parts of the world, eh?” Your mother remarks, and you snort.

“Mm.” You unlock your computer, stretching your hands over your food to open Facebook and type her name. True enough, the first post on her profile is her brand-new photo as a passer of the bar exam. Other photos include her skincare routine, makeup preferences, and some club-hopping shenanigans. Just another normal girl in her 20s in Korea. 

You click on the search bar, pondering. “Ah, but Mom, who’s the boy again? The one I had a huge crush on.”

“Oh, we took you to Gwacheon, didn’t we? Hm…”

“Seokminnie,” you say, as your mother says, “Lee Seokmin.” You type his name into the search bar. A low sound of exclamation leaves your throat.

“Whoa, that’s crazy. He’s been looking for me.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He posted on Dad’s page.” 

Hello, the post reads. I am your daughter’s childhood friend. I’d like to get in touch with her. You click the name on the post, opening the page to his profile.

“Oh, wow,” you whisper.

Though older, you recognize his face immediately. The same sharp jaw and soft eyes. A smile that lights up his face. There’s just something ever-so-slightly different about his nose, but you chalk it up to either puberty or the all-too-common plastic surgery in Korea.

“Mom, I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Mm, okay.” You hang up. Clicking on the Message button, you tap your laptop, figuring out what to say. Eventually, you settle with: Seokminnie, it’s me, your Gwacheon date. Do you remember me?

--

Up until this point, Seokmin thinks he’s lived quite an ordinary life. There is little that would sway him into thinking otherwise. Blearily, he blinks at his blaring alarm clock before slamming his hand on the snooze button. God-forbid there would ever be a night drinking with Soonyoung and Seungkwan that would not end with an awful hangover.

There is a vague memory, one of Soonyoung’s warbly comments after the third bottle of soju: Do you have a girlfriend? Who the hell…is messaging you at this time?

He opens his phone, scrolling through last night’s notifications. Seokminnie, it’s me, your Gwacheon date. Do you remember? The message reads. He clicks on the profile, and is transported to the past.

“Whoa.” He smiles, even as his head is pounding, zooming in on the face in the profile. While it was true that he did his best to find you, asking through your old classmates and even finding your mom’s writing page on Facebook, the sheer lack of any good leads had chipped away at any hope of it going anywhere. A response, after all the searching, still seems unbelievable.

Somehow, your face is the same as he remembers, even as it is twelve years older.

“Seokmin-ah! Wake up!” His mother’s voice pulls him from his trance. He glances again at his phone. The same smile, though he notices now more softness in some places in the jaw and some sharpness in others.

Somewhat reluctantly, he rolls off the covers. Even now, his mother enforces a rule of no phones on the table.

From the dining room, the smell of spicy broth hits his nostrils. His mouth waters. There is already rice on the table. His mother carries a bowl of soup where Seokmin is already seated. Beside her, his father is handing out the chopsticks. He and his sister receive their pair with a quiet thank you.

“Thank you for the meal,” he murmurs. The metal clangs softly against the bowl as he scoops a spoonful of spicy broth and beansprouts into his mouth. With every bite, he feels his hangover slowly subside.

“Did you drink a lot last night?” His mother asks.

“Kinda? Soonyoung-hyung just got broken up with, though, so he drank the most.” His father chuckles quietly, commiserating. His sister squints at Seokmin.

“But you look happy today? Why?” He looks up, the smile frozen on his face.

“Aren’t I always a little happy?”

“Hm,” his mother regards him critically. “You are, more so than usual.”

“Ah.” He should know better than pretend his parents cannot read him. “I am,” he admits. “I think something amazing is about to happen.” He leaves it at that, playfully deflecting his family’s grilling, even as his sister threatens to stalk him to figure out the mystery.

--

The Skype seems to take forever to load. Seokmin drums his fingers on the touchpad, each tap coming faster than the last. Finally, it does, with an add friend? notification already blinking at him. He beams, accepting the add and pressing the video call button without delay.

As though from a dream, a familiar yet different face stares at him from the laptop. Seokmin can’t help the smile that blooms on his face.

“Whoa,” he says softly.

“Whoa,” the dream echoes, voice a little staticky, somehow both everything and nothing like he has imagined.

Seokmin chuckles, breathless. “Is that really you?”

“It’s me. And you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

He’s at a loss, and it seems you’re the same. Only your chuckles fill the sound of the call. Eventually, Seokmin says, “I can’t believe we’re meeting again like this.”

“I didn’t even know you were looking for me! Or that you remembered! I just looked you up by chance, and saw the message you left on my dad’s page.”

“Oh, well, it wasn’t by chance for me.” Seokmin scratches his cheek. “It just became a challenge, and the harder it got the more I wanted to be able to find you. You don’t go by your Korean name anymore.”

“Ah, yeah.”

“Huh…so that’s why it was so hard to find you…” he trails off as he catches sight of your face. You seem to be squinting at him. 

“Is your nose different?” You blurt, catching him off-guard. Hurriedly, you begin to explain, “it doesn’t look bad, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a little…more striking than I remembered.”

“Oh!” Heat flushes his cheeks, and Seokmin chuckles, surprised and flustered at the comment. “Yeah, I had an accident while in the military, and had to have a minor surgery on my nose. It’s okay, then?” He touches his nose self-consciously.

“Yeah, you look great,” you reply honestly.

With the heat not quite receding from his face, Seokmin changes the subject. “S-so, are you based in New York, now?”

“Yeah, I’m a writer here.”

“Oh, a little like your mother?”

“That’s right—” You seem to be saying something, but the Skype lags. Seokmin only catches the tail end of your words. “—hear me? Seokmin?”

“Hey, I can hear you now. Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Oh, I was just asking about what you’ve been up to.”

“Well, I finished military service a few years ago, nose and all.” You hum in acknowledgement. “I’m doing something a little related to your work, actually. Well, kind of?”

“What’s that?”

He begins to explain. “My parents wanted me to get an engineering degree, and I’m finishing that up, but I wanted to try some singing, so I auditioned for some small plays here and there.”

“Really? That’s exciting!” You seem to come to life then. “I don’t know much about engineering, but you’ve been trying out for musicals?”

“Yeah, nothing too intense since I’m doing it in between studying for the engineering exam, but it’s been fun.” He sings a quick tune from his latest audition, the smile bleeding into his voice as he sees your expression, full of wonder.

“That’s lovely, Seokminnie.”

The chatter lasts for hours. Seokmin glances at something above him and seems to realize something.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “but I have to go to class soon.”

“No problem,” you respond, tamping down the disappointment. “I have to get started on my assignment and eat dinner, anyway.”

“Oh, you haven’t eaten yet? Isn’t it late?” He’d added your timezone in the world clock on his phone yesterday.

“Midnight,” you confirm.

“Huh?” Shocked, Seokmin splutters. “Go eat now! Jeez.”

“Okay, okay.”

Seokmin shifts, his stare at you softening into something familiar yet unreadable. At his continued staring, you raise an eyebrow.

“What?”

Seokmin scratches his cheek. “I don’t know if it’s weird to say.”

“It’s fine, what is it?”

He pauses, hesitating, before he continues. “Is it strange to say I missed you?”

Your expression softens. Pixelated as it is, Seokmin catches your eyes rove over his face, as though like him, you are cataloguing new features. Familiar, yet so different. “Of couse not, Seokminnie. I missed you too.”

A weight in him lifts, and Seokmin chuckles, soft and warm, relishing in the sound of soft laughter from his headphones. He should hang up now, but he hesitates. It seems you do too, until you huff a little laugh and offer a small wave. The movement is so achingly familiar that Seokmin’s chest clenches.

“Call later?”

He brightens. “Sure!”

--

“Hello?” The Skype opens to you rubbing your eyes.

“Don’t you only get up at like, 10AM?” Seokmin watches you, amused yet endeared.

“Mm,” you murmur sleepily. “But you said this is the only time that works for you.”

--

It becomes routine.

Good evening’s are replied with Good morning’s, calls connect over his commute while you eats dinner.

“Your Korean has gotten rusty,” Seokmin teases.

“Aish—I only get to speak Korean with you. Even my parents have gotten to using English more.”

“What’s that been like?”

“Hm?”

“Learning English, going to school…” he trails off. “It’s amazing that you’ve ended up pursuing writing in English too, of all things.” On the screen, your mouth parts in surprise.

“Oh, well…it’s been hard, of course, especially when you’re new. Different places, different food, different people. You have no choice but to go along with it, even if you don’t really belong.”

“Did you cry?”

“Sometimes,” you admit, briefly checking on something behind the screen before returning your focus to him. “Especially at first. But eventually I realized that no one really cared.” Despite your words, there is little sorrow on your face. Your expression is distant, reminiscing, as though time had sanded down the sadness into nostalgia.

“…I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He doesn’t really know what to say except for that.

You grin. “Ah, don’t be like that. It’s been a long time, and as you said, I’m even writing in English now.”

“That’s right. You even said you wanted to win the Nobel. How’s that going?”

“Nowadays, I’m interested in the Pulitzer.”

Seokmin cracks up, and you begin to laugh too. He smiles at the screen. “You’re the same.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah. Greedy.”

You level him with a glare that’s only partially offended. “You can’t go by life without wanting anything.”

“Yeah, but you want everything.”

“Nooo,” you drag it out, only half-denying, as Seokmin continues to laugh. 

--

Seokmin looks up the Pulitzer in between classes.

--

Seokminnie, I’m sorry! I had a bender and couldn’t wake up early enough. Did you wait long?

No no, it’s okay! How are you?

--

It takes longer than normal for the screen to load. The internet connection today isn’t the best. He isn’t quite sure if it’s his or yours that’s slow.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

--

 Would you ever come to New York?

I don’t know.

--

How did your audition go this time?

Ah, I didn’t get in.

Oh, I’m sorry.

--

The screen does not load for a very long time. The call fails.

--

Would you ever come to Seoul again?

I don’t know.

--

“Look, you can see the skyline from here.” Seokmin flips the camera on his phone, showing the view from the top of the Wonder Ferris Wheel in Gyeonggi-do.

“Oh, it’s pretty.” You are silent for a moment. “Wish I were there.”

“I hope you can see it some time. Let’s go together.”

“I mis—” the sound cuts off. Seokmin stares at your image, frozen midsentence. In front of him, the sun sets over Seoul’s skyline. The lights blur and swim, ever so slightly. As do you, still unmoving.

The view is beautiful, regardless. Heartbreakingly so.

--

Can we talk?

--

He senses something is off the moment he answers the call. Your expression is different. You fidget with the hem of your sweater offscreen. He checks the time on the world clock. 2AM.

“You aren’t asleep yet?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” you answer.

“You okay?”

“Mm. Of course.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Hypothetically…how long before you can come visit me in New York?”

Seokmin considers it, visualizing his calendar, the course program he’s in, along with his current responsibilities. “At least a year and a half. I’m studying for the PE exam, and I have to pass it to be an engineer, so…”

“No need to explain,” you cut him off, kind despite the firmness in your voice. “I also won’t be able to visit you soon. I’m apprenticing under a director here, and there’s a writing residency I’ll be joining soon, too. It’ll be at least a year until I can go to Seoul, assuming I even have the money.”

He closes his eyes at your next words, already anticipating them.

“I think…” you begin carefully. “We should stop talking to each other.”

“Why?”

“I just…I’m here now, not in Korea. I uprooted my life twice, first when my family moved to Toronto, and then now when I came to New York. I can’t keep living in the past; I can’t keep looking up flights to Seoul.

“And it’s not fair to you; you’re studying to be an engineer, and finding a life of your own…” you trail off. If anything, he tries to find solace in the heartbreak he hears mirrored in your voice. Solace, yet at the same time there is no small amount of guilt that he is drawing comfort in another’s pain.

“So you want to stop talking?”

“Just for a while.”

“I finally found you after twelve years…”

“You aren’t losing me, Seokminnie.” The gentleness in your voice feels like ruin. “It’s not for forever.

“Seokmin, please don’t hold a grudge,” you beg, speaking again as he does not reply. “We’ll be back talking before you know it.”

“No, I—you’re right,” he admits. It isn’t a platitude. He stares at his reviewers, stacked beside the laptop, the calendar with dates encircled in red pen. And yet he can’t help but want to cry. “It’s a good idea.” 

You look away. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. We’re not dating or anything.”

“Yeah.” You stare at each other from across the Pacific—eleven thousand kilometers.

“Bye,” Seokmin whispers, already feeling the weight of the silence. He reaches a hand out, touching the screen. Inevitability does not lessen the heartbreak. Seokmin finds this out the second time, no longer too young to understand. 

You attempt to offer him a smile. “Talk to you soon, Seokminnie.”

“Yeah.”

He hangs up before the tears begin to fall.

ACT II: VERNON

6 months later

In the writing residency, only one other person is also from New York. Roughly your age, he extends his hand toward you, all thick eyebrows and finely-sculpted features. There is an echo of something in his face, features you would only really see in someone with mixed heritage.

“Hi, I’m Hansol Chwe,” he says. “But I usually go by Vernon.”

You shake his hand, replying in English with your name and a quick nice to meet you before switching to Korean. “반쪽 한국인인가요?”

There’s no recognition in his eyes, and you quickly realize your mistake. “Sorry, I can only understand tidbits. But that was Korean, right?”

“Oh, um. Yeah, I just asked if you are half-Korean. I just thought, with Hansol…”

“I’m third-gen. My father’s parents immigrated.”

“I see.” The embarrassment doesn’t quite abate, but Vernon confirming your hedge does make gratification ease it a little.

“Are you Korean? You talk like a native.”

“I grew up in Seoul before my parents moved.” You keep the chatter as you enter the cabin. He offers to help you with your bags, which you accept with a grateful smile.

To both of your pleasant surprise, your rooms are not so far away. He set down your bag outside the door labelled with your name. For a moment, the conversation stills, and you just stare at each other. After a beat, the corner of his lips quirks upward.

“See you around, then?”

“Yeah,” you smile. “See you, Vernon.”

--

There’s something wonderfully easy about being with Vernon, and you often find yourself gravitating toward him and his feedback as you go about the residency. You aren’t the only one; the lingering glances in his direction are obvious to any keen eye, though how much is for his acuity in commenting on syntax and how much is for the way he runs his fingers through his hair remains to be seen.

You feel those stares at the back of your head now.

“Kimchi with cream cheese?” 

Vernon’s mouth quirks upward at your incredulous voice. “Yeah.” 

“The most I’ve seen people do to tone down the spice was when my mom would wash the sauce off with a little bit of water when I was a kid. But cream cheese?”

“It’s like pink sauce, you know? Like you mix tomato with cream for penne ala vodka.”

“Yeah, but tomato and kimchi are two different things.”

“Hey,” he says in mock offense, “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. Maybe there’s an Asian mart here somewhere and we can go on a grocery run.”

To be fair, it’s almost both your turn to take charge of cooking; the participants had all agreed to divvy up the tasks while you all were in the cabin, and you had both volunteered for Wednesday’s dinner. You frown, trying to imagine the taste before giving up.

(No, don’t buy that much, he advises you a few days later, walking through the imported goods aisle. The fridge will smell like kimchi for the rest of our stay. Just enough for the one meal.)

(Pairing kimchi and cream cheese together wasn’t bad, per se, but your idea of adding gochujang into the tomato-based pasta was a much bigger hit among the other writers. The kimchi itself was not as good as the one you could buy from the ahjumma across the street of your old home; but here, you allow grace. Some tastes that are more nostalgia than anything else.

You do, however, phone your family to ask for some kimchi to be sent to you after you’re back in the mainland.)

--

“Can’t sleep?” You nearly jump out of your skin from fright, swearing in a voice a little too loud for a 2AM sneak-out.

“What the fuck. Vernon is that you?” 

“Yeah.” He looks a little sheepish from his spot on the couch, laptop casting a dull glow on his face.

“Nearly gave me a heart attack, oh my god.”

“Sorry. But you too? Can’t sleep?”

“Mm.” You grab a glass and the juice carton from the fridge, pouring yourself a drink. “Thought I fixed my sleep schedule, but turns out it’s not that easy.”

“I’m watching Days of Being Wild, if you wanna join me.”

“Ooh, I’ve watched all of Wong Kar Wai’s movies, but I wouldn’t mind watching them again.” Intrigued, you approach him, going around the kitchen counter to settle on the couch. The screen is frozen at the scene where Maggie Cheung’s character is walking with the policeman. Vernon presses play, and you nurse your glass of juice as you watch the tangled lives of Leslie Cheung, Maggie Cheung, and Andy Lau play out across both Hong Kong and the Philippines. 

As the movie fades out with Tony Leung walking out the door, it’s just past three. You’re fighting back a yawn. Vernon closes the tab, turning to you curiously.

“Do you have a favorite? Wong Kar-Wai film, I mean.”

You try to think about it for a moment. “It’s been a while since I watched any of his work. But…right now, and this is gonna sound really basic,” you warn, “the first that comes to mind is In the Mood for Love.”

He huffs a little laugh. “That is basic, but I’m just as bad since I like Chungking Express the most.”

Your body chooses this moment to yawn again, inordinately long. Almost immediately, you cover your mouth, mortified. “Oh my god. That was not a commentary on Chungking Express.” At your expression, Vernon’s shoulders begin to shake, and he hunches over to muffle his chuckles. You swat his back. “Hey!”

He waves off your embarrassment, straightening. The corners of his mouth are still twitching upward. “No harm done. But,” he adds, “I do have Chungking Express and In the Mood for Love on my laptop. We can see whose favorite holds out better tomorrow night?”

His boyish smile is disarmingly charming, even more so in the low light. You grin back, feeling your heart flutter in a way that feels both familiar and new. “Deal.”

--

Of course, there are days when Vernon’s blunt honesty grates on your frayed nerve endings. 

Yesterday you had to explain again to your mom why you had lost touch with Seokmin—he’s taking the PE exam that you need for an engineer’s license, and I’m here pursuing my own dream, besides there’s nothing stopping us from talking again after we’re both settled with our lives—which she never quite understands. She and your father had, after all, been the type of people who stayed together amid individual tumults; in her opinion, the Pacific Ocean shouldn’t stand in the way of childhood friends. You begged to differ; it wasn’t just the Pacific that was the problem.

Today had you irritable, noise-sensitive, and frankly, not at your best.

“To be honest,” he says, flicking through your latest output, “I think you’re just not that good at handling soulmates. I don’t feel much of you in the writing.”

“Bold of you to say you know how I feel in writing.” Your reply is just shy of a bark. Vernon startles, his gaze snapping to you where it was roving again over his scribbled notes. His face jolts you back to yourself. You shove the irritation back behind your teeth.

“Sorry. It’s not been a good day.”

“Er, it’s fine.” His fingers pinch the pages, restless. “Do you want to write about something that feels out of a fairy tale? Or something more like real life?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the problem.” The story you crafted was about two childhood friends who were soulmates, yet one moved away before they could discover it. Time and distance had rendered them different people, yet as their souls recognized each other—even the jagged pieces fit together.

In Vernon’s reading, it seemed that there was a relationship forced between two characters with little chemistry. Which hit entirely too close to home.

“This isn’t my own advice, so take it with a grain of salt,” he starts slowly. “But the voice we find in our writing isn’t always the one we wanted to have. Like, even if, say, I wanted to sound like Garcia Marquez talking about love, sometimes it’s just gonna feel weird actually doing it. And when I find a certain style fits me, I get disappointed when I compare it to the voice I initially wish I had.”

“In this analogy, am I trying to be Garcia Marquez?”

“I guess? I’m not saying whatever style you do have, it’ll be bad,” he hurries to qualify, “it’s just that you don’t have to force your voice or story to fit into something it’s not trying to be.”

You sit back, stunned a little at the sageness of his words. “Oh, wow, Vernon.”

He scratches his cheek, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “It’s not my advice, stop acting like I gave it. I read it from somewhere.”

Some old emotion stirs in you—hunger, competitiveness, desire—that old friend that carried you across fields and deserts in the name of continuous improvement. 

Despite no real incentive toward being the “best” in this residency, you are sharply reminded that this is a program where the bright gather. It would not do to half-ass anything. You remember what your mom had said, the first time you moved to Toronto: Some things must be set aside for new things to grow.

As you tap your pen on your little black notebook, a smile begins to bloom. “It’s great advice. Is it from a book?”

--

You stretch, the cushion of the couch shifting as you move your weight this way and that. On the table, the credits to Chungking Express play. Vernon pauses the roll of names before turning to you.

Apropos of nothing, he asks, “What was the biggest culture shock you had as a kid?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, silently asking if he’s going to explain why he raised that to you out of the blue. Vernon just looks at you, expectant. Deciding to humor him, you tilt your head, running through possible answers in your head. “Do you want a funny answer or a depressing one?”

He blinks. “Whichever you want to share, I guess?”

You lean aganst the headrest, focusing on some spot on the ceiling obscured by the darkness. “I don’t know how to decide what was biggest, but definitely the first one that comes to mind would be the lunchboxes.”

“Oh, like, packed lunch?”

“Yeah, or like, the food they’d have in the cafeteria. All the kids would call mine—”

“Stinky,” the both of you say in unison. You laugh, nostalgic. “Yeah. I was also pretty bad at English, back then, since the kind you learn in Korean school is different from the ones kids actually use. I remember only liking Math, just because numbers are the same whether you’re in Canada or Korea.”

Vernon’s eyes are soft as he regards you. “It must have been hard to make friends.” The words are simple, yet you feel the sincerity all the same. An understanding that comes with knowing what it means to be different, and living through it. You shift your head, turning to face him.

“I can’t imagine it’s been easy for you either,” you acknowledge.

“Mm. Kids could be particularly cruel.”

“Yeah, but I’m thankful all the same. I can’t imagine doing all the hellish cram school stuff just to get into SNU or something like that. And then work under a chaebol.” Perhaps it would have been be you in a different life, but in this one, the image feels like one from far away.

“You’re okay here? Not gonna fly somewhere else?” He references the ending of the movie. 

“I’ve had enough of travelling, to be honest.”

“Yeah?” The stare he levels at you is weighted, the air charged with something you don’t want to name quite yet. You hold his gaze.

“Yeah.”

Eventually, the corner of his lips quirk in a smile. The air eases up, and you inhale, only then realizing you have been holding your breath the whole time.

“Okay, then.”

--

Despite the call with your mother having gone better this time, something weighs your bones down. It’s fortunate that the cabin is a short walk from the shore.

You leave your shoes on the dry part of the beach, folding the hem of your jeans up to just above your calves.

The saltwater laps at your bare ankles. It’s that magical hour between sunset and dusk, when blue washes the world in quiet melancholy. Your gaze is trained north, but it is not New York you’re thinking about. Home has been a concept—less a house with roots, more a nebulous idea that you could never quite hold, like water or dry sand. 

The first time you left home—with all its hotteok stands and sunlight-dappled mahogany desks, it was at the behest of your parents. The second time, it was a choice of your own: a leaving on your terms. It was a whiplash of its own kind, one where you had to brave New York alone as a still-struggling college student. Home has always felt like something always just out of reach—is it something to find in the past, or is it waiting for you some place else?

Lost in thought, you murmur some lines of your favorite poem. Despite your finger bookmarking the page in the book in your hand, you know the words by heart.

“You ask the sea, what can you promise me…and it speaks the truth; it says erasure.”

On your lips is the taste of salt and loneliness.

--

Vernon looks up as you finally step into the living room, settling beside him.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you sigh. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No worries,” Vernon says. His finger trails quickly over his laptop’s trackpad, rebooting it from when it had fallen asleep. He doesn’t comment on your slightly windswept appearance, but he does eye the thin, well-worn book you have with you. “Glück?” He asks, gesturing.

“Yeah.” He seems to sense your melancholy, and leaves it at that.

As the movie plays, you dare to rest your head against his shoulder. He says nothing, but he wriggles a little, letting your weight rest more comfortably against him. Like this, you watch Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung yearn under the smeared lights of retro Hong Kong.

--

Vernon wonders if it was the tragedy that first drew him in. One so much like his, yet different in many ways.

It was the defiant tilt of your chin even as you remained open to the chatter around you; the intensity with which you approached your work; even the indecipherable array of micro-expressions that crossed your face when you first bit into the store-bought kimchi from the only Asian mart you had found in Montauk.

Most writers are tragic creatures; especially those who made it this far to make it a career. Vernon knows this. At the very least, there is something in their souls that could taint a page with words—either a hunger or too-muchness (or both) that needed some kind of release.

“I never got to ask,” he begins, “but I noticed in our conversations that you’d mention not just Korea, but Toronto too. You immigrated twice?”

“Pretty much,” you nod. First from Seoul to Toronto, then Toronto to New York. You explain this to Vernon, who shakes his head in amazement. Despite no longer having any reason to meet each other at the couch—the premise of watching Wong Kar-Wai behind you—you still, without fail, emerge from your room at some ungodly hour. And he’s always there, waiting. Vernon knows your routine, now: setting the electric kettle to boil before spooning some honey citron tea (from the jar that cost a ridiculous amount in the Asian mart, yet split the bill of nonetheless) into two mugs. Offering him the other while you settle beside him on the threadbare sofa.

“Is that what you meant when you had enough of travelling?”

“You remember that?”

He turns his head to look at you, confused. “Why wouldn’t I remember?”

You keep your gaze to the ceiling. “Didn’t expect you to, sorry. But yeah, that’s why. Does this have anything to do with Wong Kar-Wai?”

“Nah, just wanted to ask.”

“Okay.”

“Must have been lonely, huh?” 

You turn to him, still leaning against the couch, tilting your head. The cushion dips under your temple. “Didn’t we have this conversation before?”

“Sure, but I didn’t know you immigrated twice. I was born here; technically I never immigrated at all. Everything I know of Korea is from my parents and grandparents.”

“Huh.” You mull that over. “Did you ever think that home was actually there, not here?”

“…Sometimes,” he eventually admits. “But it’s more imagination than reality. I’ll probably be too American there, just as I was too Korean here. Might even be worse since I don’t speak the language.”

You don’t offer an answer to that, but you do shift your body to lean on Vernon’s shoulder, a quiet gesture of comfort. Both of you settle yourselves in the silence until Vernon eventually speaks again.

“Immigrating twice, though…that’s a different kind of tough.”

“I guess. But I don’t regret it, on the whole. At least the second time, it was my choice.”

“Does that make it better?” He asks, genuinely curious. 

“I used to think so. Now…hm, it’s both better and worse. Canada does have better healthcare, though.” Vernon chuckles at that. “This time, I decided to leave, not my parents. I’d rather…I guess write my own story than live someone else’s out. Or have it written by someone else.”

He inhales, muscles in his jaw feathering as his mind conjures up the vivid memories of his childhood. Not quite fitting in. Big emotions, too big for a child’s small hands. Choices he had to carve out for himself. 

“I know what you mean,” he whispers.

Your reply is half a yawn. “Good.”

In this dream-like space between sleeping and waking, you nestle deeper into Vernon’s warmth. Your head lolls, dropping softly onto his shoulder. You smell like the bergamot-scented body wash stocked in the bathrooms.

He closes his eyes, letting this moment sink into his memory.

(Eventually, he carries you to bed, leaving a message both on your bedside and through email—the only contact he has of you right now. Vernon waves off your embarrassed thank you the next morning, his fluster betrayed only by the red that lingers on the tips of his ears. Neither of you speak of it, even as you sit together again for that morning’s plenary.)

--

The last night in the cabin is marked by an especially voracious round of drinking in the gazebo. Empty bottles of beer and wine are scattered on the marble table, a wooden chopping board still adorned with the last few slices of ham and crackers.

“There’s this word in Korean,” you begin, swirling the last dregs of beer left in your bottle. “Inyeon. My dad first introduced me to the term. It’s like…fate, or providence, but specifically on the relationships between people. There’s a little of Buddhism and reincarnation in it.

“It’s inyeon when two strangers walk by and their clothes accidentally brush. Even then, for that to happen, there must have been something between them in their past lives. They say that if two people marry, there are eight thousand layers of inyeon over eight thousand lifetimes.

“Or, like…the cop with the pineapples and the undercover thief in Chungking Express, that’s Inyeon. Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung in In the Mood for Love, that’s also inyeon.” You make eye-contact with Vernon, who watches, amused, as you explain a Korean concept with Cantonese movies. A reference only he, out of everyone in this writers’ residence, would understand with special acuity.

Questions are thrown, and you answer, a little tipsy. Vernon coaxes you to let go of your now-empty bottle for a glass of water, which you readily take from his hand with a sort of smile you’d only make while drunk. Eventually, the conversation moves to different topics, until, either one-by-one or in groups, excuse themselves for bed.

It’s only the two of you now in the gazebo.

The water has made you a little more sober, and you allow yourself to indulge in the sight of Vernon under the outdoor string lights. The warmth paints his skin a soft gold. 

He’s watching you, too.

“I’ve been thinking about it, but both movies…you could say they both discuss loneliness in different ways.”

“Yeah. And they all had some kind of inyeon, but that didn’t mean they were meant to be. But ’s nice to think of a past life where they were. Not that they exist outside of the screen, though—I don’t know where I’m going with this,” you admit, cutting off your own ramble. Pointedly, you swallow a gulp of water, ignoring his amused stare.

The conversation tapers off, nothing but the distant sound of waves lapping at the sand. You swirl the glass of water in your hand, tongue moving with your thoughts again.

“Maybe… maybe you and I were somebody to each other in a past life.”

The air holds your words, suspends them for a moment in the silence. 

“Do you believe that?” Vernon asks eventually. He’s searching your face—cataloguing, perhaps, how drunk you are for those words to have tumbled out of your mouth.

“What?”

“That we knew each other in a past life?”

“What, because we’re here now—this night, in the same residency, in this gazebo?” You don’t know what’s so funny about what he said, but you can’t seem to stop giggling.

Vernon huffs that quiet laugh of his. “Isn’t this,” he gestures to the both of you, “inyeon, too?”

“My dad would think so.”

Vernon hums. “And you?”

“Me?” Under the table, your thighs brush. Your laugh stops, and you realize the weight of his gaze has never abated. You wonder if you’ll ever get used to the intensity of his attention. A part of you hopes you never do.

“What do you think?”

Alcohol loosens your lips enough to be brave. Or maybe just stupidly honest. “I’m not thinking about inyeon,” you confess. “I just want to kiss you.”

His eyelids flutter, those unfairly pretty lashes casting a subtle shadow across his skin. The upward quirk of his lips is a mix of smug and abashed. “Yeah?” 

(Tomorrow morning, you will chalk it up to lowered inhibitions: the sunlight will stream through curtains not drawn, the first thing that will tell you it is not your room you wake up in. The second thing will be the weight of an arm thrown across your waist; the third, a soft breath against your neck. Tomorrow, you will pretend you didn’t know better.

Tonight, though, you lean in, as close as you dare. A toe dipped into the sea. You catch the remnants of a haze over his eyes, the reminder that he’s also drunk, just more adept at hiding it.)

“Yeah,” you whisper. He seems to absorb this, quiet even as the sound of the waves is drowned by the blood rushing in your ears.

After a beat, Vernon closes the gap even further, head tilting, lips maddeningly parted…and then stops. His pause prompts a soft, impatient noise out of your throat, one that, based on the smirk that pulls up the corner of his mouth even higher, has not gone unnoticed.

Despite the relatively cool night, the air is heavy with promise.

Your tongue flicks out to wet your lips. His focus darts down, following the movement, before flicking back up to you, the question evident in his eyes. His restraint, even with alcohol in his system, is simultaneously maddening, thrilling, and endearing. You give a miniscule nod.

It’s a clumsy kiss, a bit too much teeth—both of you are evidently drunker than you’re trying to come across. Yet it’s enough for him to pull away with a soft hum before leaning in again, meeting your mouth with much more finesse and a hand cradling the back of your neck. You tangle one hand in his hair, feeling the thickness of it around your fingers. You’re not sure who presses closer, only that your world has narrowed into the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and his cologne. Him, him, him.

Not many words are exchanged after that.

(The clothes come off in the morning, not in the middle of the night, but that’s neither here nor there.) 

(The pretending lasted all but ten minutes.)

ACT III: YOU

Present day

The pedestrian streetlights blink green. From the other side of the street, the funny face you’re making at him dissolves as you begin to walk. Vernon’s still chuckling as he meets you halfway, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before walking together. 

As you reach the sidewalk, you press his usual coffee order into his hands. “Double shot sea salt latte to get you by today’s book signing.”

He grins. “Thanks.” Vernon swirls the cup before taking a sip, relishing in the cool drink amid the current heat.

“I’ll be late tonight,” you begin, apologetic. He looks up at you as you talk. “Rehearsals might run until after dinner. Your mom asked me to help her a while ago, though—she stocked our ref with the newest batch of grandma’s kimchi.”

“Right, it’s almost the production.” Vernon squeezes your hand, reassuring. You smile, before looking at the amount of coffee left and batting his arm.

“I bought you that to drink during your signing!”

“But the ice will dissolve by the time I get halfway through the line,” he protests. “Might as well have it while it’s not salty coffee water.”

You just roll your eyes, stopping as you arrive at the back entrance of the bookstore he’s holding the signing in. “Fine. But make sure to eat, okay?”

“I should be telling you that.”

“Oh, don’t worry, the director said she’ll be treating pizza tonight.” You check your watch. “I got to go. See you later!”

Vernon leans forward, pecking your lips even as you rummage your purse for your phone. You bat his arm again before waving as you jog away.

--

You trace mindless patterns on his arm, staring at the ceiling. Around you, the duvet is a mess, mostly because of his leg, thrown over yours, which rests on top of the covers. He doesn’t understand how you want to burrow under a blanket after sex, but you insist that he just runs hotter than you.

“배고파요.” Vernon tests it on his tongue, feeling the words.

“Mm. Me too.” 

“뭐 먹고 싶어요?” 

You ponder it before shrugging, turning to bury your face into Vernon’s neck. “Dunno,” you murmur sleepily into his skin. He shifts his one arm so he can better cradle your head. Your arm shakes off the covers to fiddle with his hair, still freshly cut into its current length. The sun peeks through your blinds, intent to ruin your intention to stay in bed this weekend.

After a few moments, you speak again. “I got it. Know what I want?”

“What?”

“Chicken wings.”

“Ohhh.” Vernon groans, even as he doesn’t move. His breath fans against the top of your head. “Genius. Holy shit.”

“Yeah?” You smile against his neck.

“Yeah. Brunch?”

“Yeah.”

--

“What’s on your mind?” You look up from your plate of wings. Something crosses your face, a mix of not-guilt and trepidation that makes Vernon pause from deboning the chicken in his hands.

“Do you remember I told you about Seokmin?”

Ah. “Is that this week?”

“Yeah.”

“Why is he coming here, again?” He resumes his task, popping the meat in his mouth after cleanly pulling out the two bones.

“Vacation, I think.”

Vernon just hums.

--

The restaurant smells like smoke, grease, and alcohol. Before them, the grill sizzles with both thick-cut and thin-cut pork. Seungkwan stirs the thin slices with a pair of metal tongs, letting the fat render so it unsticks from the metal.

Soonyoung picks a piece of the thicker pork off the grill, blowing into it. “Why are you going to New York, again?”

“Vacation,” Seokmin replies as he wraps meat, rice, and ssamjang into a piece of lettuce. “Sightseeing, eating, having fun…” He opens his mouth wide, shoving the wrapped meat into his mouth.

Seungkwan eyes him. “You’re not going there to see that girl, right?”

Mouth muffled with food, Seokmin asks, “Huh? Who?” Soonyoung scoffs.

“What do you mean, who? Her, y’know. Your first love? Seems convenient you’re going to New York just when you’ve broken up with your girlfriend.”

Seokmin just snorts, swallowing his food before giving a wry chuckle. “Hyung, she’s married.”

“Really?” Soonyoung seems genuinely surprised. “How long now?”

“Like…seven years? I think?”

Seungkwan ooh’s as he pours Seokmin and Soonyoung a drink. “She married early.”

“Mm.” They clink glasses. 

Seungkwan unlocks his phone, checking something before clicking his tongue. “Hyung.” His voice is a mix of amused and commiserating.

“Mm?” He holds up his phone.

“it’s gonna be raining the whole time you’re there.” Seokmin and Soonyoung stare at his phone, the weather app pulled up.

After a beat, Soonyoung begins to cackle, slapping Seokmin’s arm, who yelps as he barely saves his beer from spilling over the grill. “Ya!”

Soonyoung ignores him. “Aigo, you poor bastard!”

“No way. Really?” Seokmin squints at the screen, willing the forecast to change. Already, he feels a slump settling on his shoulders.

--

True enough, Seokmin makes a break for it after getting off the taxi. He had hurriedly retrieved his luggage from the trunk, then dashed to the hotel he had booked for the next two nights. New York is miserably wet, and he feels self-conscious as his shoes squeak and drip rainwater onto the carpeted floor as he checks himself in. His English is not very good, but he does have Papago to help him stumble through the conversation with the receptionist. He receives his key card and room number.

Seokmin moves as fast as he can to the elevator, mindful of both his appearance and the need to get the wet cloths off him as soon as possible.

Finally, finally, he lugs his damp body and luggage into his empty room. There is a window overlooking the city, yet it is only grey with rain. Droplets cover the glass. Seokmin sighs, and shucks off his windbreaker, slipping into the bathroom to hang it and his other damp clothes.

It seems his plans of sightseeing would not be a go.

--

Unexpectedly, at around midnight, the rain had stopped. The clear weather continued through the early morning, until this moment. Light flicks off the small puddles left on the pavement, and is reflected, serene, on the surface of the pool. Fresh off the bad weather, there are not much people around the garden.

Seokmin stands off to the side. Though the surroundings are quiet, his mind is awhirl with the significance of today. He finds himself fiddling with his fanny pack and rubbing the strap with his thumb and forefinger, regressing to his childhood habit.

Time passes painfully long; he is half-tempted to begin bouncing on the balls of his feet just to release more of the nervous energy plaguing his body. He doesn’t know how much that face would have changed, yet he trusts in himself enough to recognize both the face and the soul behind it.

“Seokmin!” He turns.

You appear from behind one of the trees, and Seokmin knows. You catch his gaze, and he sees the moment you also know. You begin to walk toward him, circling the edge of the pool.

Seokmin is frozen. It feels like coming face to face with a ghost.

There are subtle differences—your style is a more comfortable mix between business and casual. The way you carry yourself is more relaxed, assured in a way that only ever comes when the weight of adulthood has nestled itself in one’s bones. You stop before him, seeming to be equally shocked. 

He feels you taking him in, too; suddenly, he’s hyper-conscious of the shirt he chose for today, the comfortable sweater and light-wash jeans a little too strange against the smarter, albeit dressed down look of your blouse. It’s not like you’re a couple trying to match, he chastises himself.

Seokmin stares at a person he has not seen in more than twenty years, and he watches you do the same.

The distance that stood between you at your first and second goodbye’s lingers, still not crossed. So much has changed, and he doesn’t know yet what remains the same. His body is hot, then cold. Every emotion overtakes him—shock, sadness, disbelief. Yet the one that settles most comfortably into the moment is simply relief. Seokmin exhales.

“Wow.” He chuckles softly.

“Wow,” you echo, your laugh breathless as it hangs in the air between you. You close the distance first, wrapping your arms around his neck in a fierce hug. Startled, Seokmin’s hands hang in the air before he relaxes. He should have expected this of you. His own arms encircle your waist, pulling you in. You smell faintly of soap and ink, nothing like the shampoo he remembered from when you were children. 

Twenty years.

The utter physicality of your presence is overwhelming.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, mouth a little behind your ear. Your chin grazes against his shirt as you nod before stepping away. 

A beat passes, and you start to laugh.

After a moment, Seokmin joins in, not quite sure why you’re both laughing, but it’s definitely much better than crying. For now, he just lets the amazement at the situation wash over him. Eventually, the laughter settles, and fades. 

“I really don’t know what to say,” you murmur, smiling at him.

“I don’t, either,” he confesses. “What should I say? It’s just been so long. Like, twelve years?”

“Yeah, around that much.” You look around, suddenly noticing the relatively quiet park. “Shall we go, then?”

“Yeah,” Seokmin smiles. “Tour me around your city.” You fall into step beside him. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, still not quite believing it. That gaze remains, even as you usher him into the New York subway, eventually forced into sharing a pole to hold onto as the car crowds with passengers. You catch his gaze, and smile, the same mix of giddy, disbelieving, and shy.

It really is so good to see you.

--

You walk along Dumbo pier—like the flying elephant? Seokmin had asked, to which you nodded with a, Yeah, same spelling, but it’s actually an acronym—having just gotten off the R Train to Brooklyn Bridge Park. Seokmin’s eyes wander around, absorbing the New York scenery. You walk down a narrow, well-maintained path, the edges lush with shrubs. A faint breeze blows, rustling the leaves around you. This close, Seokmin can also here the river’s gentle murmurs.

There’s a silent sort of buffer between you, as though both of you were equally conscious of not wanting to be perceived as a couple. Occasionally, a ship horn blows, distant yet cutting.

“Before I got married,” you begin, “Vernon and I visited Korea.” 

Seokmin suppresses a wince; it’s the first time you mention your husband to him. “I know.”

“I emailed you, but you never replied.”

 “I’m sorry.” He saw it; he just couldn’t bring himself to respond. It was a good year before he could bear to delete the long email he had kept in his drafts—only for you to message him, four years later, just not for the reason he was expecting. Or hoping.

“It’s okay,” you reply eventually. Seokmin feels your eyes on him, considering. Your steps, slightly ahead for the past few minutes, slow down so you walk together. He keeps his eyes forward, trying not to fidget.

“I wanted to meet your girlfriend too, actually. Is she doing well?”

“Oh, we’re not…we’re not together right now.”

“What happened? You broke up?” You sound genuinely concerned.

“No, not really.” You find a spot by with a good view of the pier, gesturing for him to join you. Seokmin obliges, continuing, “We just need time to think, I guess. We’ve started talking about getting married.”

“Do you not want to get married?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s holding you back? You love her, right?”

He stares at Manhattan, but his mind is hundreds of miles away. “I always thought if you get married, you have to be responsible. You have to have enough money, you know? She’s an only child; her parents will have high standards for her husband.”

“What does she think, though?”

“Oh, she’s more up for it than I am. But I just…thought things should be…more, you know?”

You tilt your head; he shifts, not expecting the sudden intensity in your gaze. There’s a light furrow in your brow. It strikes him, then, that he’s talking about this to someone already married. “Is it hard to get married if you don’t make tons of money?”

“At first we didn’t think so, but eventually we started thinking that way.” As the words leave his mouth, Seokmin feels the inextricable weight of age on his shoulders. You look away, equally quiet. The sun is already quite high up; in front of him the water glitters, beautifully clear. 

At the end of the path, apparently, is the edge of the riverbank. You’re much closer to the water now; if the wind was a gentle breeze a while ago, now it’s stronger, blowing against his hair. Seokmin pushes back the strands that fall against his eyes. 

“Do you want me to take a picture of you?” You ask suddenly.

“Oh, sure.” Seokmin stands by the railing.

It starts innocuous, at first. But a bit of the old theater flair takes over him, and he strikes a pose, flicking his wrist over his eye. You giggle, stepping out to a lunge so you could get more angles of him. At some point, he turns his back to the camera, jutting his hip out. You screech a little, doubling over even as you continue pressing the shutter button. After a few poses, you straighten and hand the phone to him, eyes bright with the remains of your laughter.

“You look good! Sorry if the camera shook while I was taking some of them, though.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “That’s fine, part of the memories.”

--

“Did you continue theater? After the last time we talked.”

“Not really, no. I stopped auditioning while studying for the PE, and just never tried again.”

“I see.”

The pier is lovely, the view even more so—the expanse of water juxtaposed by both the modern, urban feel of the buildings and the older, stately bridge. It’s just that there are couples everywhere—holding hands, whispering with their heads pressed together, one pair even full-on kissing in broad daylight. Seokmin subtly shifts his body away from the latter, trying to hide his discomfort.

He glances at you right as you crane your neck in the couple’s direction before quickly looking away. He gives you a look, which you return with a grimace. Even if neither of you are here on a date, the suffocating romance all around certainly makes it feel like one.

“Did you come here often with your husband?”

“Yeah, we lived nearby before moving to our current apartment. We dated here, though we’re not as bad as them.” Seokmin suppresses a laugh at your disgruntled expression. “Oh, and we fought here, too. A lot,” you add the last bit with a small smirk.

“Really? You fought?”

“Oh yeah, especially during the first year we married. We didn’t fuck around.”

Seokmin chuckles disbelievingly, floundering between concerned and amused. “Why’d you fight?”

“A lot of reasons,” you shrug, leaning against the railing. “It’s like…planting two trees in a pot. Our roots needed to find our place.”

Behind you, as the day grows darker, the carousel’s lights begin to turn on.

“Do your families get along?”

“Oh yeah, Vernon’s family loves that they have a whole bunch of people to speak Korean with. His grandma and my mom are quite close.”

“Oh, but does he speak Korean too?”

“Not as much; him and his sister don’t, and his mom is the American one—they know a few phrases, and he’s been practicing with me, but aside from that…” you trail off. Your gaze remains at the horizon. “He’s great at Hwa-Too, though.”

“Hwa-Too?!”

“Mm,” you turn, grinning at his surprise, pride shining in your eyes. “Beat my dad a few times, even.”

Seokmin whistles. “He’s not fucking around.”

“He’s not fucking around,” you agree, huffing a small laugh. Seokmin catches the way your eyes light up as you speak of your husband, gaze slightly distant, your lips curling up almost unconsciously. You turn to him. “Did you fight with your girlfriend too?”

“No.” You raise an eyebrow, disbelieving, until Seokmin relents. “Fine. Yes. Even though she’s not my girlfriend right now.”

“If you’re just as bad of a sulker—” you begin, “Never mind, I don’t want you upset at me.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I’m not that bad.” You just snort, nudging him lightly. He elbows you back, feigning a pout before the act cracks and he breaks into chuckles. 

When your laughter trails off to a comfortable end, you smile at him, the edges of your eyes crinkling slightly. The sky has painted New York pink, orange, and gold; Seokmin quietly admires a single golden ray that runs from your cheek down to your neck. “You should get married well.”

“You’re worrying about me?”

“Sure. Getting married is hard for idealistic people. Like you.”

“I’m not that old yet,” he retorts. “Let me worry about it when I’m past forty.”

You just smile, and huff a little laugh before returning your focus to the horizon. Your expression does not waver, still with that mysterious and distant affection, as though you were privy to something he has yet to understand. Perhaps you are. In silence, Seokmin watches you enjoy the sunset.

--

Seokmin and you sit on the steps by Jane’s carousel, the day’s walking finally felt the moment you eased yourselves down. Seokmin has his legs sprawled, long limbs stretching down the steps as he gazes up at the sky, now a stunning shade of twilight blue. Behind you, the playful music of the carousel plays on loop. The day has passed, and at this moment, there is no need to fill the silence with words.

The quiet stretches the twilight. Eventually, you turn to look at him. Seokmin meets your gaze, steady.

“Seokmin.”

“Hm?”

“Why did you look for me?”

His gaze turns curious, yet you remain quiet, waiting for him to respond.

“Twelve years ago?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you really want to know?” You nod. He looks directly at you, gaze intense yet open.

“I just wanted to see you one more time.” Seokmin pauses, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “You just left so suddenly, and I was pissed off, y’know? I thought of you, from time to time, while I was alone. You disappeared, and suddenly I found you again.”

Each word fuels the complex mix of emotion swirling in your chest, and you tamp down the expression that’s fighting to emerge on your face. You pinch your lips together.

“Sorry.” It’s all you can bring yourself to say without everything else spilling out.

“What are you sorry about?”

You exhale, quick and short. “Right. There’s nothing to be sorry about.” For that first time, at least—that immigration. Seokmin continues.

“I thought about you. During the military, even as I passed the PE…even when I realized I stopped pursuing acting seriously, I wondered if you’d be disappointed.” He laughs, self-deprecating.

Even before he finishes, you’re already shaking your head. “I would never judge you for that.” 

“We were babies back then,” you comment softly.

“I know,” he replies. “We were also babies when we met again twelve years ago.”

You tilt your head, considering him. Your eyes wander over his face, doing the same thing you’ve repeated throughout today: cataloguing the minute changes from the last time you saw him twelve years ago. Not much has changed with his face—he must have a solid skincare routine, possibly the fault of his girlfriend. His hair is more styled, though the breeze had tussled it somewhat. But he carries himself with a little more worldliness, even as his words are of the boy twelve years ago. Life had become a jacket he wore a little more familiarly around his shoulders.

“We aren’t babies anymore,” you murmur.

“Yeah.”

--

After dropping Seokmin off at his hotel, you return home.

From the living room, you hear the faint sound of Vernon’s latest game, and the clack of the buttons as he presses them rapidly. You shut the door quietly, toeing off your shoes and setting your bag on the hook by the entryway before you approach him. He’s already shifting, making space for you to squeeze yourself beside him on the loveseat, even as his eyes never leave the screen.

“Hi,” you mumble.

“Hi, love.” Onscreen, Vernon’s character is winning, little sound effects echoing around as he levels attack after attack at the level boss. You keep silent, choosing to talk once he’s done, but he speaks anyway. “How was it?”

“You were right.”

“I was?”

“He came to see me.”

Vernon glances at you quickly, catching the expression on your face: lips pursed, eyes a storm cloud of emotions. 

He pauses the game.

--

“It’s just crazy to see him be a grown-up man with a job and everything. And parts of it are so…Korean.” You dab a dollop of moisturizer on your cheeks, forehead, nose, and chin before rubbing it in with your fingers. “I mean, neither of us stayed with our parents once we started working. But he still lives with them. He’s not stoic, or conservative, or anything like that, but there are moments I feel like I’m talking to one of your grandparents.”

Behind you, sharing the small mirror, Vernon is patting on the last dregs of the toner you made him try. He stares at you through both your reflections. “Is he attractive?”

You squint a little at him, trying to parse what he’s saying through his question. Curiosity, perhaps, and some jealousy. Answering honestly, you reply, “sure, he’s handsome, and he smiles a lot. I mean at least one person has been attracted to him—his girlfriend. Or, not quite-ex.”

“Are you attracted to him?”

This time, you scrunch your face. “What? No. I don’t know. I don’t think so.” You face away from his reflection, turning to your husband. “He’s just this boy who I left, and who was just a face on my laptop for the longest time, and now he’s here. It’s just overwhelming, physically, I think. But no, I don’t think I’m attracted to him. I just missed him a lot. I missed Seoul.”

“Did he miss you?”

“He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.” You pause, contemplative. “I think he misses the twelve-year old me, who would tease him while he cries until he starts laughing instead. We were both crybabies, you know.”

“I didn’t know you were a crier.”

“Yeah. But I always tried to never cry when it was him crying. Not that it always worked.”

Vernon hums, expression unreadable as he crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. The air is tense as he opens and closes his mouth, figuring out what to say. After a long beat. He settles with, “When is he leaving?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

You sit beside him on the bed, tentative. “Are you mad?”

“No.”

“It feels like it.”

Vernon sighs, running his hand through short, choppy strands—not quite as buzzed as last month. “I don’t have a right to be mad.” 

Your brows furrow. “What? Of course you have the right to be mad.”

“That man flew thirteen hours to see you, I’m not about to say that you can’t see him or something. He’s your childhood sweetheart. And it’s not like you’d run away with him.” You laugh, loudly. Vernon seems to hesitate, swiveling to face you. He looks only half-joking. “Are you?”

Deadpan, you reply, “Sure, I’ll run away with my childhood sweetheart to go to Seoul and leave my entire life behind.” Vernon just raises an eyebrow. Exasperated, you continue, “You know me. I won’t skip rehearsals for a dude.”

You crawl into the bedsheets, lifting the corner of the duvet and wrapping it around you. You’re in your baggiest sleep shorts—the one you only wear when it’s your period. The edge of it peeks from under the comforter. Vernon looks at you for a long moment, gaze softening as you frown at him, still sitting down.

“I know.” The edges of his mouth pull up in a small smile. “I know you.”

--

Grumbling, you nose into Vernon’s neck. You know he’s awake. “If another truck honks at 2AM, I’m going to lose it.”

True enough, Vernon offers a sleepy chuckle, tilting his chin so you can nestle better against him. The room is dark, silent save for your breathing and the occasional noise from outside. The lights are off, but the lone streetlight visible from the window casts a dull glow over the duvet. 

Suddenly, he chuckles dryly.

“What?” you whisper.

“Just thinking how good of a story this is.”

“Seokmin and I?”

“Childhood sweethearts who reconnect twenty years later and realize they were meant for each other.”

You huff. “We’re not meant for each other.”

Vernon ignores you, continuing. “I’d be the fake Korean standing in the way of destiny.”

At that, you cackle, though it’s muffled by your position against his neck. “Shut up. Fake Korean?”

“We’re just sound so boring in comparison, I dunno. Met in a writer’s residency, flirted, watched a bunch of Wong Kar-Wai, slept together because we were both single. Then moving in together in New York to save rent. Until we decided to get married, but moved plans up so you could get your green card.”

“So romantic, when you put it like that,” you reply dryly.

“No, exactly, I’m the guy you leave when your ex-lover-slash-soulmate takes you away.”

“He’s neither of those things.”

Vernon’s hand comes up, creeping along your arm and tracing patterns on the back of your shirt. “What if you met someone else, someone who knew, maybe not Wong Kar-Wai, but Orson Welles? What if there was some other writer also from New York who knew the same movies, read the same books, and could correct you on your manuscripts and listen to you complain about rehearsals?”

“Mm. That’s not how life works.”

“Yeah, but still. Wouldn’t you be here with him? If you didn’t leave Korea, would you be with your childhood sweetheart?”

“Again, that’s not how life works.” You relent, though, and indulge him. It’s a rare moment where Vernon seems to be seeking solace in you, not the other way around. “This is my life. This is our life. Now. And we’re together.”

A beat passes. Something comes to mind, a memory from that first writing residency.

“Do you remember the first time I got mad at you? It was a bad day and you were giving feedback on that one horrible manuscript.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember what you said to me?” 

“…No?”

“I remember it word for word. ‘You don’t have to force your voice or story to fit into something it’s not trying to be,’ you said to me.” Even now, the advice makes you smile. He must feel it against his skin.

For a while, it’s silent—nothing but the low hum of the air con and his hand, playing with the fabric of your shirt. You feel his breath fan over the top of your head. “It’s just that you make my life so much bigger,” he murmurs, “and I don’t know if I do the same for you.”

“You do.” Shifting, you crane your neck, taking care not to bump against his chin. Your eyes meet his. “You’re forgetting the part where I love you.”

“I don’t forget it, I just have trouble believing it sometimes.”

You burrow into him insistently, throwing a leg over his hip. “I’ll do better then.” Vernon’s familiar huff of a laugh vibrates against your forehead.

“You already do enough.” He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

He and you lay there, in comfortable silence. You listen to his heartbeat, steady against your ear. Vernon returns to tracing mindless patterns across your back.

“Did you know you only speak in Korean when you talk in your sleep?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You never speak in English. You only dream in Korean.”

“I didn’t know that. You never told me.”

“Most times, I think it’s cute, but…I don’t know. Sometimes I get scared.”

“Why?”

Vernon’s chest caves slightly as he exhales. “You dream in a language that I can’t quite understand. I’m still trying, but I can’t help but think that I was supposed to understand this whole time.”

He leans back a little to stare at you, a small, bitter smile on his face. You reach a hand up, cupping his cheek. Vernon softens slightly, leaning into your touch as he continues.

“I think it’s part of why I’ve been trying harder to learn lately.”

“You want to understand me while I’m sleeping?”

“Yeah. Is it stupid?”

You smile a little. “No. Well maybe, since I’m pretty sure I’m just saying gibberish.” He hums.

“You know, what if there’s a life where you never left Korea, and I actually did immigrate the way my parents planned to when I was a toddler. Would we have met then? Still gotten married?”

“You mean inyeon? Who we are to each other in another life?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a thought, for sure. But I chose you in this life. That’s what matters most to me.”

It’s quiet after that, Vernon absorbing your words in the way he always does, with that almost uncanny acuity. After a beat, he pulls you even closer, until there’s barely space between your bodies.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

--

Seokmin is already lined up for the ferry by the time you meet him.

“Hey!” You’re slightly breathless, having run to meet him upon getting his message. He beams, eyes turning into half-crescents.

“Hey! Did you get home safe last night?”

“I did, thanks. Sorry I’m late.” It seems more people took yesterday’s sunny weather as a cue that the past week’s rain finally passed; the train was more crowded than usual.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

Seokmin unslings one strap of his backpack, rummaging before brandishing out a bagel sandwich for you. “Here?”

You accept it, mouth parted in surprise. “For me?”

“Yeah.” You bite into it with a vengeance. Seokmin grins as you eat.

This early, people are just starting to file in; the queue progresses quickly. You both shuffle forward every few seconds. As the boarding point to the ferry grows closer, Seokmin turns to you.

“I forgot to ask you something yesterday.”

You swallow your current bite before answering. “What is it?”

“What prize do you want to win nowadays?”

“Hm?”

“Before you left, you wanted to win the Nobel. Twelve years ago, you said it was the Pulitzer. What about now?” Seokmin clarifies. You look at him, a little lost. Things like that haven’t been on your mind for a long time; you tell him this, a little abashed. He just shakes his head with a little smile.

“Try to think about it,” he encourages. “There must be something you want.”

“…A Tony?” You try, and he laughs.

“Still the same.”

“Greedy?”

“Greedy.”

--

Today is more suffocatingly romantic than yesterday. It’s bad enough that someone had offered to take a photo of both of you together, confused when you turned her down. You lean against the ferry railing, keeping a safe distance from Seokmin.

Under you, the water churns into white foam as the ferry route curves into the view of the Statue of Liberty. As the right angle approaches, you tap Seokmin’s shoulder.

“Here, I’ll take your picture.” He positions himself near the railing, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “A little to the left.”

When you return your phone to him, he raises it up with the front camera. “Selca?” Obliging, you sidle next to him before laughing at the screen.

“That’s too close!” You step back, pressing your back lightly against the railing. Seokmin snaps a few photos, each with a silly face that you match in turn. In one of them, you raise a hand, smiling, the ring on your hand briefly catching the sun. Behind you, Manhattan sprawls, gleaming in the morning light.

--

“Oh, pretty.” Seokmin taps your screen, flicking through your wedding photos. The ferry is now returning to Manhattan, and you’ve both taken to the empty seats near the middle row. Seokmin looks between the you beside him and the you in the photos. His brow furrows ever so slightly. “You look young.”

“We were young,” you reminisce. “The wedding happened earlier than planned because of my green card.”

You smile, staring at the screen. Right now, it’s on a picture of you and Vernon, his hair not yet buzzed, frozen mid-laugh. You’re clutching your bouquet with one hand, his shoulder with the other. When he laughs, really laughs, Vernon’s face is almost elastic in its expressiveness; you had to insist on a copy of this photo, after Vernon’s embarrassment at the way his eyebrows looked comically curved. You don’t remember why you were laughing anymore, only that this was your favorite photo purely because of how unscripted it was.

Seokmin hums, continuing to scroll through your wedding photos.

--

Vernon fidgets with his phone, distracted. He had gotten your message about an hour ago; you were on the way home, bringing your friend after he had checked out from his hotel. Tonight was supposed to be a dinner with the three of you before Seokmin leaves for Korea on an early morning flight.

He had spent part of his afternoon cleaning, both itching to release nervous energy and wanting to make a good impression. It took him twice as long as usual to pick a shirt to wear, unsure of what kind of impression he wanted to give to this man, as his childhood sweetheart’s now-husband. Eventually, he settled with a clean button down tucked into jeans.

After what seems like forever, he hears the faint jangling of keys, and then the door opening.

“Vern?”

He stands, smoothing down his shirt. There, by the doorway, bathed in warm light, is you, greeting him with a soft smile. He relaxes, shoulders settling more comfortably. Turning, you gesture to someone. 

“들어와.” A figure ducks through the doorway, already toeing off his shoes. And it is here that Vernon meets him for the first time.

Seokmin is a tall man. You were right; he is handsome, in the way Asian men often are—youthful, more innocent than his other burly, White colleagues, who grow their beards and prefer to exude a more rugged appeal. As you stand there, together, both staring at him, you reassuring and Seokmin tentative, Vernon suddenly understands. This is a person from another life of the woman he loves. He and Vernon are connected, not just through heritage, but with their love for you. Simple as that.

Vernon smiles warmly. “안녕하세요. 만나서 반가워요.

Seokmin startles a little before smiling back, hesitant but bright. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you too,” he replies in stilted but clear English. They both laugh awkwardly. Seokmin glances at you. “그는 한국어를 잘한다.”

Vernon can understand that much. “아니, 아니요.” You just look at him at Seokmin’s pronouncement, smug. Vernon feels his ears turn red. “배고파? Hungry?”

“Um, yes.” As though on cue, his stomach rumbles. You and Vernon exchange a glance, amused. Vernon turns to him. “뭐 먹고 싶어요?”

“Uh…pizza!”

“Pizza? You like pizza?”

Seokmin nods. “Yes!”

Vernon steals a glance at you again, biting back a laugh. “Okay, then. Pizza it is.”

--

The three of you walk the streets of East Village. It is well into the evening, and the streets bustle with people checking out the hole-in-the-wall, indie restaurants that are scattered around. You and Vernon walk beside each other, while Seokmin keeps a polite but still friendly distance from your husband.

“So what did you guys do today?”

“The, uh…” Seokmin tilts his head, opening and closing his mouth to reply, brow furrowing. Instead, he just raises his hand, miming a torch.

“The Statue of Liberty,” you supply. Vernon’s brows lift in realization.

“You took the ferry?” You nod.

“It was, uh, nice,” Seokmin says. “Uh, beautiful view.”

“I’ve never been.” You and Seokmin, on either of his side, look at him, shocked for different reasons. Seokmin shifts his focus to you, still incredulous.

“야! Why haven’t you gone with your husband there yet?”

“I don’t—” you look at Vernon, surprised and more than a little guilty. “You’ve never been? We’ve never been?”

Vernon huffs a laugh at both of your exclamations. “Yeah, I’ve actually never been.”

You look at him, eyes wide, even as he levels a smirk at you, amused at your reaction.

--

The pizza was everything he dreamed New York pizza to be—thin, large in serving, and just the right mix of fat from the cheese and acidity from the tomatoes. Both you and your husband had remarked that this was one of the better places, at least as far as both your palates were concerned. Vernon taught him, you translating at some junctures, how to fold the slice before eating it, prefacing it by saying that neither of you would judge if he just opted to cut the slice with a knife before eating. Adamant, Seokmin insisted on “the New York way,” to both your amusement.

After dinner, the three of you relocated to a small, nearby speakeasy. Faux-incandescent bulbs cast a warm light over the space, and you took your seats at the counter. You sat in the middle, translating between the two of them.

“At twenty-four, I, um…” he tries to think of the word, but falls short. Seokmin mimes shooting a rifle, and both your eyes widen in recognition.

“군대?”

“Military service?” Both you and Vernon speak at the same time.

“Yes!” Seokmin looks at your husband, who understands the question in his eyes.

“I didn’t go, I chose US citizenship at eighteen.” Seokmin’s mouth parts in an o, nodding as the pieces click in his mind. Vernon addresses him. “How was it? Did you like it?” You translate for him your husband’s question. Seokmin bites back a sheepish smile.

“No.” You and Vernon laugh. “I got accident,” he adds.

“Really?” Your husband leans forward, intrigued. Seokmin points to his nose, and you gasp as the memory finally returns to you. He levels a quick grin at you, knowing why.

“My nose was, uh, broken. Needed surgery to fix.” Vernon nods. His face is wonderfully expressive as he absorbs this new information. 

Looking at his nose, then the rest of his face, he replies, “it looks good. Healed well.”

“Thank you.” Seokmin scratches his nose, the unconscious habit returning for a moment. “But, uh, military and work…same.”

“Same how?”

“You have, uh…boss.” Both you and Vernon release a chuckle. He turns to you, switching to Korean. “There’s overtime pay here, right?”

You nod. “Of course. Why? Don’t you have?” He shakes his head. You stare at him, incredulous, before turning to Vernon, who makes a similar face when he hears your translation. “There’s no overtime pay in Korea.” To Seokmin, you ask, switching back to Korean, “Really?”

Seokmin nods. “In Korea, you do all you boss’ work, then your own, then you can go home. And you don’t get paid well.”

“That’s shitty. And hard.” Seokmin nods, face comically down.

He tries his best to translate, catching Vernon’s expression—who seems to be doing his utmost best at keeping up with the limited Korean he knows, but not understanding the important bits. “Boss work first, then your work. End late, but um…bad salary? Cheap?”

“I see,” Vernon says, and levels him a grateful look. Seokmin smiles sympathetically, catching his gaze. They hold it for a moment too long, and Seokmin is the first to look away, suddenly feeling awkward. Despite tonight’s relatively smooth camaraderie, they remain strangers.

Seokmin instead turns to you, switching back to Korean, finding comfort in the way the syllables rest on his tongue.

“It was good that you immigrated.”

You smile, responding in kind. “I think so too.”

“Korea’s too small for someone like you. It can’t satisfy your greed.” Both of you laugh softly. Seokmin swirls the drink in his hand, the ice clinking against the glass.

“Thank you for introducing me to your husband. He seems to love you very much. And he’s been so nice to me.”

Your smile widens, enough for light crinkles to appear at the edges of your eyes. “Of course. I love that you get along.”

Seokmin downs his drink. Gazing at the leftover ice, he murmurs, a little drunk, “I didn’t know getting along with him would hurt this much.”

You stare at him, mouth parted. He turns to look at you, mouth quirked in a bitter, sardonic smile. Around you, the speakeasy’s noise fades into a dull buzz. Your body swivels a little, facing him more.

After a long beat, you simply reply, “Really?”

“Really.”

It’s probably pathetic of him, to be so open to you, risking your husband understanding a conversation about him, but he’s drunk, and it’s his last night with a person whom he’s only ever seen in increments of twelve years. For all he knows, twelve years later he may not be as lucky.

The silence is intolerably suffocating.

“When we stopped talking,” Seokmin starts, “Did you miss me?”

“Of course.”

“But you met your husband, then.”

“You met your girlfriend too,” you reply, a little too sharply. The air is tense. From behind him, Seokmin spies Vernon glance at your direction, noting the change in your tone. After a few seconds, he returns to his phone. The sight of him makes him scrunch his face. Are you really both being jealous while your husband is a few feet away?

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking away. Shame swirls in his stomach.

“It’s okay,” you reply quickly. “I’m sorry too.”

“I just…Being here with you gives me weird thoughts.”

“Like what?”

“Like, ‘I found my first love twelve years ago, should I have just not let her go?’” He barrels on, clocking from your expression that you wouldn’t know what to say in reply anyway. “‘What if I went to New York when you asked? Or if you had gone to Seoul when I asked? What if you never left? Would we have gotten married? Have kids? Would we have dated? Broken up?’ Things like that.”

For once, Seokmin is thankful for the alcohol loosening his tongue; if anything, he can say that he at least poured his heart out to you, the one thing he hadn’t been able to do before. He breathes in, shaky, pushing back tears.

“But what I learned coming here, is that you had to leave because you’re you. And the reason I liked you is because you’re you. And who you are is a person who leaves.”

You close your eyes at that.

After a long pause, you open them, gazing straight at Seokmin as you speak. There’s a small upward curve at the edge of your mouth, even as your eyes glisten, suspiciously shiny, under the warm light.

“The girl you remember doesn’t exist here,” you say softly.

“I know.”

“But she did exist. She’s not here in front of you, but that doesn’t mean she was never real. I left her behind in Seoul with you, more than twenty years ago.” The gentleness of your voice feels like some necessary ruination.

“I know. And though I was just twelve years old, I loved that girl.” His smile trembles as he says it, and so does yours as you try to return his grin with one of your own.

You huff, a little watery. “You psycho.” His laugh, too, is wet. Seokmin sniffles as discreetly as he can. You hand him a tissue, which he accepts with a soft thank you.

You begin to speak again, one finger swirling around the water that had dripped down onto the wooden surface of the table. “I think there was something between us in our past lives. There’s no other reason for us to be here, in this city, twelve years after we reconnected, another twelve years after I left. It’s just that we don’t have the inyeon to be that for each other in this life.”

“I think so too,” Seokmin replies softly. “What do you think we were? A general and a concubine?”

You scrunch your nose at the image, even as you huff, amused. “A political marriage,” you propose. “And we haaated each other.”

“Or maybe just a bird and the branch it landed on.” Seokmin swirls his glass, drinking at the bits of water from the melting ice. “Even your husband, you know? Maybe in another life, he was in Korea.”

“Maybe you met in the military.”

“Maybe we all were in the same train. Or a bus and we occupied one row of seats.” He must be a masochist, bringing even your husband into this discussion of who you could be to each other. “In this life, you and Vernon have the eight thousand layers of inyeon. To him, you’re someone who stays.”

Seokmin breaks his own heart with his words, yet his smile is open, flayed as he feels. You smile too. On your other side, Vernon has perked up again from where he was scrolling through his phone, hearing his name. You finally turn to look at him.

“Just talking about you.” He smiles, a little unsure.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile at your husband, eyes alight—the same glimmer that accompanies your smile every time he’d come up in your conversation. And just like that, Seokmin knows he is right on who you are to each other.

--

“I’m sorry we speak alone.” Vernon looks up at Seokmin, having just signed off on the bill. “We will stop.”

You’re off to the bathroom, but it’s taking longer than usual. Seokmin and Vernon had been sitting in silence for a handful of minutes, neither of them willing to begin the conversation until now.

“No, it’s fine, you both have a lot to catch up on.” Vernon swivels in his seat to face him, and laughs a little, shaking his head. “I never thought I’d be part of something like this.”

“Hm?” Seokmin tilts his head. Vernon gestures.

“Sitting with you.”

Seokmin understands, offering him a smile. His eyes are still rimmed slightly in red, and he hopes your husband does not notice.

“Do you know, um…inyeon?”

Vernon nods. “A bit of it, yes.”

Seokmin mirrors his earlier gesture. “You and I…We…”

“Yeah,” Vernon huffs a small laugh, “you and I are inyeon too.” He swirls his glass, the ice already fully melted. There’s a smudge of condensation left behind when he moves his glass. “Thank you for coming here. It was the right thing to do.”

For the second time, Seokmin feels his vision blur. He looks away quickly, blinking back the tears. He can’t help but betray himself to your husband, the one person whom he probably should not be giving such a display to. And when you are absent, to boot. But when he finally manages to pull himself back together, Vernon has returned his focus to the table, drawing patterns with the smudge of condensed water. He does not say anything else, even as you return with an apologetic remark about the long lines in the womens’ bathroom.

He makes no mention of Seokmin’s tears.

It strikes him, again, that even to him, your husband is kind.

--

Seokmin picks up his luggage, which he had left in your shared apartment. While he’s checking his things, and lacing up his shoes, you reach out, squeezing Vernon’s hand softly. He looks at you. 

“I’ll just walk him to his Uber.” The night had steadily grown colder, and in response, you threw on a cardigan.

“Okay.” Vernon squeezes back.

In front of him, Seokmin straightens, facing him before bowing a little. “Nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too.”

“Visit me in Korea.”

He offers Seokmin a half-smile. “Of course.” 

“I’ll be back,” you murmur. He and you exchange a glance.

Vernon nods. “Okay.” Your lips quirk up, and you release his hand, stepping back to reach for the knob. The hinges creak as you both step outside.

(For a moment, he’s terrified. Stay, he almost says.)

The door closes behind you softly. Vernon stands there, alone, staring at the door, allowing himself this moment of silence.

--

Seokmin’s Uber has a pickup point some ways away from your apartment. It’s just past one block before Seokmin stops, as per his phone’s instructions. You follow suit behind him.

“Will it be here soon?” You ask.

“Yeah. Two minutes.”

Neither of you speak after that. Silence stretches each second one hundred and twenty-times over, and he can do nothing but look at you, and have you look at him in return. He looks at this face, the one he’s only ever seen whenever time has already done more than a decade’s worth of work. He’s spent yesterday and today cataloguing your features; yet as he does it again, today, for the last time, he can’t help but be afraid he’ll forget the particulars of your face.

The Uber arrives, braking to a stop in front of you. Seokmin gathers you into a hug—a gentle one, like the many ones you’ve known before, the one he wished he gave you in that very first goodbye. You squeeze him back, tightly, face pressed against his shirt. It takes a while before he lets go, but when he does, you laugh softly at the wetness already glistening in his eyes, offering him a tissue you had kept from the bar in your pocket. He accepts it with a teary grin.

You watch as Seokmin loads his luggage into the trunk. He’s about to open the passenger door, when he turns. 

“Hey!”

Just like that, he’s twelve years old again. He’s twelve, and so are you. 

You raise an eyebrow, waiting.

“What if this is already a past life, and we’re already something to each other in the next one?” He exhales. “Who do you think we are to each other then?” 

Silence. You offer him a small smile. “I don’t know.”

He returns it, heart miraculously light. “I don’t either. But see you then.” Seokmin folds this memory quietly into his heart, willing to himself that one day, the thought of you will no longer ache as much. And that even as the ache will be gone, the love will remain.

Seokmin enters the car, closing the door firmly behind him.

--

The walk back to your apartment is agonizing.

After the tenth step, you’ve rolled your cardigan sleeves up, tracing patterns on your arms. A heart. A rocket. A crystal. Each step feels like one further from a life you never realized you were still holding on to. Despite your attempts, you begin to cry after the thirty-second step.

You reach the front gate of your apartment at the two hundredth and eighteenth step, finding Vernon sitting at the steps, lost in his own world yet already waiting for you. He looks up as you approach. He opens the gate with one hand, stepping down until he stands in front of you.

There are no words needed. You fall into his arms, dissolving into tears. Vernon embraces you, gentle in all the right ways, quiet as you sob and sob and sob. 

Behind both of you, it is almost the beginning of dawn.

[…] I enter, without retreat or help from history, the days of no day, my earth of no earth, I re-enter the city in which I love you. And I never believed that the multitude of dreams and many words were vain.

— the city in which i love you, li-young lee

[mononijikayu]

i saw mommy kissing santa claus — fushiguro toji

“Mom, I saw you kissing Santa Claus last night.” You froze, the coffee cup halfway to your lips as your cheeks turned a warm shade of red. Your husband Toji, on the other hand, lowered his mug, his sharp green eyes sparkling with mischief. He looked at you, one brow raised, fighting the grin threatening to spread across his face. “Oh, really, kid?” Toji said, leaning back casually. “Mommy here was kissing Santa Claus, huh?” You stammered, caught off guard. “W-well, Megumi, I think maybe you were dreaming—" “Nope!” Megumi insisted, crossing his little arms over his chest. “I saw it, mom. You were right by the tree!” 

GENRE: alternate universe - canon convergence!;

WARNING/S: fluff, romance, nsfw, r-18, christmas day, santa, parenthood, pet names (babe, love, etc), love, humor, light-hearted, domestic life, slice of life, being in love, parenthood, married life, healthy relationship, toddler, family, late night sex, kissing, p-i-v sex, profanity, sexual intercourse, depictions of sexual acts, depiction of body praise, depiction of naked bodies, mention of sexual innuendo, mention of sexual intercourse, husband! toji, mamaguro! reader;

WORD COUNT: 7k words

NOTE: toji seems to me like the type who would have been so good at teasing mamaguro??? like he would definitely be the person that would also wear a santa claus costume just to put megumi's gifts on the tree and then know that megumi would be watching??? anyway i love their tiny family i am so floored every time i write about them. anyway merry fushiguro christmas!!! i love you all <3

box it up, christmas hun! (santa kayu 2024)

main masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

YOU ALWAYS ADORED CHRISTMAS. Even as a child, the magic of the holiday season was something your mother and father made sure to bring alive for you.

They worked tirelessly to fill each moment with joy, whether it was the way the house glowed with lights or how the scent of fresh-baked cookies lingered in the air. 

Your favorite memories were wrapped in those small, meaningful traditions—sipping hot chocolate while the snow fell softly outside, unwrapping presents by the fire, and gathering together to share stories and laughter. It wasn’t about the gifts or the grandeur, but the warmth of family and the sense of belonging.

Now that you had a family of your own, you were determined to recreate that magic, to pass down those same feelings of joy and love to the people you held closest to your heart. Fushiguro Toji wasn’t raised with those kinds of traditions. 

For him, the holidays were often just another day. Especially when he lived with his family and even after that. There was no desire for a fuss, no fanfare. But when it came to you, he was more than willing to step out of his comfort zone.

Toji might not have admitted it outright, but seeing how much the holidays meant to you made it easy for him to get involved. Whether it was wrestling with tangled strings of lights or holding your hand while you browsed for the perfect tree, he found himself drawn into the excitement. It was a quiet kind of joy for him, watching your face light up with happiness as you brought the season to life.

When your beloved Megumi came along, the holidays became even more special. Toji was quick to embrace his role, even if it meant helping you with putting out the tree or helping to bake cookies that somehow ended up burnt half the time.

He didn’t care if it was messy or chaotic—seeing the laughter, the wide-eyed wonder, and the unfiltered happiness of his family made every effort worth it.

What surprised him most was how much he’s slowly come to love those traditions, too. They weren’t just holidays anymore; they were the foundation of memories he never knew he needed.

He started to look forward to the little things, like staying up late with you to wrap presents or watching Megumi to try to stay awake for Santa, only to fall asleep halfway through their schemes.

Each holiday became another chance to build something new together, a season filled with traditions that were uniquely yours. Toji might have started off doing it for you, but somewhere along the way, he realized he was doing it for himself, too.

After all, your beautiful family meant everything to him, it’s now his safe zone—and these moments were proof that he finally had one worth celebrating.

So on this bright Christmas morning, your comely house was tenderly wrapped in a soft, magical stillness. The gentle hum of the house’s heater and the occasional crackle from the fireplace your husband had set up added to the warmth of the room. 

The Christmas tree glowed with colorful lights, their reflections dancing on the ornaments and the neatly wrapped presents beneath. The faint scent of cinnamon and pine hung in the air, blending with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Young and bright four year old Fushiguro Megumi shuffled into the living room, his favorite blanket dragging behind him like a cape. His small, sleepy frame was bundled in his fuzzy pajamas, the ones with tiny snowflakes printed all over. 

His dark charcoal hair was a tousled mess, sticking out in every direction as if he’d been wrestling with his dreams. He paused near the doorway, rubbing his blue–green eyes, and blinked at the cozy scene before him.

There you were, curled up on the couch with Toji, both of you cradling steaming mugs of coffee. Toji was dressed in his usual casual sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, one arm draped lazily along the back of the couch, the other holding his mug. He looked relaxed, his sharp green eyes softened with a rare, unguarded warmth. 

You were tucked into his side, your legs curled beneath you, wearing an oversized Christmas special cardigan and your fuzzy faux fur slippers.

The two of you shared a quiet moment, sipping the coffee your husband brewed and exchanging conversation and content smiles as the early morning sunlight peeked through the curtains.

Megumi's sleepy gaze lit up as he took in the sight of the tree, its glowing lights illuminating the pile of presents waiting for him. His little mouth opened in a gasp, and he looked at the two of you with wide, sparkling blue–green orbs.

“It’s Christmas!” he announced, his voice still tinged with the rasp of sleep but filled with excitement. “It’s Christmas morning!”

You smiled, setting your mug on the coffee table and opening your arms to him. “Good morning, sweetheart. Merry Christmas.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He toddled over, crawling onto the couch and nestling between you and Toji. Toji chuckled, ruffling Megumi’s messy hair affectionately. “Morning, kid. Looks like Santa came through for you this time around, huh?”

Megumi nodded eagerly, his blue–green eyes darting back to the presents under the tree. “Can I open them now?” he asked, his voice filled with hopeful anticipation.

“Not even a good morning first?” Toji teased, arching an eyebrow. But the playful tone in his voice made Megumi giggle. “Too excited, you are.”

“Good morning, Dad.” Megumi said, grinning as he leaned against you. “Good morning, Mom.”

Your heart swelled at the sight of him, his excitement so pure and unfiltered. You kissed the top of his little head, wrapping an arm around him as Toji stood and stretched, walking over to grab the digital camera.

“All right.” Toji said with a smirk, motioning to the tree. “Let’s see what Santa left for you, kid.”

With a delighted squeal, Fushiguro Megumi scrambled off the couch and ran toward the presents, his blanket forgotten on the floor in his excitement.

You and Toji shared a tender glance, his usual smirk softening into a genuine, warm smile. You shake your head, looking at him with much contentment.

He walked back to you, settling beside you on the couch and slipping his hand into yours. His touch was steady, grounding, as the two of you watched Megumi dive headfirst into the pile of gifts.

His bright laughter filled the room, bright and melodic, blending perfectly with the soft crackle of the fireplace.

For a moment, everything was perfect—pure joy radiating from your son as he examined each box like it was a priceless treasure. Then, Megumi suddenly paused, his small frame still in the middle of the living room. 

He turned slowly to face you both, his expression shifting into something unusually serious, his little brows furrowing in a way that was far too mature for his age. When he wasn’t smiling, you were sure your son was quite a young old man in that tiny body. 

You blinked, puzzled, as Toji sat up straighter, his grip on your hand loosening. Before either of you could ask what was wrong, Megumi crossed his arms over his chest, his blanket forgotten entirely now, and declared with absolute certainty:

“Mom, I saw you kissing Santa Claus last night.”

You froze, the coffee cup halfway to your lips as your cheeks turned a warm shade of red. Your husband Toji, on the other hand, lowered his mug, his sharp green eyes sparkling with mischief. He looked at you, one brow raised, fighting the grin threatening to spread across his face.

“Oh, really, kid?” Toji said, leaning back casually. “Mommy here was kissing Santa Claus, huh?”

You stammered, caught off guard. “W-well, Megumi, I think maybe you were dreaming—"

“Nope!” Megumi insisted, crossing his little arms over his chest. “I saw it, mom. You were right by the tree!” 

His little pout was so serious it almost made you laugh. You tried to hold your composure, his cute little glare gleaming at you with the most adorable aggression. He looked too much like Toji when he was like this. And that had made you even more adoring of him in this way.

Toji’s chuckle deepened as he leaned back on the couch, completely unbothered. “Cookies and milk are standard, kid.” he said, shrugging casually. “But Santa? He’s a special guest. Sometimes he deserves a little extra appreciation.”

Megumi tilted his head, his little face scrunching in thought. “Like a hug?” he asked, glancing back at the presents under the tree, though his curiosity still lingered.

“Sure, sure.” Toji said, smirking as he threw a glance your way. “Or something like that.”

You nudged him with your elbow, your cheeks heating up again. “Toji, that’s not something you should be jumping into.” you whispered under your breath, giving him a look that was equal parts exasperated and amused.

Toji just grinned and leaned in closer to you, his voice low so only you could hear. “What? I didn’t even mention the mistletoe.” His tone was full of playful mischief, and you rolled your eyes, trying to suppress a smile. 

“Mom? Dad?” Megumi’s voice broke through, his tiny hands clutching a brightly wrapped box as he looked up at you both. “Can I open this one first?”

You gave a soft laugh, glad for the distraction. “Of course, sweetheart.” you said, smiling warmly at him.

Toji reached over, ruffling Megumi’s hair again as the boy plopped down in front of the tree. “Go for it, kid. Let’s see what Santa left you.”

“Hmm. Okay.” he finally muttered, turning his attention to the colorful boxes waiting for him.

Megumi’s attention shifted entirely to the gift in his hands, his little fingers working furiously to tear the wrapping paper. You let out a breath, glancing at Toji, who was still watching you with that infuriatingly smug look.  His hands wrapped against your shoulders. 

He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Kissing Santa, huh, babe?” he teased, leaning in close. “Got any more Christmas spirit for me?”

Your face burned as you playfully shoved him, your smile betraying you. “Shut up, Toji.” you whispered, though the giggle that escaped ruined the effect.

“Guess Santa’s the lucky one this year, don’t you think?” he murmured.

You bit your lip, shaking your head but unable to hide the smile that crept across your face. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, yeah.” he said, his smirk softening into something warmer as he looked at you. “But you love me anyway.”

“Merry Christmas, babe.” Toji murmured, stealing a quick kiss.

“Merry Christmas, love.” you whispered back, heart full and cheeks still warm.

══════════════════

TOJI SAID HE PLANNED EVERYTHING. And knowing how much you trusted your husband, you do believe him. He hasn’t ever failed you before, after all. Your husband wasn’t going to fail you now either. He said he’s going to make it happen and he will. 

The night before Christmas was serene, the kind of quiet that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. The only sounds were the faint crackle of the fireplace and the occasional rustle of branches as the tree swayed slightly under the weight of its ornaments. 

The vibrant living room glowed softly, bathed in the colorful twinkle of Christmas lights that reflected off the shiny ribbons and bows of some of the presents you had already wrapped and bought for Megumi and each other. All Toji has to do now is add the other ones you bought for Megumi.

You had just finished cleaning up after dinner, your feet padding lightly across the wooden floor as you straighten a few stray decorations. A hum of curiosity pulled you toward the living room, and when you peeked around the corner, you couldn’t hold back a small smile from appearing on your pinkish lips.

There he was— Fushiguro Toji, crouched by the tree, fully dressed in a Santa Claus suit. The red fabric clung to his massively broad frame, the white trim looking comically out of place against his rugged demeanor. 

The bright red hat was askew on his head, barely covering his wild, dark hair, and the sight of him muttering multiple times under his breath while adjusting a precariously balanced present was nothing short of endearing.

“Damn this tree’s too small.” Toji grumbled, carefully shoving a particularly large box further under the branches. “How the hell does Santa Claus even do this without knocking everything over? Like, this is just an insane operation for a break in. Mission impossible even!”

You stifled a laugh, leaning against the doorway as you crossed your arms. “You’re really committing to this Santa Claus thing, huh?”

Toji glanced up sharply, his green eyes narrowing at you in mock irritation before softening into a lopsided smirk. You sighed, smiling as he enjoys taking in the sight of you like this. He has never thought he would ever have something as enjoyable as this life. And he always has you to thank for it.

“Caught me, babe.” he said, straightening up and dusting his hands off. “Santa Claus really had to work harder for this. And I gotta commit like he does, babe. I mean, this is harder than it looks, you know.”

You stepped into the room, your gaze sweeping over the scene. “You’re supposed to look jolly, not grumpy, love. Kids don’t want an angry Santa Claus.”

Toji snorted, tugging at the crooked hat and tossing it onto the couch. “You’re lucky I even agreed to wear this, babe.” he said, gesturing at the suit with a faint grimace. “This thing’s itchy as hell. How the hell did people wear this without having to scratch everywhere? Even my crotch feels itchy.”

You rolled your eyes, walking over to adjust one of the presents he’d just placed. “You’re not exactly selling the magic of Christmas, love.”

He leaned against the arm of the couch, his smirk turning sly. “Oh, I don’t know. I think I’m doing pretty good. The kid’s gonna love it in the morning. He’s going to have fun about Santa bringing in lotsssss of cool presents.”

You turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. “And what about me? Does Santa Claus have any surprises for me? I mean….I should get gifts too, right?”

Toji’s grin widened as he pushed off the couch and sauntered toward you, his voice dropping to a playful, sensual murmur. “Actually, yeah. Look up, babe.”

Your eyes followed his gaze, landing on the tiny sprig of mistletoe hanging above your heads. You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. You looked at him with so much adoration, you couldn’t help it. He just made you feel giddy every single day. 

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

He took another step closer, his voice low and teasing. “Maybe. But I’m also a hardworking Santa Claus. And Santa likes to get paid for his trouble. I’m sure this pretty lady in front of him will ease his troubles.”

You rolled your eyes playfully once more, your lips twitching as you fought back a smile. “Naughty Santa, aren’t you?” you muttered, leaning up just enough to close the gap between you. “What about Mrs. Claus?”

“Don’t have one.” He smiles down at you, his thumb pressing against your lips. “Would you wanna volunteer to be one, pretty woman?”

You laughed aloud at his words. “Shouldn’t you take me out to dinner first?”

“Well, if you’d let me, then I will.” He grins at you.

“Alright, alright. I’ll let you.”

“Good. Santa’s happy about that.”

“Well, we only want that, don’t we?” You smiled at him.

“Hm, very great for securing your kid a spot on my gift list.”

You giggled at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but I’m your ridiculous, future Mrs. Claus.” 

You laughed at his words again, which made him very happy. Your husband Toji happily pressed hands forward and found your waist as he met you halfway, his sly lips brushing against yours in a passionate kiss that was far too warm for such a chilly night. 

You pushed deeper, kissing him back, pulling him closer to you. When you finally pulled back to take a breath, his grin was smug as it was shameless, his bright  green eyes gleaming with the endless joy that comes with having you as his beloved. 

“Best payment I’ve ever gotten. By far.” he murmured, his voice soft but smug.

You laughed, swatting at his chest as you stepped away. “Go finish your job, Santa Claus. There’s still a tree that needs all the presents to set up for the good kid.”

He chuckled, watching you with a lingering smile as you walked away. “Yes, ma’am. But don’t think this is over.” he called after you, his tone full of promise.

“I look forward to it, Santa!”

══════════════════

OF COURSE YOU’LL NEVER FORGET ABOUT LAST NIGHT. You could still feel your legs sore and your throat full of his pleasurable bites. But that wasn’t important right now, even though, of course it felt really good. Santa was really good with blessings. But that wasn’t the point. 

You could feel your cheeks turn redder and your ears more scarlet. You tried to calm yourself down as you continued to clear out stuff in the kitchen. The cookies were more important. You had guests coming over.

Of course, on the other side of the wall, the living room was alive with Megumi’s excited giggles and the joyful chaos of wrapping paper flying in every direction.  His precious little voice carried as he marveled at each gift, holding up toys and books like treasures. 

You peeked at him from the kitchen, your heart swelling at how happy he was. Your son’s joys were the reason you always worked so hard at the prosecutor’s office. And he was, genuinely, the happiest little boy. And that made everything feel like it paid off.

You were in the middle of arranging cookies on a festive plate when you felt it: a pair of strong arms sliding around your waist, pulling you against a firm chest. The scent of pine and the faintest trace of cologne told you exactly who it was before he even spoke.

“Toji, love.” you started, a hint of exasperation in your voice. “What are you doing?”

“Mmm nothing.” he murmured against your ear, his voice rich and teasing. He grins slowly as he catches a peak of the hickeys from your side, hidden in the cardigan. “Just came to say thank you for, you know... last night.”

Your hands froze, the cookie you were holding slipping onto the counter as heat rushed to your cheeks. You were just trying to forget about it now but the images started to flood your head once more as your husband nibbles against your ear.

“Toji, please.” you hissed, glancing nervously toward the doorway to make sure Megumi was too busy with his presents to overhear. The last thing you need is to traumatize your little son.“Not now.”

But Fushiguro Toji, as always, was undeterred. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his lips grazing just close enough to your ear to make you shiver. He hums against your skin, bright eyes looking at you with wanton affection.

“What? I’m just saying Santa Claus didn’t just get a kiss under the mistletoe. I mean he enjoyed it really well too—”

You spin your head toward him, your bright eyes wide as you whisper with embarrassment. “Will you stop? Love, our son’s on the other side of the wall and—”

Toji only grinned, his hold on you tightening slightly as he leaned in closer. “Come on, sweetheart. Admit it. Santa Claus always deserves a little something extra for working so hard, don’t you think?”

“You sly fox of a husband.” you hissed, swatting at his arm as your cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red. “You are impossible. I swear, Toji.”

He let out a low, rumbling laugh, clearly reveling in your flustered state. “You’re cute when you’re all embarrassed like this, babe.” he teased, nuzzling the side of your neck in a way that made your heart skip. “But I wasn’t lying, you know. Best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

Your heart melted at his words, even as you tried to maintain your composure. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas, love.” you muttered, trying to sound stern but failing miserably as a small smile crept onto your face. “Otherwise, it’d be a different story.”

Toji shifted, leaning back just enough to study your beautiful expressions. His bright green eyes were soft, a rare tenderness shining in them that made your breath catch. The air of joy blossoming in his chest ever so fondly when he looks at you more. 

“Lucky, huh?” he said, a hint of sincerity beneath the teasing. “Nah. I’m the luckiest guy every day I wake up to you. Every day, every minute, every second. Every day. For forever. I’m the luckiest guy on earth, babe.”

Your face burned hotter, and you turned back to the cookies to hide your expression from him. You could feel your heart making flips and jumps against the wall of your chest. He’s always so good at making you feel this way. 

You were really going to be overwhelmed for all your life with how much he always makes you feel the universe with his love and tenderness. You were always going to be falling in love with this man over and over again like this. You sighed, admitting defeat to him. 

 “You’re ridiculous, love.” you mumbled, but the warmth blossoming in your chest betrayed your words. “Really….”

He couldn’t help but chuckled again, reaching around you to snag a cookie off the plate. You gasp as you try to stop him, but he lifts it up and you pout at him, knowing you can’t reach it. He snickers at you. You turn back and continue putting away the other cookies.

“That’s why you love me, babe.” Toji said, his voice smooth and teasing as he took another bite of the cookie, his smirk practically glowing with satisfaction. 

Before you could muster a response, he leaned down, his lips brushing against your temple in a kiss so gentle it made your heart flutter. “Don’t work too hard. Megumi and I are waiting for you, okay? Still got some presents left for us to open.”

You watched him stroll back into the living room, his broad frame relaxed, his laughter already mingling with Megumi’s excited chatter. His voice carried back to you, warm and playful, as he greeted your son again, seamlessly joining him in exploring his new toys. 

The sound of Megumi’s giggles and Toji’s deep chuckles filled the house, creating a melody that could warm even the coldest snowy, winter morning. It was what you wanted to wake up to every single day. It was all you could ever want for all of time.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, leaning back against the counter as a soft smile tugged at your lips. It was uncontrollable, this joy, this love that bubbled up in your chest. This was a love that had a place to go and blossom here in this place, in this family. In this life you have.

Ridiculous, you thought with a shake of your head. Toji was ridiculous. But he was also your, the most precious of men who made even the simplest moments unforgettable, who filled your life with laughter, warmth, and love.

And your precious Megumi. Your sweet, bright boy, was the perfect little light who completed the picture. Everything about life made sense when you met Toji and had Megumi together. Life began when you had this. And you knew he would agree with that sentiment.

You looked out at the scene before you, the two of them sprawled on the floor amid wrapping paper and toys, Megumi pointing animatedly at something as Toji nodded with exaggerated seriousness.

It was so small, so ordinary—and yet it was everything. It meant the world to you. No, you shook your head. It meant the universe to you. And you would never trade this for anything in the world.

You felt it all in that moment: gratitude, contentment, and a profound sense of love. How lucky you were, to have this life, this family. This was your everything. And no matter how many lifetimes you could dream of, you knew there would never be anything more beautiful than this.

“Babe, Megumi wants his mommy!” Toji’s voice called from the living room, pulling you from your thoughts.

You chuckled, pushing off the counter and heading toward the sound of your favorite voices. “Coming, love!”

As you stepped into the living room, Megumi beamed up at you, his hands full of his latest toy, while Toji looked over with a smirk that was both mischievous and affectionate. You settled in beside them, feeling their warmth wrap around you like a hug. 

Life wasn’t just great to live—it was perfect. 

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

══════════════════

TOJI'S TAKING ALL THE OPPORTUNITIES HE CAN GET. But if you were being honest, so were you. Last night wasn't enough for you to get your fill. When your husband is someone like Toji, how could you?

The house was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the floorboards as the winter wind pressed against the walls.

Megumi had been tucked into bed after a long, laughter-filled Christmas dinner, his tiny snores signaling that he was sound asleep. The evening had been perfect—filled with warmth, love, and memories you’d cherish forever.

Now, it was just the two of you.

Toji leaned against the doorframe of your bedroom, watching as you pulled off the festive sweater you'd worn all day. His gaze was heavy, but not with exhaustion—it was something else, something that made your skin tingle.

"You finally sitting still for once?" he teased, his voice low, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the grin that followed. "Maybe I am. Or maybe I was waiting for you to catch up."

That was all the invitation he needed. Toji crossed the room in a few long strides, his arms circling your waist as he pulled you close. His lips found yours almost immediately, hungry, but unhurried. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, and for once, it felt like you did.

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging lightly as he deepened the kiss. His hands roamed, tracing the curve of your waist, the small of your back, and eventually settling at your hips, holding you firmly against him. The heat between you both grew, sparking like the fire you’d left burning in the living room.

"I’ve been waiting all day for this, babe." he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and filled with need.

"Me too." you admitted, your breath hitching as his lips moved to your neck, leaving a trail of soft, teasing kisses that made your knees weak.

The world outside didn’t matter anymore. Not the snow piling up on the windowsill, not the mess of dishes waiting in the kitchen, and certainly not the clock ticking down the last hours of Christmas Day. All that mattered was the way Toji made you feel. You always feel so seen, loved, desired when it comes to your beloved husband.

He guided you toward the bed, his movements slow and deliberate as if savoring every second. The night was yours, a stolen moment of intimacy in the chaos of life.

And as his lips found yours again, you knew this was the best gift you could have asked for—time together, just the two of you, wrapped in the comfort of each other’s arms.

Toji’s arm slid right back around your neck, firm yet careful, pulling you closer as his lips claimed yours once more. The way he touched you sent shivers cascading down your spine, every sensation heightened by the quiet intimacy of the moment.

His grip was confident, possessive, and it made your pulse quicken as pleasure rippled through you like a rising tide. Each kiss, each graze of his hands against your skin, ignited something deep within you, leaving no room for anything else but the heat building between you.

He knew exactly how to unravel you, how to make you melt under his touch, and he didn’t hold back. He never holds back. Not when it was you he has to make love to. Making love to you was his church. It was his patronage. It was his repentance, it was his atonement. It was his salvation. His love for you was his salvation.

“Toji…” Your voice was barely a whisper, a mixture of breathlessness and yearning.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and intense, filled with something raw and unspoken. His thumb brushed gently along your jawline as his other arm stayed firmly around your neck, keeping you grounded in the moment.

“You doin' so good, babe.” he murmured, his voice rough and low, sending a fresh wave of heat through you.

The way he looked at you, the way he held you. Everything about it was overwhelming in the best way. Your body responded instinctively, arching into him as the pleasure coursed through every nerve, building higher with each kiss, each touch, each whispered word.

Time seemed to blur as he continued, his movements unhurried but deliberate, as though savoring every moment with you. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. This was all there was right now, just the two of you, lost in the intoxicating rhythm of each other.

Toji’s lips trailed down to your neck, his hot breath against your skin making you shiver. He knew exactly where to kiss, where to linger, drawing soft gasps from you as his hand caressed your side, sliding over the curves he loved to touch.

The pressure of his arm around your neck wasn’t rough, but good enough to make you feel the tension of his touch against your flesh. Everything about his touch, it was deliberate, possessive, reminding you that he wanted every inch of you, body and soul.

Your hands roamed over his shoulders, pulling him closer, urging him to keep going. The sensations rolled through you like waves, each one stronger than the last, your body responding to his every move. You could feel the heat of him against you, the tension between you building with every touch, every kiss.

“Toji…” you murmured again, your voice trembling with need.

“Hmm?” He didn’t stop, his lips finding that spot just below your ear that made your breath hitch. “Say it again, babe.” he whispered, his tone dark and teasing, sending a fresh jolt of desire through you.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging gently, and the low chuckle that escaped his lips vibrated against your skin, sending shivers cascading down your spine. The sound was rich, deep, and filled with promise, igniting a fire inside you that grew with every passing second.

His lips trailed along your jawline, slow and deliberate, before finding the sensitive curve of your neck. He lingered there, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses that made your breath hitch.

Your body press instinctively closer to him. The warmth of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth against your skin, left you trembling, a quiet gasp spilling from your lips.

His hand slid lower, the roughness of his palm contrasting deliciously against your soft skin. His touch was teasing at first, featherlight, exploring, testing your limits.

But then it grew bolder, more certain, as he found the places that made you quiver beneath him. Every brush of his fingertips sent sparks shooting through your body, the intensity of it building with each moment.

You arched into him, desperate for more, the ache between you growing unbearable. A soft moan escaped you, unbidden but unstoppable, and the sound seemed to ignite something in him.

He let out another low, satisfied laugh, his breath hot against your neck as he murmured, “You sound so good, baby. Don’t stop.”

The pleasure rolled through you like a tidal wave, crashing over every part of you until all you could feel was him. It was all his touch, his heat, his weight against you.

The room seemed to melt away, leaving only the two of you locked in this intimate dance, your bodies moving together in perfect, unspoken harmony.

Your skin grew slick with sweat, the heat between you almost unbearable but so, so good. Every movement, every touch, every kiss only pulled you deeper into him, the connection between you electric and all-consuming.

“Toji…” you whispered, your voice trembling with need, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

He lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze, his dark eyes smoldering with desire as he leaned in close.

“I’ve got you, babe. I got you.” he murmured, his voice rough and filled with raw emotion.

And with those words, he claimed your lips again, pouring every ounce of his passion into the kiss. His hand tangled in your hair, his other still exploring, holding you firmly against him as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Toji’s breath hitched as he stilled, buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours. The heat of your body wrapped tightly around him, the soft, rhythmic flutter of your walls making him groan low in his throat.

It was almost too much for you, how big he was, how whole you feel when he fit you to the hilt. Everything about it the way you felt, the way your body seemed to pulse and cling to him, drawing him deeper into the moment. It all just felt too good.

His hands gripped your hips firmly, anchoring himself, trying to hold onto the frayed edges of his control. A thought flickered in his mind, unbidden and primal: Can I even last long with this?

The idea sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through him, his jaw clenching as he tried to steady his breathing. He didn’t need to move—didn’t need to thrust or grind or do anything but stay right where he was, utterly consumed by the way you felt around him.

The subtle contractions of your body, the way you tightened around him and the way he fluttered tightly against your walls, that was all enough to drive him mad. You were still as you were before, you were paradise in every sense of the word.

“Toji…love....oh—” you whispered, your voice a mix of need and wonder, your nails dragging lightly down his back. The sound of his name on your lips only made it harder for him to hold back.

“Shit, babe.” he murmured, his voice rough and strained. “You’re gonna kill me like this.”

He pressed his forehead harder against yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps as he tried to wrestle with the overwhelming pleasure. Your moans can only grow as he pushed in and out in a more passionate speed.

“I swear… I could come just like this, babe.” he admitted, his voice low and ragged. “The way you’re squeezing me so good, babe… you feel so damn good.”

The confession sent a shiver through you, your body responding instinctively, and he groaned again, his fingers digging into your hips as if to ground himself. He wanted to move, to chase that inevitable high.

But at the same time, he didn’t want to lose the sheer intensity of the moment—didn’t want to lose the way it felt to just be inside you, connected in every way. He still needed to last a little bit more, he wanted this moment to last.

He leaned in, his lips brushing yours as he murmured, “You’re perfect. You know that?” His voice was raw, filled with both reverence and desperation.

And as he stayed there, lost in the heat and intimacy, he wondered if he could ever get enough of this—of you. Every sensation was heightened, every second stretching into eternity, until nothing else existed but him.

The overwhelming pleasure coursing through you. In his arms, you felt completely unraveled, utterly cherished, and entirely his. The world outside faded completely—just the two of you, tangled together in the quiet intimacy of your shared space.

Toji’s movements grew more deliberate, his bruised lips finding your own again as he deepened the kiss, his arm around your neck keeping you anchored to him. His tongue wrestling against yours as he tried to thrust deeper inside your mouth, earning a groan from your throat.

The way he held you, the way he touched you—it wasn’t just desire; it was love, raw and unfiltered, pouring into every moment.

Your body trembled beneath him, overwhelmed by the waves of pleasure he brought you, and you clung to him, lost in the heat of the moment. Toji pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath, his voice low and husky when he finally spoke.

“You’re mine, babe.” he whispered, the words heavy with emotion and promise.

His calloused hand brushing your cheek as his eyes met yours. And in that moment, you knew there was no place you’d rather be than here, with him, wrapped up in the intensity of his love.

"Always." You whispered back to him.

He felt satisfied with that as he pushed deeper into you.

You couldn't speak words anymore by the end of that.

The world was cold from the snowing echoes, but you were warm.

Warm in the pleasure of the husband you loved the most.

══════════════════

epilogue

The room was still bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, your breathing finally steady after what had been a Christmas evening full of all sorts of intimacy and bright warm laughter.

Fushiguro Toji, ever the opportunist, propped himself up on one elbow, the smirk on his face practically devilish as his fingers began tracing patterns on your bare shoulder.

“You know, babe.” he started, his voice low and teasing, “I’m thinking Santa deserves a little overtime bonus for all his hard work tonight.”

You turned your head, arching a brow as you caught the glint in his eye. “Overtime? Didn’t we just finish the main shift? Both last night and tonight?”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of energy left, babe.” he murmured, leaning in to nip playfully at your ear. “The question is… do you?”

You opened your mouth to reply, maybe to tease him back, but the sound of soft footsteps in the hallway made you both freeze. Your eyes darted toward the door, which creaked open just enough to reveal a mop of messy black hair and the outline of a sleepy little boy clutching his favorite stuffed animal.

“Mom? Dad?” Megumi’s voice was tiny, wobbling just enough to tug at your heartstrings. “I had a nightmare…”

Toji let out a low groan, his head dropping onto your shoulder as he muttered, “Of course you did, kid. Of course you did.”

“Shush!” you hissed, elbowing him lightly before sitting up and pulling the blanket around yourself. “Come here, sweetheart.” you said softly, patting the edge of the bed.

Megumi shuffled in, his little feet barely making a sound as he climbed up onto the bed and wriggled his way into the space between you and Toji. He immediately buried his face against your side, his stuffed animal squished between the two of you.

“What happened, bud?” you asked, stroking his charcoal hair gently.

“There was a big, scary monster…” Megumi mumbled, his voice muffled against your side. “It chased me, and it almost got me.”

You looked at your husband who sighed back at you. Toji pushed himself up onto one elbow, running a hand through his disheveled hair, looking towards his little son.

“A monster, huh?” he asked, his tone light but laced with mock seriousness. “Did it look like a giant turkey? ‘Cause I told you eating all that stuffing was a risky move.”

Megumi pulled his face away just long enough to glare at his dad, his little brow furrowed in unimpressed indignation. “No, Dad.” he said with a hint of exasperation. “It wasn’t a turkey. It was scary!”

“Scarier than me?” Toji teased, flexing his arm dramatically as if that would somehow settle the matter.

You shot him a look, biting back a laugh. “Toji, love. Please.” you warned softly, shaking your head.

“Okay, okay.” Toji relented, holding up his hands in mock surrender. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Megumi’s hair. “Listen, kid, no monsters are getting past me. You know that, right? They take one look at your old man and run for the hills.”

Megumi’s little body relaxed against you, his small hand clutching tightly at your shirt. “Promise?” he whispered.

Toji ruffled his hair. “Promise. Now get some sleep. You’ve got another day of playing with all those presents tomorrow, and I don’t want to hear any complaints about being too tired.”

Megumi let out a sleepy little hum of agreement, his breathing evening out as he drifted off within minutes. Toji flopped back onto his pillow with a long sigh, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“So, what do you think? Nightmare slayer and round-two initiator all in one night? I’m a man of many talents.”

You smirked, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “You’re also a man with a very tired wife and a son snoring between us. Maybe tomorrow, Toji.”

Toji groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his face. “Tomorrow? I’m not getting any younger over here.”

You rolled your eyes, stifling a laugh as you settled back down, pulling the blanket up over the three of you. “Goodnight, Santa.” you teased, nudging him lightly.

Toji huffed but couldn’t suppress the faint smile tugging at his lips as he turned to wrap an arm protectively over both you and Megumi. He looked at you both warmly.

“Yeah, yeah. Merry Christmas to me." he muttered, his voice soft and warm. And despite his earlier grumbling, you could feel the contentment radiating from him.

For Fushiguro Toji, there was no better gift than this—his family, safe and sound, wrapped in the warmth of a love he’d never stop cherishing. Life was great.

[shouyuus]

─── Ⅵ FIGURE EIGHTS

violet; 28,888 words; fluff and smut (at the end), semi enemies to lovers, fake dating, hockey!vi x figure skater!reader, ice dancers!meljayce, miscommunication, smau-intermissions, toxic ex!cait, simpgirl!vi, slowburn, the gays r bad at feelings, lots of making out that almost leads to something, emotional edging (for YOU lol), fingering (both receiving), thigh riding, oral (r!receiving), slightly unhinged!reader, no "y/n"

summary: a hockey player and a figure skater kind of, sort of, not really, but then actually fall in love. what could possibly go wrong? (narrator: apparently, everything.)

a/n: YALL. yall. YOU. ALL. lmfao. i can't believe i finished this (i say, after writing any fic longer than 5k words). but i TRULY doubted for a second that i would bc as i kept writing, it kept... getting longer? i hope that this doesn't drag, and that you guys like it. it's really a fucking labor of love. like heavy emphasis on the labor. shoutout to @vifilms for being my emotional support, and to my irl bf for actually physically reading through like 90% of this fic out LOUD with me to make sure the dialogue doesn't sound awk. BUT ANYWAYS. pls enjoy and PLS tell me what u guys think!!!! the smau fake texts won't start till chapter three, but ! it's my first time making like.. fake texts so sldkfjsd.

TABLE OF CONTENTS ━

prologue: party people

chapter one: shut up and kiss me

chapter two: fists to a knife fight

chapter three: love's dream

chapter four: for cup's sake

chapter five: don't hate the player (suggestive)

chapter six: six (nsfw)

─── TAG YOU'RE IT .ᐟ.ᐟ

pls comment below if you'd like to be tagged for this series! :) if you're already on my vi-taglist via my normal taglist link, then you're all good. if you only wanna be tagged for this series, comment below! pls pls have your age visible somewhere on your blog as this will be an 18+ fic!!!! thank you!!!

prologue: party people

─── Ⅵ IT STARTS WITH A GAME of spin the bottle — a college party post-game, the home team the exhalant victors, the crowds of adoring fans the worshippers at their beer-tower altars, doing keg stands and shot-gunning cans of cheap bud lite for an approving grin or a wink.

“Remind me why we’re here again?” you ask, jerking back as a drunken guy nearly topples into you, the red solo cup in his hand sloshing over onto the already sticky linoleum floor.

Mel sighs, “Because, darling, you promised me that you’d come out at least once if me and Jayce made it through the Challenger Series this year.”

She tugs you behind her, weaving through the crush of bodies till the cramped living room area opens onto a much larger patio, the mid-autumn chill cooling your skin.

“It was a joke,” you say, whining slightly even as Mel grabs what looks like an unopened hard cider from the table and presses it into your hand.

“Yes, and one that hurt my feelings,” Mel sniffs, turning her nose up, though a grin teases at her lips, “so to make up for it, you now have to stay at this party and have some semblance of a good time.”

And that was three and a half drinks ago, because sometime between then and now, you’ve found yourself pulled into an unwitting game of spin the bottle with what seems like half the entire hockey team, sitting next to Mel, her boyfriend Jayce on your other side, chatting animatedly with one of the girls hockey girls. You overhear the words “creatin” and “Bulgarian Squat” and decided that it’s time for you to tune out of the conversation.

“Vi, it’s your turn!”

Vi, your thoughts linger over the sound.

It’s a pretty name.

You glance up at the girl sitting across from you, Number Six — you’ve always known her as that, what with the tattoo on her cheek (there were rumors that it’s actually not real and she just reapplies one of those temporary tattoos every two weeks) and the fact that it’s her jersey number, it’s really not too hard to remember.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, laughing as she reaches for the empty beer bottle in the middle of the circle. Her right hand’s bandaged up and you can’t help staring at it. When you look up next, it’s to catch her watching you, your eyes meeting in a startling clash of raw contact — the cacophonous noise of the party dulling out to a thin whine somewhere at the back of your head as you stare at her and she stares right back.

You’d never noticed that her eyes, even in the dark, beneath the dim, flickering patio lights, reads mourning-dove blue, so subtle it’s almost gray, so sharp as she takes you in that your stomach drops from inside you. She smirks and twists her fingers expertly around the bottle, setting it whizzing.

You tear your eyes away, your breath sent astray in your chest by just that look alone. You frown at the spinning bottle, your mind abuzz with fragmentary thoughts you can’t quite string along for long enough to form a full sentence — eyes… her lips are pretty… wasn’t she dating… someone? who??? what’s her name again? something pretty —

“— right, ice princess, you ready?”

“Huh?” you jerk your eyes up from the bottle to find everyone watching you. From your left, Mel nudges you with a sanctimonious grin, her eyes flickering down to the bottle and back up towards —

“Go on!” she hisses, even as you blink uncomprehendingly down at the bottle pointing right at you.

Across the circle, Vi’s questioning smirk is all the answer you need as your alcohol-addled brain finally puts together the pieces.

“R-right…” you push up onto your knees, but something holds you back, a niggling feeling in the back of your brain as Vi’s smirk grows wide and she jerks her head towards the living room.

“Want a bit of privacy? Or… would you prefer an audience?”

Half the circle wolf-whistles at the insinuation, the other half roll their eyes, leaning back on their elbows as if to settle in for a long night.

You lick your lips, feeling your mouth scald dry.

“Privacy. Please.”

You follow Vi stiffly from the patio back into the stuffy house, her fingers closing around your wrist as she tugs you behind her through a long hallway splitting off from the main living room, branching into a series of what look like bedrooms. Half the doors are closed, illicit sounds echoing out from behind them, but Vi finds an empty one near the end of the hallway and pushes it open, leading you inside.

“Oh wow,” you say, looking around the room. It’s a typical fratboy’s room, full of suggestive posters, the floor littered with questionably laundered clothes.

“What, not your ideal setting for a makeout-sesh with a stranger?”

You frown as your eyes slingshot back to Vi, her standing feet from you, hands tucked loosely into her pockets, watching you with dark, firefly eyes.

“Thought we were just supposed to kiss once.”

Vi chuckles, closing the distance between you in a few quick strides, crowding you up against the closed door.

“Sure. We can do that. Or…” she makes no effort to hide the way her eyes flicker down to your lips, trailing back up in a line of fire that sizzles against your skin. “I could show you what a real good time looks like.”

Your breath crystalizes in your chest, and the strange, tickling feeling traces down the back of your head till it gathers, hot and unconscionable at the nape of your neck — a spin-click wheel of half-formed thoughts and images ticking by behind your eyelids as you try to remember why the hell this feels so wrong.

And then, it clicks, and you press a hand to Vi’s chest just as she’s leaning down to graze her lips against yours, the friction so delicious you almost lose your train of thought.

“A-are you sure this is a good idea? Didn’t you just break up with that track and field girl? Caitlyn?” you blurt out, a culmination of all the snippets of whispered conversations and half-caught glances of the pair of them across campus. The It-Girl Couple, people called them, the hockey team star and the track and field genius. They were hard to miss, and even harder to forget.

A moth-wing-flicker of emotions crosses Vi’s face as she takes half a step back, her expression morphing into one of shock, and then hurt, and finally, hard-lined disgust as she looks down at you with a thin-lipped grimace.

“Oh fuck you.”

She yanks you from the door, storming out without a backwards glance. You catch yourself against the half-made bed, your breath coming in heaving pants as your head spins. Guilt curdles in the bed of your stomach like spoilt milk, and it only takes you half a second to realize that of all the things to say, that probably was the worst possible choice.

You’d heard mention of the breakup, even if you didn’t have any stakes in this so-called game. It was harsh and messy and loud, and it had spilled across campus like a backed-up toilet, oozing foulness and stank across the grounds till not a single person was left unstained in the aftermath.

“Wait —” you stumble after Vi, but it’s too late. By the time you reach the patio doors, she’s already settling back into her place in the circle, an easy grin slung across her lips.

You swallow, pushing through the door to scurry over to Mel’s side. Mel beams at the flush in your cheeks, convinced (just like the rest of the circle) that it’d been one hell of a kiss, judging by how entirely breathless you are.

“Damn Vi, you gotta learn how to go easy on them figure skaters, hm?” Margot smirks, her eyes glittering as she looks you over, “look at the poor darling — she can barely breathe!”

Everyone laughs, and Vi flashes a convincingly satisfied smirk, shrugging up a shoulder. You glance at her, only to shiver at the arctic ice behind her gaze as your eyes catch once more.

“What can I say? Easy isn’t a setting I come programmed with.”

You duck your head as Vi casts you one more frigid look before turning to laugh at something a teammate has just said, and the circle devolves into good-natured banter and pocket conversations. You gulp around your too-dry throat and pluck Mel’s drink from her hand, tossing the rest of it back in a single gulp. She blinks at you, eyes wide.

“Darling, are you —”

“I — I’m fine just — it’s — I think I’m gonna head back.”

Mel frowns, “Are you sure? I mean —” she looks towards where Vi’s been pulled into an impromptu arm-wrestling match with some dude from the football team, “you could try and —”

You shake your head, “No, I — I think I’m good. I had a good time, I just —” you run a hand through your hair, “I’ve got practice tomorrow and Amara’s gonna murder me if I get there late.”

Mel stares for a second before relenting, a soft sigh on her lips.

“Alright, alright — go on then. I’ll… I’ll see you tomorrow at practice, yes?”

You give her a tight-lipped smile, reaching out for a quick hug before ducking out of the party, skirting the edges of the growing mosh pit forming in the living room till you finally find yourself out on the front steps again.

You close your eyes for a second, pressing your back to the frat house door, feeling the dull thump of the music inside reverberating through the thin wooden frame as you breathe in and out.

You can still taste the heat of Vi’s breath on your lips, feel harsh sting of ice as she’d caught your eyes after. The chill air, once refreshing, pebbles your skin and an involuntary shiver shakes down your spine. You wrap your arms around yourself and give your head a good shake.

Whatever, you think, stepping off the porch, casting your eyes up at the star-strewn sky, a whisp of warm breath fogging up the air before you.

Not like it’ll matter. Bet she won’t even remember me after tonight.

taglist: @traiitorjoe @rizzscary @wetcat020 @alex-thegiraffeboyy @nanasemo @saturnhas82moons @unear7hly @drsnowrose @grantaires-waistcoat @isab3lita @ally-all-around @starrysetup22 @lipsent @lewd_alien @jack-frost-2010 @starsfortaylor @onesockcat @lesbian-useless @armins-slvt

[altarecs]

note: okay, listen man. the pipeline from 1D/5sos to kpop is SO real. i MISS this sort of stuff. no one will mind if i rb some cute calum stuff, right? this is SO cute. 10/10 (great job!)

"can't keep my hands off of you"

ask: Could you pretty please write a Calum imagine where he has never been affectionate in-front of his friends or has never been big on PDA but now that he’s dating Y/N he can’t keep his hands off them!!! ❤️

an: heeyyyyy, ha ha im alive. sorry this took so long!! and i somehow lost the ask but here it is, i hope this isnt too short, this isnt my best work but i tried rlly rlly hard for u anon. i also did not edit / proof read this so if there’s a mistake it wasnt me

pairing: calum hood x reader

summary: simple, calum showing you some cute PDA

"C'mon baby, gotta get up," you shove Calum's curls back from his forehead so you can kiss it, "we gotta get to that party, right?"

"Mmm, wanna stay right here," Calum murmurs against your ear as he pulls you into his chest, "don't want to let go of ya."

You didn’t want to leave either, you absolutely loved this soft, clingy side of Calum.

Before you guys started dating, Calum was never within arms reach, which was very offputting for you, of course. The dude you were head over heels for seemed to not want anything to do with you.

But ever since that one token night of confessed feelings, you barely remember a time where Calum’s hands weren’t on you.

Holding hands.

Running his fingers through your hair.

Arm wrapped around your shoulders or waist.

His hand on the small of your back.

He’d even stick his hand up your shirt or just far enough in your sweatpants, nothing sexual. He just, liked touching you.

“Your friends are gonna get upset you’re not there, Cal,” you soothe while Calum just grunts in response, “c’mon.”

“Fine,” Calum obliges as he reluctantly lets go of you and stands up, taking all of his warmth with him. “When are we supposed to be there?”

“Like…twenty minutes ago,” you laugh as you check your phone.

“Do we have to go then?” Calum whines like a child being forced to go to school, “I wanna stay here with you.”

Before you can begin to convince him to get his ass out of the house, he flops back down onto the bed, his body on top of yours as he nuzzles his nose into your neck.

You gasp at the sudden weight on you, “jesus- Calum, you gotta at least show your face.”

-

You and Calum walk into the crowded party where all of his friends are, hand in hand.

He drags you through the house and into the kitchen where the boys have gathered, all having either a drink or a blunt in their hand as they converse with music booming in the background.

Calum releases your hand and wraps his arm around your waist in one smooth motion, somehow still touching you the entire time as he begins to say his hellos to everyone.

You decide to take this opportunity to grab a drink yourself, you go to get one but Calum lightly grips your arm and hovers behind you, putting his other hand on the small of your back, “I got it babe.”

“I truly think he’d pass out if he was separated from YN for even a second,” Ashton snickers to Luke.

“You’re right, one time he-“ You begin to join their joke before Calum cuts you off.

“Nothing. I did nothing,” he hands you your drink as everyone snickers, “there’s nothing wrong with loving you a bit extra.” He presses a quick kiss to the side of your head and pulls you into a little hug.

And that’s how it was all night.

Calum’s hands were always on you, per usual.

When you guys danced, they traveled your body in the way only he could touch you.

It become possessive almost, whenever you guys seemed to be around some dudes you didn’t know all too well.

His hand would be placed right on your hip, keeping a good grip to let those people know that you were his.

He’d trail his fingertips up and down your arm as you sat next to each other while talking to a group.

Then, it got to a point.

His hand slowly trailed up your thigh, and back down, his fingertips gently grazing your leg, making you raise a brow at him.

“Really?” You chuckle, Calum just smirks in response while nodding his head at the door, asking if you want to leave.

“You guys are gonna dip and fuck again?” Michael comments, “you were basically fucking each other with your eyes all night isn’t that enough?”

“Nope. It’s not.” Calum shrugs.

“You think all the PDA would hold you over, hm?” You tease.

“A little,” Calum snickers, “but you know I can’t keep my hands off of you, sweetheart.

[underskz]

➪ ‘TIL NEXT TUESDAY

➪ mark lee x cisfem!reader ✩ w.c 8.5k — NSFW ✩ 18+ minors dni —

✰ NON-IDOL AU

pov: you're a camgirl with a secret admirer who's a little (okay maybe a lot) obsessed

note: y'all do not understand the pain,,, the struggle,,,, the trauma that this fic has inflicted upon me <//3 i quite literally started writing it last year on mark lees stupid lil bday and have been typing away at it for so mf long and have had to dig into the deepest filthiest depths of my brain to finally finish this,,,,, anyways welcome to my twisted mind and we can all blame mark lee my greatest enemy,,,, i hate u… anyways pls make note of the warnings !!! btw don’t ask me what website they’re using idk i couldn’t be fcked to think that hard

warnings: NSFW CONTENT, aka smut, obsessive behavior, viscerally lewd comments, uh lying LOL, wolf in sheep’s clothing energy (good church boy mark lee and his hidden demons <3), honestly both reader and mark r freaky (aww they match each others freaks!), readers thinly veiled shame kink, unsafe sex/no condom, barely any prep lol, not beta read bc im a full send girl (sorry for any typos etc LMAO)

There’s clearly something wrong with user ‘66golden_boy99’ and you can’t quite figure it out. Sure, he seems to be just another fan of your work. And maybe his comments tended to be on the imaginative side.

i wanna dick you down til next tuesday

stuff your guts this thursday and stay buried in you thru the weekend

til youre cryin to me about how you can feel my dick in your throat

how pretty would you cry for me?

That little voice in the back of your head whispers (the one that sounds far too much like Donghyuck), an annoying little I told you so, someone was bound to get obsessed. It wasn’t like you never considered or even feared the possibility. 

But these comments, this person, there was something there. You click into a different video, scrolling down to a specific cluster of comments.

i wanna ruin you so fuckin bad

ruin that pussy for anyone else

wanna hear you beg me to stop 

until it turns into begging me for more

sound fun sweetheart?

Every video, every clip, every single little teaser you post; there’s a thread from him. His stupid username right there, ‘66golden_boy99’ and a digital paper trail that ranges from being unforgivably horny to borderline demented and most of the time a combination of both. 

fuck if i could keep you in a little cage…

i’d fuck u every day all day

turn you into my perfect little pet

made just for my cock

don’t you want that too?

You can’t help but let your mouth gape at that one, a cage? Your head spins at the thought, trying (and failing) to not let your imagination wander.

There’s a certain thrill that crawls down your spine, twisting itself deep into your gut and lodging itself there. An ache that just you can’t quite itch yourself, barely sated by these comments. 

So yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with user ‘66golden_boy99’ but that could only mean there’s something wrong with you.

“Mark, read this! Isn’t it insane?” Donghyuck all but smacks him in the face with your phone.

“Oh! Um.” He immediately flushes, no doubt flustered by the nature of the comments along with the fact he’s one of your few friends who still gets a little red in the cheeks by your choice of profession. 

Good church boy Mark Lee at your service. Who thankfully plucks your phone from Donghyuck and passes it back to you— most likely to avoid further being subjected to such filth in broad daylight. 

“Don’t bust a tit Hyuck, it’s just some dude living out his freaky fantasy while hiding behind a screen.” You knew it was going to be brought up the moment you saw your friends, but you had hoped that Donghyuck would have the decency to not mention it while seated outside a popular cafe on a busy street.

Jokes on you for thinking he could keep his cool about this. The moment you had sent a screenshot to the group chat Donghyuck had been rearing for a fight, overly scandalized and always righteous whenever he thought his friends were being treated badly.

There was no way in hell you’d tell him those comments piqued your debased interest.

“It’s a little creepy.” Jungwoo settles on, stealing a blueberry off of your parfait. “He doesn’t message when you’re live though.”

“Nope, only comments on clips and videos.” You bite back your disappointment, maintaining an almost clinical tone.

“Does he even watch your streams?” Jungwoo questions as he attempts to swipe a strawberry this time, narrowly thwarted by you whacking his hand with your plastic spoon. 

“What difference does it make? He’s a fucking perv!” Donghyuck snipes.

The answer is yes, he does watch every single one of your streams. Occasionally donates too, yet no messages. No live interactions.

“Hyuck, my whole fanbase are pervs.” You ignore the glare of an elderly woman as she passes by your table. “When did you become such a prude?”

It’s enough of a jab to send the man into a fit, ranting and raving about how he’s perfectly freaky enough and that his boyfriend(s) is (are) so into how weird and kinky he could get. 

“Seriously though, is he scaring you?” Mark whispers, careful to not catch Donghyuck’s attention lest he starts laying into you about your “creepy” admirer again. Mark’s considerate like that.

For a moment you sit with the question, mindlessly spooning around your half eaten parfait. Were you scared? You knew full well you were bound to deal with the occasional creep when you decided to pursue camming as a full-time job after university. 

But you weren’t— aren’t scared, initially you had maybe been a bit unnerved. Yet you hadn’t shared the messages because you wanted your friends to “save” you or anything. More so because you were shocked by the sheer audacity and of course by what was being said.

If Donghyuck wasn’t so busy talking about getting spit roasted much to the horror of Jungwoo, he’d be pestering you for the answer too. And you would’ve lied, told him that you were a little nervous but nothing that’d keep you from carrying on as usual.

Instead you have Mark asking, no trace of judgment behind his thick rimmed glasses, just a curious glint with a healthy dash of concern for a friend.

“He’s not.” Is what ends up coming out. It’s simpler than the whole truth, cleaner as well. 

You couldn’t admit to one of your best friends that it sent a thrill down your spine, to have someone so obsessed they comment utter depravity on every post you make. That you’ve checked to make sure this mystery creep was watching your every stream. And that there’s nothing you’ve ever wanted more than to be craved so deeply, to be ached for, to be someone’s sole obsession. 

“If you do get freaked out or anything, uh understandably so, we’ll figure something out. I’ll beat him up?” Mark offers one of his dorky smiles, and despite his statement inspiring little hope — seriously Mark is way too sweet to ‘beat’ anyone up — you still appreciate the sentiment. Offering him a big spoonful of whipped cream and strawberries for his valiant statement.

“Hey! Why does Mark get fed and I have to fight for a crumb?” Jungwoo cries out only causing you to roll your eyes and spark even more outrage from him.

You're thankful that the rest of the outing goes on without another mention of a certain fan of yours. Though Mark seems to be shooting more indiscernible looks your way than usual, but that’s easy to chalk down as him just projecting his own anxieties onto you.

When you all start to bid farewell Donghyuck wastes a few minutes to preach about the dangers of internet strangers, while Jungwoo goads and teases him until his nagging is turned onto Jungwoo.

Again Mark offers comfort — though you really have no need for it, considering the fact you honestly are enjoying the debased behavior more than you maybe should — and you pretend to appreciate it.

needa fuck you over and over and over

til your pretty lil pussy is gaping open

so i can see the way i paint you up inside

wouldn’t you like that?

Yes, you dig your teeth into your bottom lip, fuck yes.

You had just posted a teaser for your next video, a simple reaction to some random threesome video your subscribers had begged you to watch. 

And as always without fail, only a few minutes after you’ve hit post your phone lights up with notifications from ‘66golden_boy99’. You should hate how much you look forward to it— how you’re practically gagging for it (him).

You remember his first thread of comments, remember the scandal that pumped through your veins as the words registered in your brain. 

The thrill.

well aren’t you a sweet thing

He had started it off so normally.

you look like you dont care for just any kind of fun

you look like u need to be fucked within an inch of your life

thrown around and violated like a stupid little toy

i could do that

It’s the only time he hadn’t ended with a question. The only statement needed to stake his claim, to solidify his place. 

It planted the seed right in your lust ridden mind, the growing need to see more and more. It becomes a sick little ritual, to go looking for his comments just after you tuck yourself into bed under the guise of resting for the day. 

You’re desperate enough to reread old ones, to stare at the same comments from days or even weeks ago. Sometimes he’ll throw you a bone, coming back to leave another thread of comments for you to find. 

wanna fill you up so bad

make you take it over and over and over

til my cum is dripping outta you for days

so that all that’s in your pretty head is the thought of my cock pumping you full

wanna make it happen?

Maybe it’s the way you’ve never replied to them, or even acknowledge them in a stream. It doesn’t deter him from continuing, his perverted dedication proving something to you. Something twisted and delicious and all too tempting.

need you so bad

just need to use you over and over and over and over so fuckin bad

turn you into my own pretty fleshlight to use whenever i please

just wanna use you all up baby

how much can you take?

Thursday streams are one of your three weekly streams, and while it had marginally less viewers therefore profit than your Friday and every other Saturday ones, it was by far your favorite.

The chat is far more relaxed, which means you have a better chance to interact with viewers, to have a more intimate stream.

It means you can instead sit at your desk, dressed in nothing but an oversized white tee, playing with your hair and batting your lashes. While making idle conversation as your viewers dutifully pay you compliments and donate small amounts as a hello.

66golden_boy99: hey there

“Oh? Golden boy? And here I was thinking you weren’t interested enough in having a live convo with me.” You wonder if he waited for this, a Thursday stream with an even lower than usual number of viewers to finally send his first message in chat. Was your little freak shy? Only able to sling his filth when nobody was paying attention?

Too late for that, he was in your sights now. 

66golden_boy99: nah just liked sitting here and watching you too much

“Is that so?” You feign distraction, looking off towards the side as you tap your chin thoughtfully. “But here I am, doing nothing. Isn’t that boring?”

There’s a flood of no’s in the chat, messages ranging from horny to sweet about how some like just chatting and others saying that you should at least take off your shirt.

“My shirt? It’s only been twenty-ish minutes since I’ve started and you all don’t wanna butter me up first? Tell me how pretty I am?” You’re accused of being a tease, which is of course your exact angle. Some of them bite, sending cooing comments about how they’d love to see your shirt off, some going as far as to send in a few dollars. 

$200 from 66golden_boy99

it’s okay sweetheart, show em what’ll be mine

Your jaw drops, because while he had tipped in the past, it was never this much. You can’t help the shiver that itches down your spine, ‘what’ll be mine’ he says, like he already has you in the bag.

“Aww you wanna see me that bad? Everyone say thank you to Golden Boy!” You goad, making a show of hooking your thumbs in the hem of your shirt. Slowly you drag the fabric across your flesh, inch by inch exposing how you truly had nothing under your flimsy excuse for clothing. 

66golden_boy99: and where’s your thank you?

“That’s right, you were so generous after all, I should give you a little treat to show my appreciation.” Again you flutter your lashes. “How do you want me?”

66golden_boy99: spreading your legs like a desperate slut

66golden_boy99: wanna see you fuck your fingers

66golden_boy99: cmon babe show off your perfect pussy and open yourself up for me

“Anything for you.” And maybe you’re a little fucked in the head for how much you mean it. 

You’ve never had a favorite before. Nobody in your chat, comments and so on have ever caught your attention. They’ve never bothered to be so interesting, to be so openly obsessed.

Slowly you let your hands wander, cupping your tits before letting your fingertips dance along your ribcage, inching down, down, down. 

You pathetically think of him, wonder who’s on the other side of the screen. It could be some old man, or some greasy incel, maybe it’s someone you’ve met on the street. It could be anyone, and it sickens you almost as much as it excites you.

Carefully, you plant your feet on the edge of your desk, sliding down a few inches in your chair as you spread nice and wide for the camera. 

“This what you want?” The words jumble in your mouth as your fingers continue to  find their way south. You dig your nails into your thighs, moaning loudly at the bite of them into your tender skin.

Shame was something that had long escaped you in this field of work, only the tastefully faked sense of it ever gracing you these days. But there’s that all too familiar burn crawling back into your chest after almost years of nothing. Scorching away at your insides as your fingers drag along your waiting pussy. 

You’re wet, you’re wet and it’s because of some fucking freak on the internet. Your eyes zero in on the chat, hoping to catch a comment from him.

66golden_boy99: fucking perfect for me always so good

It’s all you need to keep going, to let wanton moans tumble out left and right as your back arches into your own touch.

The sense of shame doesn’t diminish, doesn’t fade as you tease your clit and pump your fingers pitifully into your sopping cunt, loudly bemoaning the fact you didn’t grab a toy. 

66golden_boy99: you’ll cum just like this baby, no toys, just your fingers and wishing it was me instead

“Nnn- please.” It’s whiner than you’ve ever heard yourself, because goddammit you are wishing it was him. Old man be damned he had a wicked way of speaking, of sneaking into the dark recesses of your mind and ripping you open. Exposing a side of you that you’d long since buried, a side of you craving to be devoured wholly.

Pleasure snakes through your body, dropping down into your belly as you cum with a whimper. You make a show of bringing your fingers to your lips, tongue flicking out to taste yourself, that sick part of you hoping it makes him want you more. 

You slump against your chair, mindlessly answering chats as you fix yourself into a more comfortable position. You don’t bother looking for your shirt, letting your viewers enjoy watching your chest rise and fall in panting breaths, admire the way the sweat gleams on your skin.

You hope his eyes are glued to his screen. You hope you’re driving him absolutely insane.

“I fear I might be tapped out for the night, but don’t worry there’s always Sunday.” You manage to get out a real sentence, your brain still a little mushy from the post-orgasm haze. “Sweet dreams everyone!” 

You take a moment to let the chat fill with well wishes, a few more donations and scan for a message from one user in particular.  

66golden_boy99: good night sweet thing, dream of me

And oh, you just might. 

Ending streams were nothing special, just a click of a button and your privacy was all yours again. Leaving you with a plethora of thoughts, a tiny remnant of that formerly elusive shame and a craving for something or more accurately someone. 

Send a friend request to 66golden_boy99?

What did you have to lose? What did you have to gain? 

There’s a little angel on your shoulder in the shape of Donghyuck, your ever annoying moral compass, telling you to go shower and to never feed into this anonymous man’s delusions again.

While the little devil on your shoulder shaped like Yuta does nothing, sits there and smirks at you knowing full well you’ll choose his route. 

You always do. 

Sorry Hyuck.

Friend request sent!

Three days go by, no comments, no messages on stream, nothing. Absolute silence.

You can’t help yourself but watch each excruciating second tick by, waiting for something, anything from him. Three whole days of obsessively checking your phone, every social media tied to your occupation and nothing.

It’s like he up and fucking forgot about you. And maybe three days seems too short of a timeline to be losing it, but this is a man who has been all over your account — and notifications — for months.

And he gets scared off by a friend request. 

God, you should’ve known better than to trust Yuta, even if he was just a figment of your imagination at that moment. Though the real Yuta would’ve said the same thing anyway, therefore still making this whole ordeal his fault.

But as fun as blaming your friend and obsessing over whether your twisted little admirer would accept your request, let alone give you something to work with nowadays. It was driving you up the fucking wall. 

You need a distraction, and you need it badly.

Your usual and immediate reaction to having nothing to do and needing attention would be to ask Donghyuck to go out and do something stupid, but the lucky bastard was on vacation with his boyfriend(s?) probably getting fucked into the new year.

So you’re left to consider your options but Jungwoo is definitely still at work and Yuta just left to visit his family. And your other friends lived too far.

That only left you with Mark. God, you need more friends in close proximity. Not because you don’t like Mark, you adore the man if anything and still consider him one of your best friends. It's just that despite all the years of friendship the two of you just haven’t figured out how to quite mesh conversationally like the others. 

You need more spark, conviction. Mark Lee talks like a wet noodle came to life and decided to use ‘yo’, ‘dude’ and ‘woah’ on a permanent rotation. 

At least he’s a great listener.

And since he’s one of your closest friends nonetheless, he would have no problem with you coming over to eat his snacks and lounge on his couch while he works from home. 

So you shoot him a text.

TO: marky markmarkly sparkly can i cum over ;P 

FROM: marky markHaha sure dude! I told you stop spelling it like that > < 

TO: marky markprude be there in 10 want coffee ?

FROM: marky markSure! Caramel latte please :3 

He even texts like a good and innocent church boy. But he’s definitely had girlfriends, and that one boyfriend, so there’s no way he’s a virgin. Is it possible to be a blushing virgin in spirit and at heart?

“Hey beautiful, what can I get ya?” The barista’s stare is nothing short of sleazy, not even bothering to make eye contact as he tries to magically see through your clothing. 

“I’ll take a caramel latte, lemme double check what my boyfriend wanted, hmm just a regular coffee.” And okay it’s a little demeaning to Mark to switch your coffee orders in front of this greaseball. 

The boyfriend comment works well enough, if you take the guy opting to just stare at your ass as you walk out the door instead of bullying you for your number a win.

Thankfully Mark's apartment is just around the corner, and somehow you manage to key in the code not once but twice despite carrying two drinks.

“Marky! Coffee!” Immediately he comes tumbling down the hallway, eyes wide with confusion. His hair is sticking up in different directions, his glasses crooked and half-hanging off his face. His sweat stained white tee, and low hanging gray sweats only the cherry atop the homebody trainwreck sundae of a man before you.

“Hey, yo, shit! Uh dude!” He stops a few steps in front of you, scratching his head sheepishly. “I thought…you would take longer.”

“Do I look like Jungwoo? Or worse, Yuta?” You feign offense with a dramatic gasp. 

“Nah! Ha…ha, um come on in, it’s a fuckin’ mess but like you know, ‘m swamped with work and…”

You hand him his latte and push past him, barely batting an eye at the nightmarish state of his apartment. There’s mountains of paperwork and books stacked along the walls, empty food boxes, bags and wrappers scattered across the floor (along with any other available surface) and you’re trying desperately to not gag at the state of his kitchen.

“Johnny would clean?” You muse as you kick aside an empty pasta box. 

“Johnny would clean.” He sighs. Johnny, being Mark’s roommate, along with (one of) Donghyuck’s boyfriend(s???) is currently on vacation. On top of that, from what you've heard, he’s barely been at the apartment at all the past few months. Definitely too busy catering to every single one of Hyuck’s whims and dramatics.

“I could help?”

“Woah! I couldn’t ask you that, I made this mess on my own. I’ll clean it er.. eventually.” He gestures loosely.

“Mark Lee.” You muster up your best deadpan tone. “I’m so bored I’m gonna chew my own hand off, please let me help you clean your awfully disgusting apartment.” 

“That bad?” He snorts.

“I think that pile of dust moved on it’s own.” At least you’re hoping it’s a pile of dust and not some undiscovered rodent that thrives in the apartments of bachelors with piss poor cleaning habits.

“…I think you’re right. Hey um, lemme just shower and change, I think I’m just as gross as this place. We can clean together. So just…” He shoves aside the pile of laundry inhabiting the couch just enough to give you a place to sit. “Sit for a second?”

The poor guy looks like he’s on the brink of a meltdown, and if you didn’t know Mark as well as you do you would’ve called an ambulance. But he just always has that air around him, exhausted and overworked— but always smiling through it.

“I’m in no rush.” You pat his arm before taking a seat in the space he so generously carved out for you. The second Mark walks off to the bathroom you make yourself nice and comfortable, switching on the TV, straightening out some of the magazines and assorted papers on the coffee table. 

Mindlessly you even start folding some of the laundry next to you. The thought of taking pictures and sending them to Donghyuck so he could show Johnny just how far his roomie has fallen in his absence promptly interrupts your side task.

But to your dismay you find your phone is barely holding on by a few measly percentages. Looking around the living room you know there’s definitely no hope in trying to find a charger on your own. So instead you head off towards the bathroom, following the sound of the shower pouring down.

“Mark!” You knock harshly, hoping he can hear you okay. 

“Yeah?” His voice comes through clear, sounding only a little startled by your sudden presence.  

“Need to charge my phone!” 

There’s a moment of pause and you can only assume it’s because his room is so hellish he can’t even remember where he put the thing.

“By my bed!”

“Thanks!”

His room is actually better than the living room and kitchen, not by much, but still better. You navigate around the clothes and books strewn about the floor. Giggling at his wastebasket full of balled up tissues and a used up bottle of lotion, you definitely couldn’t wait to tell Donghyuck when he gets back. 

Making fun of Mark was an art, a beloved pastime of your friend group. And he always took it like a champ.

You plop down on his unmade bed, looking around for his charger. It’s half under the bed when you spot it, tugging the cord only for there to be a bit of resistance. Carefully you lower yourself to the floor, yanking at the charger and forcing Mark’s IPad to come flying at you.

“Shit!” It lands next to you face down on the hardwood and you pray to whatever gods that you haven’t cracked it. Slowly you pick it up, carefully flipping it over as you prepare yourself for the damage.

“Oh, my god.”

Because it’s not cracked, it’s not even locked, it’s still open to what Mark had been watching last to be exact.

One of your streams, one of your streams with you bent over one of your pillows, both holes stuffed with toys in the perfect position for the camera to see everything. It’s not even a new video, you haven’t done anything like that in months. 

There’s a blur in your vision as you shoot up, lightheaded from standing up straight so suddenly. A scorching heat begins to burn in your gut, creeping through your veins. 

You can still hear the shower going, and you know it must be wrong, to go through his private device like this but…it’s you. He’s been watching you, one of your most bible-thumping, prude-built friends who can barely look you in the eyes and blushes whenever you or your friends make dirty jokes, has been watching your debaucherous streams and has never said a word. 

Sure, Yuta and Jungwoo have confessed to watching more than once and Donghyuck is a fucking mod for your streams. It never bothered you if your friends watched, it wouldn’t bother you now.

But this is…this is different. He kept his viewership a secret, and you weren’t sure what to make of it. Was he too embarrassed to say? Was he afraid it’d ruin your friendship?

You close out the video, looking through his watch history which consists solely of your videos, looking at who he follows — you, only you, and you can’t tell if that’s a good thing yet — and now the used tissues in his trash bin don’t feel so funny anymore. 

“Oh.” You mutter lamely as you open up his comment history. Fucking oh. 

66golden_boy99: wanna fuck you with my tongue til youre squirting all over my face

And your world collapses, punctuated by the sound of the shower turning off— yet that’s lost on your ears. You can’t hear anything but the furious pound of your heart trying to dismantle your ribcage, your blood rushing through your veins and sloshing around your head. 

Mark Lee, sweet, kind and innocent. Mark Lee, who stutters just talking about who he likes. Mark Lee, the resident saint of the group.

Is him. 

The man who’s been peddling filth into your mind, who’s been haunting you every time you decide to start your stream or post a video, skulking around every comment section with your name on it. 

Is Mark fucking Lee.

“Heya! Did ya find…it.” It’s cinematic honestly, the way his stride slows as his eyes frantically flicker back and forth between you and the IPad. “Y-Y-You!”

It’s instantaneous, his face turning a brilliant crimson as he trips over himself to grab the tablet and throw it haphazardly to the side.

His chest is heaving, panic creasing his features as you look him over. He kept the same color scheme, you think emptily, white tank top and gray basketball shorts. It does nothing for your brain as you stare at him mouth agape.

“I c-can explain?” He has the audacity to squeak, to look ashamed even. He’s trying to hide behind his bangs as they fall over his eyes, trying to look so innocent despite his filthy secret coming to light.  

“Why didn’t you accept my friend request?” It’s probably not what you should open with, and Mark’s jaw simply hanging open at the question might be a testament to that.

“…What?” His croaks, voice hoarse.

“You didn’t accept it, why? And where have you been, it’s been three whole days? I’ve been fucking waiting for—”

“You’re not mad?” His voice is still uneven, and even a pitch higher. 

“Mad? Mad? I’m pissed, you, you idiot!” And you are. Probably. Your mind so fucked from trying to comprehend this newfound piece of info you don’t even know where to begin with how you’re feeling. So mad must be the best place to start. 

“For months I’ve been wondering who had the fucking balls to send these freaky borderline insane comments.” He flinches. “Wondering just who the hell was making me feel like, like…that.”

“I—”

“And it was you! Right under my nose, looking at me with those stupid round eyes and big glasses a-and you just pretended like you knew nothing? …I got off to you on stream?” You hate the way your voice sounds so high in your ears, teetering on the edge of full blown shrieking.

“Please, I’m sor…”

“When Hyuck showed those comments were you even ashamed?” You hiss.

He’s blubbering now, eyes pinned somewhere to the ground; half cooked sentences or maybe excuses scattering about the floor with the rest of his mess. It’s all lost on your ears, a million different thoughts in your head drowning it all out. 

His hands raise as if admitting defeat, even beginning to back away in a pitiful attempt at escaping but like hell you’ll let the fool get away from you now. 

“Goddammit, Mark Lee, look at me!” And he does, his mouth snapping shut and eyes focusing on you. His stupid glasses are nowhere to be seen, giving you an unfiltered front row view of how his pupils are blown wide. “Did you mean it?” 

“Mean…what?” You could kill him, you really could because how after all these months of sending you towards the edge with the crudest, filthiest words he can barely say a proper sentence standing before you.

“Any of it! All of it, was it all just talk?” You must’ve hit a nerve. He’s silent again, eyes narrowing for a moment at the accusation. But it slips away, a fickle persona he shoves down. 

His hands lower to his sides.

“...What do you want?” His voice is more even, eyebrows knitting together. 

You know what he’s asking — he was obvious like that, his heart always worn so proudly on his sleeve — because even now with his disgusting secret out in the open between the two of you. He has the audacity to try to take the gentlemanly route of getting you to explicitly state what you want from him, if you want him. 

When all you’ve been waiting for was for him to take.

“What do I want, huh? Let me tell you what I think first.” You know this will definitely make or break what happens next, and maybe even your friendship. But you’re sick of his games, of dancing around whatever the hell was going on between the two of you. “I think you’re all bark and no fucking bite, I think you hide behind a screen because you’re a coward and you probably couldn’t fuck your way out of a wet paper bag.”

His eyes narrow once more.

“You hide behind your good little god fearing boy next door persona when you’re a freak who likes watching one of his best friends get off on camera!” 

He takes a step closer.

“I think you’re filthy and depraved, a repressed weirdo with disgusting kinks. A borderline incel!”

And another step.

“I bet the second you actually got inside of me you’d cum and cry yourself to sleep in a matter of seconds.” His expression darkens at that, and now you’re starting to think that you should stop. 

But where’s the fun in that?

“You couldn’t handle even half the shit you said online, you cowardly little prude, you tiny dicked—”

You don’t realize his hands are on you until you're backed against the wall, one tightly gripping your hip while the other lands on your chest keeping you firmly in place.

“You never shut up. Even in your streams and videos you're constantly yammering on, whimpering and whining and begging.” His voice is low, buzzing around your ears and in your head. You look down at the tent forming in his shorts, mouth drying and watering simultaneously.  

“That for me?” Your tongue feels thick as you look up at him through your lashes.

The hand on your chest inches up, until his palm settles against your throat and you're left wondering if he’ll indulge you by tightening his fingers. Even just a little.

“Even now, can’t shut the fuck up.” He moves in closer, until his hardened cock is against your thigh and he’s forcing his knee between yours. “I asked what you wanted, not for you to insult me.”

“You-”

“So I’ll tell you what I want.” And you feel so wildly out of your depth, there’s a cognitive dissonance you can’t quite escape. Good church boy Mark means wholesome activities, ice cream in the park, farmer’s markets and, and–  

“And then you’re gonna try again for me.” 

“M-Me?” It comes out lamely. Is this really Mark Lee? You think belatedly. Looking at you like he wants to tear you apart inch by inch with nothing but his teeth and tongue.

“I want you on my tongue, on my cock, want you begging for me to stop but it’s all just a filthy fucking lie. I want you to want me to ruin you, this, us.” His voice is raspier, laced with a desperation and craving you’ve never heard before and damn do you need to hear more, so much more.

“So try again. Tell me what you want.” And you can see it, that plea in his eyes for you to just say it. To know you want this as badly as he does, the promise, the threat of him finally letting go looming over the two of you.

“Want.” You grab him by the face, pressing your nose against his and staring into the black depths of his pupils. “Want good boy Mark Lee to die right before my eyes, wan’ you to eat me ‘til nothin’ is left.”

It’s slurred, you’re delirious, so drunk off the way he’s already hard off of you screaming at him (or maybe it was getting caught), at the way he’s demanding you to express your want for him when you’d rather just be on your knees.

But the thing is you always have wanted, craved. That underlying itch to see one of your best friends let loose, the borderline wanting (what you thought was) a random stranger to break into your apartment and do filthy, unmentionable things to you. When you flipped over that IPad thinking you broke it to find yourself being the object of his debauched desire, when you saw his username on the site. 

You ached.

It’s stupid and toeing the line of embarrassing with how badly you want, no, need him, how turned on by the fact he doesn’t even know which person to be in front of you. Doesn’t quite know how to be both.

“Let him die.” Is all he can say, having the audacity to take advantage of your stupor to kiss you. To push you back up against the wall and slot his lips against yours, pulling back just to dive back in before you could truly feel his absence. Over and over each one messier, hotter than the last as a debaucherous hunger flows between the two of you.

“You don’t get it.” He mumbles, pressing himself firmly against you, sweat starting to prickle against your skin. “When y-you started camming I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

And suddenly you could see it, vividly. Just behind your eyelids was Mark hunched over in his bed, one of your streams or videos playing in the background as he furiously chased his release. Only to be left wallowing in the shame of jerking it with cheap lotion to you, forced to clean himself off with even cheaper tissues and spending the rest of his night completely alone.

“Your perfect fucking pussy, for everyone to see…when I’ve been waiting.” He rasps, hands finding their way back onto your body. “Couldn’t stand it, couldn’t fuckin’ stand it.”

“Mm, Ma-ark…” Without hesitation he twists his head, allowing himself to sink his teeth at the base of your throat. Pulling away to focus another dark look at you, that heady mixture of unmitigated want and wicked promises swirling in his eyes.

“S’All I could think about, even with our friends.” He noses along your jaw, nipping at your earlobe as his breathing turns ragged. “Wanted to haul you onto the table and fuck you ‘til your head went dumb, ‘til all was left was you squealing like a fuckin’ whore while they all watched.”

There’s a cartoon halo of stars around your head, surely there is, each word from his mouth adding another to the ditzy constellation circling your brain. This is him, this is Mark ‘Golden Boy’ Lee and his once hidden (and so deliciously unhinged) silver tongue. 

“Pl-Please, oh fu— please.” His lips are back to working against your throat, and just as you try to reach up and grab at him, to try and sway him into relieving some of the tension building in the air. 

He steps back, yanking at your arm.

Yet he doesn’t give you a chance to simply fall, or even react. Instead he uses your off-kilter balance to push you onto your knees, thankful that he’s a sloppy loser when you land on a pile of clothes.

“This.” He doesn’t bother being shy about tugging his shorts and boxers off in one fluid motion. “This is how I want you.”

He pauses, as if to let you admire the view and you’re not nearly above doing so as your eyes roam so shamelessly. 

Of course he’s cut, with neatly trimmed hair adorning his groin. And though he's just above average in length, he definitely makes up in girth. You think hazily that calling him tiny dicked was definitely a lie.

Your mouth waters.

He lets out a low chuckle of all things, surely laughing at the way your eyes have widened. And maybe you did let your tongue swipe over your lips in anticipation.

“Go ahead, before I make it hurt.” His words are delayed, understanding creeping in slowly; impaired by having long let that fog of desperation cloud your mind. 

You move before you can think, nosing along the side of his cock, pressing a kiss to a cute little mole that you hope to revisit at a later date. But for now you’re flattening your tongue against the base of his shaft and dragging it up his length at a frustrating rate.

He’s heavy on your tongue, thick and heavy and so so hot, and fuck he tastes good or maybe you’re just already addicted. Doomed from the start. 

There’s a war raging in your mind, whether to try your hardest to please him with your mouth, all too tempted to hear the pretty, desperate sounds he’ll make and maybe it’ll earn you a bit of praise. Or to tease until he’s pissed off enough to throw any regard for you and your (throat’s) wellbeing out the window.

The latter is far more appealing.

Coyly you look up at him again through your lashes once more, bringing your tongue to tease at the tip of his cock, licking off a bead of precum forming.

“Are you tryin’ to blow me or piss me off?” Ah, so he has you all figured out.

“Haven’t decided.” You reply properly by taking his tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it before sinking further down and ignoring the slightly uncomfortable stretch of your lips. You could get used to this.

Languidly you try to mind your teeth as you sink further down, your jaw aching at the unprecedented stretch. Shallowly you bob your head, barely giving anything as you look up to meet his burning gaze.

“Enough.” He groans, clearly sick of the teasing as his hand comes around to hook his fingers around the back of your head.  

It’s enough of a warning as your hands come up to grip at his bare thighs, whimpering at the first tentative thrust. Unable to escape, knees aching and you can’t help but wonder how damp your panties will be by the time you get them off.

He’s careful at first, not to be too rough in his movements, trying to be considerate of your comfort. It’s ridiculous, and you let him know as much by stabbing your nails into his thighs only forcing him to accidentally bottom out. 

Tears well in your eyes as you choke, gagging around the sinfully thick intrusion into your throat.

“Woah! Fuck, I’m sor-”

He starts to pull away, and desperately you chase after him. But the fucker pulls out, grabbing you by the cheeks to look you in the eyes. 

“Do I have to start calling you names again?” Your voice is already wrecked, but not nearly enough, it could be worse, so much worse. If he would just fully let go. “Or are you just scared?”

He blinks at you, once, twice, those stupidly big eyes of his narrowing into something dangerous. 

“Two taps if it’s too much.”

“It won’t be.” You barely finish the sentence as he grabs you on either side of your head with both hands, pressing the leaking head of his cock against the seam of your lips, precum smearing across. You barely open your mouth before he’s shoving his entire cock down your throat again. 

You can see him, blurred by the tears stuck to your lashes, watching you with such reverence as you pitifully try to relax, still unable to avoid gagging and choking. Yet this time he offers no reprieve, keeps you firmly in place as tears stream down your face and your nails continue to dig into his thighs.

“T-That’s it, choke.” The break in his voice sends something hot through your chest, snaking through the rest of your body and creeping into your veins. How embarrassed would you really be if you came just from having your throat fucked? 

“Where are you?” Your wandering thoughts immediately cease, drawn back in by his fingers dancing along your cheekbone before settling at the back of your head.

He doesn’t even have the decency to let you catch your breath after pulling your attention, shallow thrusts turning reckless as he fucks your face with little regard for you— it’s everything you’ve every wanted from him.

It sends another surge of heat down into your belly, pooling between your thighs and now you’re wondering if your poor panties will even be salvageable after this. 

“Fuck that’s it, so fuckin’ good for me.” He bites his lip, and a part of you wishes you could be tugging on it too with your teeth. 

Use me, use me, use me. The thought fills your mind, leaving room for nothing else but Mark and his cock and your jaw and throat struggling to keep up. 

Frantically you tap on his calf, his response instantaneous.

“You good?” He pulls out again, swiping his thumb along your bottom lip to wipe away a mess of spit and precum.

“Need you,” and you could care less how your voice shakes and rasps, “need you in me so bad. Fuck me.” 

Your fingers dig into his thighs as you muster up the best pitiful look possible, silently begging for more. 

“C-Condom, need, condom.” He huffs, looking around his room frantically.

“Like hell, what happened to painting my insides huh?” Shakily you stand up, managing to push him towards the bed which he doesn’t even bother resisting. “Thought you wanted your cum dripping from my pussy for days.”

And he fucking growls, the sound so wildly animalistic you can barely believe it came from him.

“That what you want? You wanna feel me for days?” You’re on your back in a matter of seconds, his forearms landing on either side of your head to cage you in. He’s staring you down with an uncharacteristic intensity; a predator sizing up his prey.

“Ruin me for anybody else.” It comes out broken, desperation seeping from each word. How much more do you need to bend before he finally breaks?

He’s back on you, a barrage of teeth and tongue assaulting your flesh as his hands leave no part of you untouched, kneading and feeling. Just as you try to bring your own shirt over your head he pushes away your hands, allowing him to take over stripping you bare. 

Each caress of his fingers leaves a trail of fire, almost too hot to bear.  

“Please Marky, please.” It comes out high and whiny and so very needy. “Touch me more.” 

“I’ll give you what you want, just lemme…fuck lemme look at you.” He catches your wrists just as you try to bring your hands up to cover your face, pinning your arms against your sides as his eye shamelessly trace over your figure. There’s a glint of something hungry, swirled with something akin to adoration.

“Y-You like m-me, you’re obsessed.” You

“Yeah, I really fucking am.” He’s grinning, all teeth with a hint of gums that makes your heart somehow pound even harder and you know you’re well and truly fucked. “Like you s’much gonna keep you on my cock forever.” 

He lets go of your hands, grabbing at your thighs to spread them apart, callused fingers dragging up until he’s almost carelessly pressing a finger into you.

“Fuck, you can… o-oh keep me!” You whimper as he bullies one, then two more fingers into your throbbing cunt— there’s a determination bordering on desperation creasing his brow in order to prep you as quickly as possible. 

“Next time, I’ll spend fuckin’ hours doin’ this.” You whine as he drags his fingers out of you.

His hands hook under your thighs, pressing up and up until he can hook your legs over his shoulders and he’s pressing the blunt head of his cock against your hole. There’s a slight sting as he pushes in, the stretch unfamiliar and despite how wet you are some lube would’ve helped. 

But you well and truly could care less.

“I don’t care who sees this, you, I’m the only one who gets to touch, the only one who gets to fuck you like this.” He rasps, bottoming out in one harsh thrust and punching the air out of your lungs.

He’s kind enough to let you catch your breath, indulging you with a few soft kisses along your jaw and nipping at your bottom lip. But it doesn’t last long, following a sloppy kiss with a tentative grind of his hips, then a soft thrust. 

Those desperate whines you usually play up for your streams easily escaping your lips as he builds a steady rhythm. 

“Yes, yes, yes, Mark.” It’s perfect, every single thrust is perfect, the way you're folded in half, the feeling of his fingers digging into you, the strain of toned muscles under flushed skin; so fucking perfect. “Only you.”

And you mean it, fully, wholeheartedly without any hesitation. Only Mark, if that’s what he wants then you want it too, whatever Mark wants he can have.

“M’Close, fuck, I’m so close.” You whimper, raking your fingers through his still damp hair.

“Already?” It spears through your chest, harsh and burning and tears down your belly. 

There’s a split second of perfect silence interrupting the sound of skin slapping against skin, a ringing in your ears followed by the crash of your heart into your ribcage. 

Pleasure slices down your spine, rippling through your body in crashing waves and leaving your head spinning.

He fucks you through the high, any chance of a coherent thought spilling right out of your ears, his name garbled and strained as it forces it’s way past your lips. 

He slows, as if he’s about to waste both your time and do something stupid like pull out and finish on your stomach. And like hell you’re letting that happen, grabbing at his head with both hands and smashing your lips together, pulling away just enough to stare into blown pupils.

“Cum inside me, you bitch!” His teeth come down on your bottom lip, the bite of iron and tang of sweat and spit swirling together on your tongue dizzying, intoxicating. He slams back into you with a force you didn’t know he had, swallowing down a broken moan from his lips as he spills into you. 

“I’m still gonna stream.”  The two of you have settled on his now made bed, tucked under the covers. You had no problem letting Mark dress you in a clean tee and boxers, watching sleepily from his desk chair as he made his bed before depositing you in it.

“I’ll still watch.” He hums. 

“And comment?” It brings up the matter from earlier, the one you never got an answer to. “Why didn’t you?”

“I…I didn’t know what to do. Uh, it was one thing, hiding, but then I thought you…didn’t…”

“Didn’t?” You raise your head, trying to level your gaze to his. 

“Didn’t like m- it, the comments, those messages in chat, all of it. Thought you were just tryin’ to message me to stop. And then I got scared you somehow knew it was…me.” He has that sheepish look smearing his features, a hand coming up to scratch at his nape. 

You stare at him silently, watching as his eyes bounce around your face searching for some hint of what you could possibly be thinking.

“Look where that got us, I can’t even feel my legs, oh my god you have to fuck me on stream, please!”

“H-Huh? Live? Yo I can’t just-”

“Think about it, Marky.” Aching hips and sore muscles be damned, you somehow manage to climb into his lap and straddle his thighs. “Fucking me, on camera, for everyone to see just what you do to me. I’d be so good for you.”

You can see it, what little resolve he had starting to crumble, just a little more.

“Don’t you want that?” It’s his words and he knows it, starting to see the monster he’s created. You run your fingers along his jaw, settling one hand on his shoulder while the other comes up to muss up fluffy brown locks. “Stretching me on your fat cock for my pitiful little viewers to see, wishing it was them driving me insane.”

“Baby…” The pet name from his lips is instantly addicting, and you need so much more of it.

“Please.” And now you’re not sure what you’re begging for, your body screams for you to stop, to not roll your hips against his because it’s far too soon to be fucked into the mattress again.

“If, if you don’t stop doing that.” He groans. “You’re not gonna be able to stream tomorrow.” 

You blink. 

“Wow you really are my biggest fan.”

“Huh?”

“Got my schedule memorized and everything, does that mean we could do it tomorrow? You’ll fuck me on stream tomorrow?”

“I’ll think about it.” 

“Seriously I–”

“Actually, cancel it.” He’s hooking his hands under your thighs, drawing you closer. “Don’t look at me like that, I said cancel it.”  

“Mm, I don’t know if I can go again yet.” But there’s no conviction behind your words.

“You’re fine, I’ll do all the work.” You’re fine he says, it sends a thrill up your spine right into your brain, reworking the entire chemistry in there. It had been there in the back of your mind, slipping in somewhere between finding out his secret and that first kiss. 

You’re absolutely hooked, simply addicted, to Mark Lee. 

“Okay.” You grin at him.

[trusweethrt]

╰ . ✶ ┆ MISSING OUT 〃 R. CAMERON.

notes 𓂃 honestly quite proud of this....everyone clap ૮₍ ˃⤙˂ ₎ა — content includes smut, nsfw. 18+ only!

rafe laid on his bed, his head resting comfortably on his pillows with his arm draped lazily over his eyes. he had been listening to you talk about your day for the past hour, just barely listening to bits and pieces. he was really only waiting for you to skip to the lunch date you were supposed to have that afternoon, but you were so stuck on the topic of wanting to try out a new lip combo—whatever that was. so he decided it would just be quicker to just ask you himself.

“what about that date?” he cuts you off mid sentence, moving his arm from his eyes to peer over at you while you leisurely span around in the swivel chair at his desk. “with uhh...what was his name? ayden?” your glossed lips pull into a frown, stopping your spinning “andrew,” you correct, your finger twirling around a loose thread on your shorts. “and it didn't happened. he never came”

rafe's eyes shifted to yours, an annoyed furrow in his eyebrows forming at your admission “you mean that asshole never even showed up?” he scoffed, now fully sitting up against the headboard.

“nope,” your murmur, shifting in your seat “not only that, but he texted me an hour later to tell me he didn't feel like coming.”

“what a pussy,” rafe muttered under his breath, pushing his greasy hair away from his forehead as he tried to suppress an eye roll. he hated it whenever someone wasted your time or let you down. he always thought any guy who you even batted an eye at was incredibly lucky. “he just doesn't deserve you then. n i already told you that you were too good for him. don't know why you don't listen to me. you need to go after guys who would treat you better.”

your lips purse, tilting your head sideways as you toy with the polish on your manicured finger. “uh huh. and who would that be, hm? you?”

“yes.” rafe’s answer is almost immediate and without hesitation. he had no shame, no remorse, no fear. he was straightforward and honest to a fault. “i’d never let you down, you know that. and i'd show you what your date should've done.”

your fingers stop picking at your nail polish, your lips pulling into a thin line. you knew rafe was a good friend, he always had been. but boyfriend material? you weren't so sure. you've seen the way he's run through girls like t-shirts; and you refused to be one of his discards. “rafe—” you started, but he cut you off, waving his hand dismissively.

“nah, nah. don’t ‘rafe’ me. i’m serious. you don't wanna date me? fine. understandable. but at least let me help ya out. y'know, as your friend. i could be uh...setting a standard or...whatever you wanna call it. i could give you a better time than he would've.”

you weren't stupid, you knew what rafe was trying to do. it's how he got all of the island girls to flock over him─manipulation. but was it really manipulation if you wanted it too?

‎ ‎ ─── ✷ ⊹ ࣪

“you taste so fuckin' good. shit — you're drippin for me.” rafe groaned, his eyes trained on drenched folds before they locked on your face, watching the way it contorted in pleasure with every swirl of his tongue against your clit. “feel good, yeah?”

you were only able to force out a few incoherent sounds, the overwhelming pleasure making your brain fuzzy. any guy you've ever slept with never offered or made the slightest effort to eat you out like this. so the new sensation of rafe's tongue had you seeing stars and gasping beneath him. “c'mon, i asked you a question, i want actual words, alright? i want you to tell me how good it feels. and look at me when i'm taking t'you.” rafe spoke against your sex, the vibration of his words making your hips twitch.

“mngh....y-yes.” you breath out, forcing your eyes open to lock to his, “feels good...s'good.” you whimper, glossed lips parting as you stare down at him.

“mmh, there ya go, that's my girl. when i ask something i expect a real answer, yeah?” rafe murmured as two of his long fingers easily slipped into your soaking hole, pulling a mewl from your lips and making your back arch off the mattress slightly. “fuck baby, you're perfect — s'fuckin tight.” he groaned, watching the way your narrow pussy sucked in his fingers, a ring of your slick coating the base of his digits. “y'been giving this pussy to amateurs i bet. don't worry though..i'll stretch ya out real nice.” rafe murmured, wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking on the sensitive bud, your eyes rolling back while his fingers moved in slow, deep strokes, finding the spongy spot that made you cinch around his fingers.

“mgnh...fuck, rafe. i—” you gasp, hands fisting the sheets under you, your words being punctuated by rafe purposely humming around your clit, the vibration making your hips twitch. “mmh yeah i know, pretty girl. gonna cum, yeah? go on baby...make a mess f'me.”

his hands squeeze your thighs as they start to tremble, a loud whine falling from your lips as your orgasm hits, your cunt fluttering around his fingers, glossy eyes squeezing shut. rafe groans against you, lapping your juices as he helps you ride out your orgasm. “yeah, that's it, baby...good girl.”

you felt completely boneless, muscles trembling and skin buzzing all over as you slowly try to come down, catching your breath as he pulled himself up to hover over you, his hand tapping your trembling outer thigh “open up f'me baby.”

your eyes flutter open, thighs shaking as you slowly let them fall open. your eyes half lidded as you stared up at him. rafe groans softly at the sight before him, positioning himself between your legs and slowly slid his leaking tip up and down your glistening lips, teasing your clit slowly.

“fuuuck” rafe groaned as he started to slip his twitching member into your leaking cunt, his eyes fluttering at the sensation of him bottoming out. “shit baby, you're so fuckin' tight...suckin' me in s'good” rafe grunted, his hips starting to snap against yours as he drove his cock in and out, watching your lips part and eyebrows furrow in pleasure.

your head falls back onto the mattress as you mewled beneath him, your lips opening but no words leaving your mouth, already too cock drunk to form any coherent sentences. “bet you needed this, hm? needed this pussy taken care of s'bad, you just had to be fucked by your best friend — you like that, don't you, baby? you like your best friend's cock stretching you out?”

before you could even process what rafe said, the sharp, jarring sound of your phone ringing pierced through the air. the loud and harsh sound causing rafe's eyes to snap up in annoyance, his grip on your hips tightening. “fuckin' christ — who's calling?”

with your brain slowly working to catch up to the situation, the persistent ringing of your phone seemed to finally sink in. your hands fumble around as you search for the phone, eventually finding it. glancing at the caller id, your eyes flutter in surprise, and you let out a whimper, forced to keep your eyes open as rafe's hips continue their relentless rhythm. “w-wait,” you stammer, struggling to catch your breath as you see andrew's name flash across the screen. “i — shit — i need to-”

“answer it.” he ordered, smirking down at you as he watched the name flash on the screen. “let him know your best friend's takin' good care of this pussy.” rafe murmured, noticing the hesitance in your expression.

“wasn't a question.” rafe grunted, taking your phone from your hand without any consent, his thrusts getting rougher as he answered the phone, putting it on speaker. “mmh, y/n's busy. fuck— y'know you're really missin' out though, man. this pussy's a fuckin' dream.” rafe spoke between breathy moans, the sounds of skin slapping and both you and rafe's moans clearly heard on the other end by andrew. “hear that? s'the sound of quality pussy, she’s sucking me in so tightly. bet you wish you were me huh?”

“hey, what is…” andrew's voice comes through the other end of the line, his words trailing off when he realized who he was talking to. “rafe?” rafe's smirk only widens at the sound of the obvious confusion and uneasiness in andrew's voice. “uh huh..” rafe groaned, “fuck man, she's takin' my dick so well; she even makes the prettiest noises f'me wanna hear?” the condescending, almost faux sympathy in rafe's voice was clear, it was obvious he was getting off on this.

he angled the phone closer to your face, making sure the sound of your lewd, almost pornographic moans and whines were clearly heard over the phone. “mmh yeah, all those pretty sounds just for me. but i uh— fuck, she might need to call y'back, man. gonna fill this pussy up soon.”

true to his word, rafe led you through four quivering orgasms after he hung up, letting himself go after your fourth one, his hips stuttering as his cock twitched, his warm liquid spilling inside of you.

“that definitely wasn't our last time...pussy's mine now.” rafe breathed out, collapsing next to you.

taglist 🪽: @bunbun-3 @drewscoquette @untitled10351 @rafesweetie @meetmebehindthemallrafe @supercutelovergirl @drewswife @plaidcowboy @missquantic @rafesdiorperfume @minitarayummy @this-one-weeb @akobx @mystianqel @lacebambidoll @dolletebun @milamilkie @ch6rm @rafesprecious

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐔𝐏 ? ❞

❝ THE SHIBUYA INCIDENT? MORE LIKE THE SHIBARI INCIDENT ! ❞

✧ summary: they got too touchy, so you tied them up! (anon request)

✧ pairings: s. gojo, s. geto, k. nanami, t. fushiguro, r. sukuna, c. kamo

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, tying up (m! receiving), overstimulation (gojo, nanami, choso), multiple orgasms, sub! gojo, choso, switch! geto, toji, nanami, oral (f! receiving) (toji), oral (m! receiving) (nanami), riding (gojo), face riding (toji), shibari (choso), true form sukuna, stomach mouth for sukuna makes an appearance, art by @ / innaillus

✧ w/c: 6,212

SATORU GOJO

“You have no one to blame but yourself, Toru,” you bounced slowly on his cock, twitching in your folds as if it could get deeper if only you would let him.

(You wouldn’t).

“I warned you that I’d tie you up if you kept teasing me all night,” your fingers trace the rope around his wrists, before sliding them up to behind his back, “and what did you do?”

“you tested me baby,” you lean closer, letting your pert nipples draw close to his lips, but still just out of reach, letting him sink down to the hilt. a whimper leaves his throat, muffled against your soaked panties shoved in his mouth, “but you’re so good now, when you’re like this,” your fingers card through his hair, before tugging hard on the silky strands and you feel him twitch deep inside your drenched folds.

His sky blue eyes are glassy, pretty tears pooling, as your lips press sweet kisses to his jaw, and he mumbles something against the fabric that sounds like ‘please’ and you’re smiling that lovely smile that he had been kissing only a few minutes before.

“Begging already? Didn’t know my pussy felt that good,” and you lift yourself up, so only his tip remains inside your warm folds before slamming down, making his head loll back, a muffled grunt making your walls clench, “you’re too fucking big, Toru,” you slide your hand down your stomach, “think you’re actually fucking my guts now,” and his eyes watch as your fingers ghost over the slight bulge his dick makes inside you, “knew you were the strongest, but I didn’t think you meant in bed too,”

Another whine is pulled from his throat, and you take pity on him, pulling the fabric from his mouth, drenched in your precum and his saliva. His pants are nearly enough to make you cum from the sound of it, the sounds that left his lips were yours and yours alone - because he may be the strongest, but he was yours all the same.

“What do you need?” You’re bouncing on his cock slowly, slower even now that you can clearly hear the whines leaving his throat, his engorged tip kissing your womb, “use your words, and maybe I’ll let you have it,”

“Please, baby, wanna cum in your princess cunt,” he whines, music to your ears, and only your ears — because only he would be such a mess for you, “wanna fill you up, feel you cum around me,”

“I’ll let you cum,” and he blinks up at you, a tear slipping down his cheek, “if you beg for it,” He whimpers, a pathetic noise that only makes your insides twitch, “you asked for this, you love it when I do this, maybe I should suck you off the next time you have a meeting with the higher ups — imagine their horror if they walked in on us like that, but you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” 

You slam down on him, his head falling back, but you’re pulling him back into a messy kiss, all tongue and teeth and moans, “is this cunt that good for you, baby? Tell me how good it is,” 

“S-so, good, fuck—“ and you know he’s close, from the way he’s keening and whining, the way his fat tip twitches against your cervix, and the way his pretty eyes glaze over from a clear cerulean to a cloudy blue. But you’re not far off either — the way his cock kisses every inch of you, bullying your sopping cunt open — it’s not gonna be much longer,  “I’m—“ 

And you’re nodding, “Cum, fill me up, Toru, want you to fuck your cum inside me,” and that’s all it takes. 

He cums, spurts of thick cum gushing inside your sloppy pussy, as you continue to ride him through his orgasm, until his tip finds that one spot that has you following him over the edge, cumming hard. 

You’re panting, as you continue to ride him — bouncing again and again, until your knees give out, pleasure curling your toes, and flooding your body — just as his seed did. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Satoru looks up at you, fucked out gaze and smile on his lips, “didn’t know you could top me like that, otherwise, I would have had you done it a long time ago,” 

“Shoulda known you of all people would like to get topped,” and he’s raising an eyebrow, before his cock twitches inside you, “already ready for round two—“ 

You squeak as he flips you over, the rope formerly holding him in hand, “wha—how?” 

“Y’know as much as I liked you tying me up,” he pins your arms with one hand, and winding the rope with the other — not too toght, but enough that it burns into your skin, “think you’d look even prettier than I did.” 

SUGURU GETO

“Fuck, Suguru, you look so good like this,”

And he did — especially handcuffed to your headboard—  vulnerability suited Suguru Geto well — something reserved for you and only you. And something you definitely earned after all the games he had played with you all night long. Orgasm after orgasm pulled from you with a few fingers and laps of his tongue, until you fell apart under him, with nothing more than his smirk as your reward (aside from pleasure of course). 

And you knew Suguru preferred your pleasure over your own — punishingly so, as he loved nothing more than to see you fall apart into a crying mess under his touch — fat tears and begging that only made him ready to cum in his boxers untouched. 

But you were tired of not touching. 

“We can agree to disagree, Princess,” he says through gritted teeth, as the clink of the handcuffs draws a small smile to your lips, “I think you’d look much prettier like this for me,” and the last word is more of a gasp, as you thumb his weeping tip, “fuck—” 

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” and he glowers at you, a deep violet so dark it’s almost black with the way he stares at you, “Aw why so mad? You’re the one asking for it,” 

“We’ll see who’s asking for it once you uncuff me—“ 

SMACK! 

And he hissed as your palm came down on his thigh, hard, red blooming against his skin, “what was that?” he still glared all the same, but his anger came apart at the seams with the way your fingers grazed his clothed cock, growing harder by the second, and fuck, the way he pulsed in your fingers, as his fat tip twitched when your fingers grazed his slit, “poor Sugu, you complain so much, but you fucking love this don’t you? Love being at my mercy with nowhere to go and nothing else to do but get jerked off,” 

You cut off his reply with a snap of the elastic of his boxers against his skin, a gasp parting his pretty lips. And when you finally the tugged the soaked fabric down, you saw his pretty cock was as flushed as his cheeks were — the tip a pretty scarlet, dripping with pearly precum that you were dying to suck off, and the lovely veins that wrapped around his length like a Christmas present you were dying to unwrap. 

“Fuuuuuck, baby—“ he sucks air through his teeth, the rattle of the metal of the cuffs against your bedframe, breath shaky as he watches you with half lidded eyes. you’re still teasing him, fingers tracing along the toned muscles of his inner thighs, so close to where he wants you, but too fucking far, “you g’nna toy with me all night or are you going to give me what we both want?” 

“What we both want?” You raise an eyebrow, and he scoffs, all too confident for a man handcuffed at your will. 

“Know you love getting me to blow my load as much as you love getting off yourself,” and then your fingers wrap around his base and squeeze, head lolling back, lips parted in a groan, hips thrusting into your touch. 

“Think you’re putting too much value on your dick, Suguru,” and your thumb rubs meanly at his weeping slit, making him twitch under your touch, cuffs straining with the way he tugs harder and harder at them, rubbing his wrists raw, “should I show you your place?” 

And you start to pump his rock hard cock slowly, gathering his pre as makeshift lube, before spitting directly onto his dick. 

“You fucker,” he moans, nearly coming right there at the sight — it was too much, tip twitching at the feeling as you continue your excruciatingly slow pace, “don’t be a tease or you know I’ll give it right back to you, but worse,” 

“Oh, I know you will,” you grin back, but oblige him, fisting him faster, his body arching into nearly a crescent as he jerked his hips into your fingers. And god, he’s fuckinh close — you know he is by the way he’s twitching in your hand and groaning your name, “cum f’me, Suguru, cum all over me,” 

And he does, and he cums all over your fingers, pumping him through his orgasm, as his thick release coats your hand, dripping onto the sheets, “fuck, Suguru, you came so much,” you pull your hand away, licking each cum covered digit clean, “gotta do this more often if you’re gonna—“ 

You yelp, as he flips you over onto your stomach, your head turning as he pins you with his body, hardening erection pressed against your ass, holding your broken handcuffs in one hand and pushing his long black locks back with the other, dark eyes half lidded in pleasure and satisfaction—

“You think I’m gonna let this slide Princess?” And he’s teasing your wet entrance with his tip, “better think again,” and he’s handcuffing you to the headboard, both wrists caught as the chain linked through the metal bars of your headboard

“Suguru—“ and the you hear the distinct snap of his phone camera, as he smirks at you when you turn your head to look at him, right as he guides the tip of his cock inside you, a moan leaving your lips. 

“You were wrong sweetheart, maybe I look good handcuffed but you’re perfect.” 

NANAMI KENTO

You were the perfect wife. Kento’s perfect wife. 

Not a single bad word could be uttered about you, whether within his earshot or not, Kento would know — and no one wanted to get on his bad side. Or they would most certainly face a swift punishment with his blunt blade and tie wrapped around his knuckles. 

But that didn’t mean you couldn’t turn the tables on him once in a while. Right? 

It was the perfect anniversary — a day spent together, a dinner shared at a five star restaurant, and now a night spent together in bed. But Kento had done so much for you — he had planned the day and the dinner — so the least you could do is repay the favor with dessert. 

Well, for you anyway. 

“Baby, let me—“ Kento gritted his teeth, straining against his own tie, the one you had lovingly wrapped around his wrists, holding his arms behind his back. 

“You can handle a few more, can’t you, Kento? We still haven’t gotten to seven,” you pressed a kiss to the tip of his oversensitive cock — and fuck, you loved seeing him like this. The always put together, always professional, always business-like ratio sorcerer falling apart from your touch. You loved seeing the way his flush crawled up his neck until his cheekbones were flushed beautifully, the way his pristine hair was mussed and messy from your fingers running through it, and the way his pretty light eyes were dark and colored with lust — just for you. 

And all it took was this — your lithe fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt, kissing down his toned chest, paying special attention to every scar, until your hands found your buckle of his belt. You undo his belt with the same practiced ease, tugging down his slacks and boxers at once, until you see his pretty cock. 

Or rather, your dessert. 

How many times had he cum for you? Probably four or five times. 

“Don’t tell me you’re already impatient, husband,” you suck at his weeping tip, making him grunt, thighs tensing as you let him slide past your lips into your warm mouth. And fuck, the heaviness of his cock against your tongue was nearly too much for you, pressing your thighs together, “after how long you spent fucking me last night, shouldn’t I repay the favor?” 

And he had fucked you well — far too well. How many times did he make you beg for it — and yes it may have been at your request, but you also had wanted him to fuck you, fuck you with that dick you loved so much, but he spent so much of the night with his face buried in your cunt, not letting you get off the way you wanted, not until his perfect little wife was a blubbering mess for him. 

So now it’s your turn. 

You wouldn’t let him touch you, not until you had your fun — after all he had his dessert last night, and there’s more than you wanted right now than a stomach full of his cum. 

He grunted, “Fuck sweetheart, how long are you gonna not let me touch you?” And you’re smirking against his length, humming around him, as you begin to bob up and down. And all he can do his watch you with half lidded eyes, “so fucking a mix of his precum and your saliva dripping from the corner of your mouth, “know you must be dripping, want to make you feel good too—“ 

And his sentence is cut off by you sucking hard, his balls grow tense, as he groans your name loudly, before he’s cumming again, thick release coating your throat. You swallow every drop, and each time he came, it was less, but it was still so much. 

He’s panting and straining against his restraints, as you continue to suck and trace his dick through his orgasm, making him keen and moan at your touch, but almost flinch away all the same. 

“Don’t run away from me, Kento,” you pull away from his cock, strings of cum and spit connecting his length to your lips, “my perfect man, there’s nothing more than I love to see you fall apart for me,” you lick your lips clean, palms sliding up his chest, as you lean over him, fingers carding through his blond locks again, before tugging hard, “you deserve to be taken care of, so I’ll let you choose,” he stares up at you, as your lips find his in a bruising kiss, your tongue dragging over the seam of his lips before slipping inside, letting him taste his cum on your mouth, “do you want to cum in my mouth or my cunt this time?” 

His mouth opened, but no words came out for a moment, until he felt your fingers ghost over his overly sensitive cock again, “F-fuck—your cunt, sweetheart, need to be inside you, I can’t wait another—” and you’re on his lap in an instant, his swollen mushroom tip dragging against your sloppy cunt, and with the way he’s looking at you with dark, half lidded eyes, you knew his hands would have split you open on his cock in an instant, calloused palms from using his blunt blade using you as a glorified fuck toy, even as he whispered sweet nothings about how good you felt while fucking you like a whore. 

So you would do the same for him. 

You sunk onto him all at once, letting your hole engulf his length with the same eagerness you always had for him, so fucking good to watch his cock sink inside you, the curve of his length hitting places you could never reach, as if his ratio applied to your cunt too. 

“Wanted this, didn’t you, love?” you ask, cupping his cheek to force him to meet your gaze, “wanted your wife’s pussy this bad? Is it that good for you?” And he’s groaning in reply, as you give a slow bounce, forcing his cock even deeper somehow, and he wants to touch you so bad, wants to grope your tits and squeeze your hips as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips and forced you deeper onto him, “tell me how good it is, Kento, and maybe I’ll let you cum,” 

“It’s good, it’s s’good,” and you’re beginning to fuck yourself open on his cock, fingers finding his broad shoulders as your nails dug pretty crescents into his back as you fucked his dick, the sounds of skin slapping together ringing in his ears, “So perfect, just like you,” he’s not going to last long with how sensitive he is. And he cums just as his tip brushes against your womb, shooting a near blank, as his head falls back, until you’re pulling him back to you to meet in a messy kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, until you fall over the edge, soaking his dick and lap in your juices as you continue to ride him, until you slump against him, panting in his ear, murmuring: 

“Happy anniversary, Kento.” 

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“Fuck, ngh, Sukuna, don’t use—hah—“ 

“You can take it, woman, you have before,” and his fingers fuck deeper into you, while his other hands grope at you — your chest, your hips, your ass, “gotta open you up if you’re gonna take both of my cocks, unless you want me to read you apart,” he’s sinking a third finger inside you, your head falling back, exposing your neck to his lips, leaning down to graze your pulse with his teeth. 

He just loved to do this — fuck you wide open with his fingers, let each of them stretch you out to no end, until you were begging for something else — anything else. 

“Motherfucker,” he’s bullying your cunt open with three of his fingers, but it’s more squeezing than stretching, as your slick drips down his large hand, “you’re gonna break me with your goddamn fingers,” and his other hands tweak your nipples, pinching and twisting them, making you yelp, as the pleasure builds, his fourth hand teasing your abused clit. 

“You’d fucking cum either way, whore,” and you glare for a millisecond until your traitorous cunt climaxes all the same, a long whine parting your lips as he fucks you knuckle deep, knocking at your cervix, through your orgasm, “shit, I see at least your slutty cunt can listen, unlike you,” and he’s still curling and twisting his fingers, before finally pulling them from you as you gasp, pussy aching from his touch, “complaining and yet you pruned my fingers, didn’t you?” he gives a smack to your twitching pussy, drawing another yelp from your lips, heat flooding your cheeks and anger rushing to your lips. 

“Talk awful big for someone who has four fucking arms and that’s the only way you know how to make me cum,” you spit venom without thought of who you’re spitting it at, until your body freezes, as he flips you over with ease, looming over you, all four of those same arms crossed, “Kuna—I—” 

“Is that so, brat? My fingers are the only thing that’s made you cum recently?” you stumble over your words, but his lips only curl into a mean grin, and you know you fucked up, “then let’s see about that,” 

“You can do better than that,” he grunts, a smirk on his lips as he watches you, riding his thigh lamely, drenched cunt making a mess, your slick running down the sides of his leg, “so fucking wet just from rubbing your cunt on me, don’t even to do anything to make my pussy cum, she does that all on her own,” 

You whimper, “Kuna, please—“ and he clicks his tongue. 

“Said you only came from my fingers, didn’t you?” He shows off his tied arms behind his back, the very same he had you tie while your pussy throbbed, wanting nothing more than his fingers stuffed up your hole again, “we gotta fix that, brat. Can’t have you saying I can only get this slutty cunt cumming one way,” he flexes his thigh, making you jerk against it, the wet squelch of your pussy dragging up and down his thigh, until he’s making you ride it, bouncing you on the muscle. 

God, why was every part of his body so fucking big? 

He could feel your puffy clit and lips open wide on his toned thigh, as if he could stuff his whole fucking knee in your hole, and you know he would if he could, but he settles for feeling your sloppy cunt flutter around nothing, slick dripping down his leg. 

He chuckles darkly, watching every movement with you, lidded eyes far too pleased with the view in front of him, “Seems like you don’t even need my help to get you off, do you brat?” he stops his movements, making you whine, and you can’t stop yourself from grinding down on his thigh, “that’s it, whore, need you to fucking soak me — think you’re so good, but when it comes down to it, you just want to be fucked like the rest of them, don’t you?” 

He uses his knee to catch your clit, rubbing meanly against it, and it’s too much, pleasure making your toes curl, as you can only moan his name again and again, “Fuck,” your fingers find purchase on his shoulders, chasing your high, as you fucked yourself open on his thigh. 

“That’s it girl, cum for me, let me see you break,” and he jerks his thigh again right as your cunt grinds down on him at just the right angle that has you seeing stars, “say my name,” 

And you do as you squirt all over his thigh, a gasp ripped from your throat as you moan his name, your eyes burning as your hips can’t stop riding him, seeking that high longer, the squelch of your messy cunt growing louder with every thrust of your hips. 

“Shit, that was a good orgasm, wasn’t it, woman? Much better than my fingers,” he flexes his thigh again, pulling another whine from your throat, legs shaking, but he only hums, as your eyes meet his, desperate and wanting, one that he only meets with a laugh, “practically begging for my cocks now, aren’t you, brat?” but he only clicks his tongue, “straddle me,” 

You hesitate, only for him to jerk his thigh, making you yelp once again, as you shift, and he does the same, moving back onto his plush bed, your cunt rubs against his cocks, soaking him with your slick, but he only smiles. 

“Did you think I would let you fuck my cocks that easily?” he sighs, shaking his head, “since I haven’t given you a proper orgasm, I think I have a lot of making up to do—” and he’s reaching around, slipping from your restraints with ease, “you’ll have to excuse my use of my hand this once, but I promise, I won’t be lifting another finger—” and he guides you forward, until you’re perched on his stomach, your hands splayed on his chest, as his hands slip back behind him. You furrow your brow a moment, lips parting with protest that dies on your lips when his stomach parts open for his large tongue to lap at your cunt, “you made such a mess, woman, now,” he forces you in place with his gaze alone, as his tongue licks the length of your sloppy cunt,  “let’s clean you up, hm?”

CHOSO KAMO

“We don’t have to do this, Cho,” 

You always did anything for him. From the moment you met him, you were the one to dote on him — even with how clueless he was about most things, from holding hands to kissing to even sex — you were willing to take your time, teach him what it meant to love. And he loved you — and he loved this. 

“N-no, I’m fine, it just—hah, it feels so good,” and he looked even better. 

His dark locks were untied as he looked up at you, arms tied in scarlet silk behind his back, much like the blood he manipulated, but instead it was you that was controlling him. The delicate yet strong Shibari knot was nestled at the base of his wrists, deep red against pale skin, more intricate knots climbed the base of his spine until the silk split across his back and winded around the middle of his shoulders towards his neck. 

A knot formed at the base of his neck, right between his collarbone, multiple other loops framed his body, a present not meant to be unwrapped. Knots placed intricately at every pleasure point meaning that even the slightest touch, movement, or even breath would send pleasure thrumming through his body. 

“Doesn’t it feel good to take our time?” Your fingers brushed delicately over a knot placed against his nipple, making him jolt, sending ripples of heat across his body, as the rubbing of the knots sent arousal right to his erection, “you’re always in such a rush, so eager, but now,” your fingers follow the silk down his body, down to the knots settled on either side against the base of his cock, “we can take it slow,”

And he was always quick to have you — from the first time, Choso barely had lasted you grazing his raging hard erection while your lips found his, before spilling all over your fingers. And he had sputtered apologies, cheeks as red as the silk that now bound him, but you had only smiled and asked him if he liked it. He spent the rest of the night spilling over and over again in your cunt, and each time after, he barely needed foreplay, he could cum just by eating you out — all he wanted and needed was to be buried in your cunt. 

But now, he was at your mercy. 

“So pretty, Cho,” you cooed, eyes sliding over him just as sweat slipped down his neck  — he was spread open by the loops of red forcing him into a kneel around his thighs and ankles, even ropes tied around his hips with knots placed perfectly against his inner thighs, “usually I can’t even touch you without you pinning me down, but now I can do all I want,” 

“Please, love, I need—“ and you lean down to kiss the hollow of his throat, fingers toying with the silk between your fingers, and every little movement of the ropes sent pleasure cascading down his body, “ngh, want you—“ 

“What do you want, Choso?” Your fingers work your way down every inch of him, “because there’s so much I can give you—-“ 

“Anything,” he replies, as the knots rub against his leaking cock, precum slipping down his halls, “everything, please I just need—“ and you click your tongue. 

“Still so impatient,” and your touch leaves him, making him whimper, “I guess we’ll have to work on that,” 

“Baby, no, can’t. No more—“ a beautiful symphony of moans leaves his lips, as your lips find his to swallow his protests, a vibrator in hand pressed to the base of his cock, “I can’t—-“ 

“You can cum still, Cho, one more time f’me,” cum is splattered on your carpet, and runs down his dick, “you’re so good for me, such a good boy, aren’t you?” Your praise makes him keen all the same, “know you love this, love feeling good — you’re so needy, probably would just bury your cock in my cunt,” and he’s whining, as your fingers tug on his black locks, your tongue dragging up the side of his throat, before your teeth dig into the soft flesh of your neck, “but we can’t have that, not yet — gotta make you cum so much that just burying you in my pussy is enough to make you cum,”

And you’re turning up the vibrator, and he moans your name, a rush of heat sent right to your cunt. Your eyes watch his dick twitch — he’s more long than thick, his tip flushed an angry red as you work the vibrator up and down. You couldn’t wait to stuff him inside you, feel the curve of his cock reach every inch of your cunt, until he’s fucking your stomach. 

“F-fuck, I’m close—I’m gonna—“ and you turn the vibrator higher, pressing it right between the base of his cock as you tug on the silk right against it, and he’s coming again, with a cry of your name, spilling all over his stomach and chest and the ropes, “sweets, fuck, hah, please, please, I can’t—” 

You ease away the vibrator, the whirring quieting, as he looked up at you with his eyes, violet pupils so dark that they nearly look black, a trickle of his spit slipping from his lips. 

“You did so good, baby, so so good,” and you’re pressing soft kisses to his face, fingers tracing over the hickies you had littered his neck with, “and now tell me what you want baby,”

“I want you, want you to fuck me, need you to—“ and you’re pushing him back, still spread open from the ropes before you settle on top of him, his needy dick already hard from the rubbing from the ropes and the feeling of your wet cunt against him. 

And you grin, before letting his cock split you open, down to the base, making his back arch into you, the twitch of his tip telling you he would cum again in two seconds flat — just as he did for you, “Anything for you, Choso.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

Toji loved it when you were desperate for him. 

And you always nearly were. You had the habit of jumping his bones the minute he made his way back from another bounty, not to mention the times he feigned to be late, you were already an orgasm and half ahead of him in the bedroom, taunting him for being late. And it was the most mundane of things that could turn you on — the simple adjustment of his pants, a smile he flashed you after a joke, lifting his shirt to scratch his stomach, and even running his fingers through his hair. 

Just one of those things would have you tugging him home and neither of you would see the outside of your bedroom for the next two days. 

That being said, when he actually messed with you…well—

“Toji,” you glare at him, gaze a mixture of frustration and lust, “if you tease me on this car ride home, I swear to god—“ 

“Swear what, doll?” He drawled, eyes still fixed on the road, lips pulled into that same smirk he always had, “not like you won’t be able to resist fucking yourself stupid on my dick when we get home,” 

“Fuck off,” you scowl out the window, and his smirk only grows larger, cock stirring in his pants. He loved riling you up — especially when it was so easy, but also because it made him want to fuck you all the same, until you were begging him with glassy eyes and slutty moans. 

It had only started because he saw a man at the store eye you the wrong way. So his hand slid to the small of your back, turning to meet the gaze of the man leering before squeezing your ass, drawing a gasp from your lips and a pout. And he didn’t miss the subtle press of your thighs together as you walked off, the way your eyes lingered on him, dragging down until your teeth bore down on your bottom lip. 

Fuck. And he couldn’t stop. Then it was him pressing up behind you while you were rifling through clothes, letting you feel his half hard erection. And then he was pressing open mouthed kisses to your neck in the changing room when you asked him to zip you up in a dress. 

“That’s exactly what I wanna do, doll,” he turns the corner, “wanna fuck you open with my fingers until you beg me to stop, want our neighbors to hear how I slut you out every night,” your fingers curl into the fabric of your dress, and he knows you must be a mess under that thin fabric, soaking through your panties, “don’t make a fucking mess of your seat, car’s a loaner from Shiu,”

“And who’s fault is it that I’m making a mess in the first place, asshole?” And your husband shrugs, leaning back as he rolls to a stop at the last light before you rolled into your neighborhood. His hand reaches across the console, his large, calloused palm sliding up your bare thigh, until it breaches your edge of your underwear, making your body tense. And the pads of his fingers press against the soaking fabric of panties. 

“Well, who’s the one who’s wet like a whore from a few words right now?” And finally the light turns green, and his hand retreats, instead resting on your thigh, drawing circles on your knee with his thumb, same smug grin on his lips, “almost home, and I’ll shut her up, won’t I?” 

And he would — but you’d shut him up too. 

“Hah, To-ji, fuck, s’good—“ and his lips close around your puffy clit and suck hard, his tongue slipping in and out of your messy hole, “k-knew your mouth was good for something,” and you yelp when you feel his teeth bite your clit, before he’s redoubling his efforts, swirling, sucking, and licking, “not so fucking annoying when your mouth is full,” your moans fill his ears, and he growls against your folds, his wrists bound with a cursed tool that neutralized his strength, one that you had slipped from his collection for a moment like this. 

Shit, he was so fucking hard, and he couldn’t even fist himself, but more than that, he wanted to pin you down, stuff your cunt full of his fingers until you begged for him to stop. His tongue wasn’t enough for his slutty pussy, he wanted to fuck you right — the way he wanted. But if this was the game you wanted to play, he would — his wrists rubbed raw from trying to slip from his restraints — for now. 

He slurps at your sweet cunt, large tongue licking a stripe after stripe up your messy cunt, grinding down, as his nose bumped and dragged against your clit, “Such a fucking slut, soaking my face like this — wanna cum so bad, g’nna tie me up just so you can get yourself off?” 

“Ngh, it’s your fucking fault pulling that shit in the mall, if you hadn’t—” you moan, cutting you off by tongue fucking your cunt open, swallowing every drop of your juices as he bullied your walls open with that sharp tongue of his. 

“It’s not my fault your fucking ass attracts the attention of every freak in sight—” 

You scoff, “Like you?” and he chuckles darkly, making your smirk drop from your lips, as he grinds his face into your folds, his face glossy with your pre, as dark eyes meet yours, and you can feel the smirk against your needy pussy.

“But this is the freak that fucks you isn’t it?” his tongue traces fast circles around your clit, “the freak you beg to fuck you open every night, the one who’s dick you can’t enough of, the one who’s face you’re fucking, isn’t that right, wife?” 

And you’re so fucking close, the way he ate you out was the same way he kissed you, as if he wanted to take you, all of you, until his jaw would ache, until tears ran down your face, until there was nothing left of you for him to taste. 

“Toji, I’m close—I can’t—” and he’s grunting, as he sucks hard on your clit, licking and slurping at your pussy. 

“Cum, make a fucking mess on my face,” and you do, cumming hard as you moan his name, but he continues to eat you out as you ride out your orgasm, not letting a single drop of your juices go to waste — lapping and sucking until you finally stilled, your panting filling the silence of the room. 

Until you heard a rip. 

And then you were on your back, ripped up parts of the cursed tool tossed aside, as Toji grinned down at you, lips and chin still shiny with your release, as his pink tongue darted out to collect it. 

“Toji—I—” and he’s smirking down at you, tilting his head, as he forces your thighs apart to reveal your all too sensitive folds, “ngh, please, I can’t—” 

He clicks his tongue, licking his lips agai, “Now, lemme show you how much of a freak I am, doll.”

✧ a/n: this was an anon request i got a while back and i've had gojo's written for so long, but i got hit hella by writer's block and imposter's syndrome so, well here it is now :). this is to tide you guys over as i work through some larger projects

[slutla]

THRU THE PHONE ! | MARK GRAYSON X AFAB READER

warnings: 18+, nsfw, masturbation (m), perv! mark (?), he jerks off 2 ur voice basically but is sweet abt it lol. brat reader (?), reader doesn’t know about what he’s doing, voice kink ? cuz he likes ur voice (?) phone sex but its one sided lowk. usage of baby & angel as pet names. fluff.

summary: you miss your boyfriend in the quiet moments. he misses you too, but with a restlessness that says your absence lingers a little heavier on his chest.

an: minors, ageless & blank blogs dni. mark is so adorbs need him bad asf + short drabble + this isnt proofread and some parts r meant to be italicized n aren’t cuz im 2 lazy

“I miss you.”

You roll your eyes, though the words send a dull ache through your chest. Turning onto your side, the white bedsheets rustle softly beneath you, cool against your skin. The dim glow of your phone screen casts faint shadows across the room. You bring the device closer to your ear, pressing it against your cheek. You let out a loud sigh, making sure he hears it.

It’s nighttime, and the wind howls through the window. The air isn’t cold, just restless. You’re nestled in your cozy bed, wrapped in warmth, as the soft light from your phone screen and the moon illuminate your room. You miss him. A lot.

“It’s not fair,” you huff, the agitation clear in your voice. “He has a bunch of different superheroes he can call on, so why does it always have to be you, Mark?”

Mark listens carefully to your tone, gently sitting up in his own bed as the discomfort settles in. All he longs for is to be in your room, wrapped around you in the warmth of your bed, holding you close. His back rests against the headboard, the cool wood pressing into him as his long legs stretch out across the bed, sprawling comfortably yet aimlessly, the blankets slightly tangled around his feet.

“You know how Cecil can be, baby,” he says softly, bringing the phone closer to his ear. He falls quiet for a moment, his voice gentle when he continues, “I promise, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll only be here for a week, and then you’ll have me all to yourself.”

You pout, your glossy bottom lip quivering. “I really miss you, you know?”

Your voice is soft, a little tired, and so, so sweet, it curls around his ribs and settles into his chest. So fucking sweet, he thinks, breath hitching. Every syllable is a lullaby, every sigh a prayer.

And you—God, you’re perfect. Every strand of hair, every flutter of your lashes, every little thing that makes you, you is something sacred to him. At least in his eyes, you’ve always been something unreal, something he could never stop wanting.

“I know, baby. I know,” he breathes, voice low, almost shaky.

His actions are nothing short of shameful, downright lewd, but how could he help it? You’re just intoxicating, too intoxicating, slipping under his skin like warm sugar, making a mess of him without even trying.

Rigid and pulsing, limp and trembling in his grip—there’s a rawness to him that clings to the air, your voice echoing through his haze. Sweat beads on his skin, and need coils in his chest; he’s caught in the pull of you. here he is, undone and aching—stroking his leaking slit with a shaky hand, your presence burning behind his half-shut eyes.

“I love you, angel,” he murmurs, voice thick and slow, tracing lazy circles over his flushed, sensitive tip. It’s a fleeting softness tangled in the mess of him, a thread of devotion he clings to amidst the haze. The moment drips with want—his fingers slick and unsteady, chasing you in every shuddering motion.

Without thinking, you murmur back, “You can’t ‘I love you’ your way out of this, silly,” tugging the covers tighter around you, a shield against the quiet. Your voice dances with a teasing lilt, light but edged with promise—“I’m going to hold you accountable when you get back.” The words hang playful yet firm, a thread of anticipation stitching through the warmth curling inside you.

He lets out a chuckle, low and breathy, dripping with a charm that hums through the air.

It’s almost laughable how effortlessly you unravel him—his hands sliding up and down his length, slick with wet, squelching sounds that fill the space. He’s half-startled you haven’t caught on yet, a flicker of surprise in his haze, but deep down he figures it’s better this way. Right now, tangled in this mess of want, isn’t the moment for you to know.

The tension winds tight in his gut, a slow, burning sensation ready to snap. His grip tightens as your voice drapes over him—soft, electric, setting every nerve alight. Every word you sigh into the receiver is a spark, stoking the heat pooling low in his stomach.

And then a ragged groan spills from his lips as he tips over the edge, pleasure crashing over him in waves, hot and messy against his hand. His body trembles, muscles slackening as he sinks back against the headboard, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

A lazy grin tugs at his lips, still dazed, still drunk off you.

“Trust me, doll,” he murmurs, voice thick. “I’m counting on it.”

[gold-onthe-inside]

good for you

who? spencer reid x f!reader summary: spencer's had enough of your teasing him, so he takes it upon himself to teach you a lesson. content warnings: smut, NSFW 18+ ONLY MDNI, dry humping, praise (r is called smart girl, good girl, big girl), no degradation. word count: 1.2k a/n: req - spencer reid and praise kink? where you’re only allowed to cum by riding his thigh.

here’s the thing. you don’t mean to rile him up, really. but he’s so easy to tease and he looks so pretty when he’s flustered. you’ve seen him completely forget what he was talking about because of you, seen him leave after you’ve flirted with him, and change directions because he’s gone the wrong way.

but for all the confidence and control you show on the outside, you crumble when you’re both alone, spencer’s proximity enough to make you flush. for all his alleged inexperience, he sure knows how to get under your skin to get even with you. fingers lingering at the hem of your skirt, slow steps to get you on the couch, kisses too brief to satisfy you really.

he knows that if he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, you’ll drop your head back to give him more room, and he knows that if he lets his hand linger on the softness of your hip just a second longer than normal, you’ll let out a shaky sigh. he drags his hand over your waist, feeling your body shiver and pulse, and he pulls you onto his lap, pressing light kisses down the column of your throat. your hands squeeze his shoulders, fingers digging in through his shirt. “you haven’t been very nice to me today,” he murmured, pressing one last kiss to the hollow under your throat, steady hands unbuttoning your blouse, your pretty breasts making him slightly dizzy.

“i’m always nice to you,” you protested weakly, hands gripping his shirt, knuckles white. you try to grind down onto him but his hands still your hips, a soft chuckle sounding from behind you.

“don’t try to lie to me,” he said, letting his fingers trail up the bare skin on your stomach. “you’ve been teasing me all day.” he moved one of his hands underneath your skirt, pressing against the fabric of your underwear. you let out a whine at the contact, gripping the fabric of his shirt. “did you really think i’d give you what you want that easily?” he whispered, breath hot against the shell of your ear.

you leaned your head back on his shoulder, the sound that left your lips a whine, his hand palming you through your underwear. “no,” you gasped, pressing your thighs together. “i knew you’d get me back.”

"is that what you were looking for, pretty girl?" he asked, his voice soft and sweet, never rough with you, even if you did deserve it.

you whimpered, shifting on his lap, your body hot and flushed from his touch. “please, spencer,” you whispered, your eyes squeezing shut. “you know what i want.”

"do i?" he asked, all innocent as he curled a finger against your underwear, making you whimper.

"yes," you nodded, your hands grasping his shoulders, pushing your hips forward against his hand. "you do, you just like to make me say it first."

"smart girl," he murmured, his fingers too slow to please you. "go on, then. tell me what you want."

you let out a shaky moan, his hand rubbing you through the fabric of your panties. "i want you," you managed out. "i want you so bad." you leaned back against him, letting your head fall against his shoulder, his touch making your breath catch in your throat.

"and what makes you think you deserve it after how you've treated me today?" he asked, tilting your chin up to look at him.

you felt like you were melting under his honeyed gaze, your eyes dark with desire and pleading. “i’m sorry,” you whispered. “i didn’t mean to tease you, i just like the way you react when i do.”

"much better," he said, smiling at you. "but you're gonna have to do a little more than that to make me happy."

you nodded, desperate to get what you wanted. “anything, spencer, i’ll do anything.” your voice was breathy, your body trembling in anticipation. “please.”

"that's my girl," he murmured, holding your waist. "you're gonna take care of yourself on me like a big girl. all by yourself. think you can do that for me?"

you nodded furiously, desperate for any friction you could get. your hips rocked against his thigh, a whine leaving your lips. “yes, i can do that for you,” you said, your voice breathy.

"good girl," he praised, hands sliding around your stomach and back, pulling you closer. you flushed at the name, hips grinding down against his thigh, your underwear damp from the friction. you let out a soft gasp, your body trembling.

“you’re so good to me.” you murmured, your hand reaching back to tangle in his hair.

"i'm always so nice to you," he replied, wetting his lips. "but i'm starting to think you don't deserve it."

you whined at the words, your thighs clenching around his. “no, i do, i swear,” you said, your head dropping forward. “i’ll be good for you, i promise.”

"no more teasing me?" he asked, stroking your spine with the lightest touch as your breaths shallowed, coming closer to falling apart.

you gasped, your eyes squeezing shut as he touched you. you arched your back, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “no more teasing,” you managed to gasp out, heat building up in the pit of your stomach.

"because you know what happens when you tease me, don't you?" he asked, almost patronising as he cupped the back of your neck as you whined and rutted against his thigh.

you nodded wildly, feeling your body grow weaker, your thoughts getting fuzzy. “i know,” you panted out. “you get back at me.”

"smart girl," he praised. "you gonna come for me, sweetheart?"

you nodded desperately, your body trembling, your movements becoming more erratic. “yes,” you gasped out, your hands clenching at his shirt. “spencer, i’m gonna -” your words were cut short, a soft gasp leaving your lips, your body stilling as you pressed your thighs, shuddering through your release. you went boneless in his lap, your head falling back against his shoulder, breaths leaving you in ragged puffs. spencer kept his arms around your waist.

"you did so well, angel," spencer mumured, kissing your bare shoulder and rubbing your back.

you hummed in response, still fuzzy edged from your orgasm, and just curled into him. “thank you,” you whispered, eyes closed as you nuzzled into his neck. his hand rubbed slowly circles over the soft skin of your stomach, gentle and soothing.

"think you can take one more?" he asked you. after all, you weren't the only one who needed to be taken care of.

you opened your eyes, peering at him from your position in the crook of his neck. you felt warm and boneless, but there was a possessive part of you that didn't want to stop touching him. a greedy part of you that wanted nothing more than to see him fall apart under your touch. "i can take it," you said quietly, your hand coming to rest on his thigh.

"that's my girl," he murmured, kissing you gently.