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Chapter 3

"How big was his cock?"

"Mom!"

"Don’t mom me. I’m genuinely curious."

I snorted and put my phone on speaker so I could pick up the cutting board and scoop the veggies for my stir fry into the skillet. "It was… decent," I murmured remembering just how well-endowed Zayne had been.

The man had nothing to be ashamed of and with his new jewelry… his girlfriend, wife, or boyfriend would be a VERY happy individual.

"Decent?" my mom repeated, her voice incredulous. "Decent?!"

I rolled my eyes, trying not to laugh. "Yes, mom. Decent. Just drop it."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, and I could tell she was biting back her curiosity but eventually she sighed in resignation. "You never let me have any fun."

I couldn't keep the grin off my face. "That's because you always want to gossip about the people I pierce or tattoo."

"Can you blame me for wanting to gossip?! You're around handsome men all-day. You have to give me something!"

I laughed. "You do realize I don't just pierce and tattoo men, right?"

She scoffed. "I know, but most of the tattoos you do are on men and they're usually hot." She paused for a moment then let out a light squeal. "Hey! I know what you-"

"No."

"You didn’t even let me finish."

"I don't need to. I know when you're scheming."

She huffed and I could practically see her pouting on the other end of the line. "You always know! How do you always know?"

I hummed, stirring the vegetables in the skillet then adding some teriyaki sauce. "Because I grew up with you?"

"Rude."

I smirked.

"Why do you always have to be such a smartass?" she muttered.

"Oh, I don't know," I said innocently. "Where do you think I learned it from?"

That stopped her. "Touché," she hummed then changed the subject. "Are you still single?"

I groaned.

"Hey! It's a valid question."

"I’m hanging up now."

"Wait!"

I stopped just short of hitting the end call button. "What?"

"Are you going out with anyone?"

I huffed and rolled my eyes at the question rephrase. "No."

"Have you even been on a date recently?"

I almost laughed because was it considered a real date if you were ‘faking it’? "No."

She sighed dramatically. "You're going to end up an old spinster at this rate."

"Thanks, mom."

She sighed again. "I'm just worried about you."

I shook my head, my attention drifting to the kitchen window and the rain pouring outside. "I know, you always are, but I'm fine."

"You're lonely," she protested. "I just want you to be happy."

I didn't respond as I shifted the vegetables in the skillet. What she didn't know was that I was lonely. Extremely lonely. I missed being around someone that was mine. Missed sharing my space and just having someone there… I just didn't want to admit it.

Sylus had hit the nail on the head earlier…

A knock on my front door drew my attention.

I frowned and put down the spatula before turning off the eye on the stove. Who the hell is knocking on my door at this hour?

"Hold up mom, someone's at the door."

"At this time of night?" My mom's voice came from the phone speaker. "Who is it? Do you think it's a serial killer?"

I snorted. "If it was, pretty sure they wouldn’t knock."

A moment later, there was another, louder knock. Whoever it was… seemed impatient.

I ignored my mom's protests and slowly moved towards the door then peeked through the peephole. My heart froze when I saw a tall, lean man standing on my doorstep soaked from the rain, his silver hair dripping and shirt plastered to his body…

Sylus.

Opening the door, I stared at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you I wasn’t done with you." He met my gaze, his expression unreadable as his eyes swept over me, taking in my sleep shorts and T-shirt before sweeping towards the kitchen where I could hear my mother’s loud voice demanding I answer her. "Who you on the phone with?"

I shifted. "My mom."

He hummed and I watched a drop of water roll down the side of his face, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. "And what's she got to say about me being here?"

"Well, she's wondering if you're a serial killer for starters."

That earned a huff of laughter from him. "Am I that terrifying?"

I rolled my eyes, stepping back to let him come in then closing the door, "Hardly."

He chuckled and ran a hand through his silver hair. The motion drew my attention to his biceps as it flexed, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning.

Damn him and those arms…

He glanced around my apartment. "Nice place," he murmured. "It is a bit bland though."

I shot him a glare. "Not all of us are obsessed with leather, chrome, dark colors, and posters of women with barely any clothes on."

"Bailey! Who’s there?! Answer me or I’m sending your brother over there!"

Sylus looked at me, his eyebrow quirked. "Is your mom actually threatening to send your brother over here?"

I groaned and moved back into the kitchen with Sylus right behind me. I looked down at the phone, still propped on the counter near my rapidly cooling dinner. "Mom, you don't have-"

"I absolutely do," she replied, her voice sharp. "Now tell me who that man is."

Sylus smirked and crossed his arms over his chest, his wet shirt sticking to his skin and outlining every damn muscle.

"It’s Sylus, mom," I sighed, feeling a headache coming on. "Remember him? He grew up two houses down from us, he’s my boss, he’s my best friend?"

"Oh, Sylus!" my mom's voice perked up instantly upon hearing his name and my eyes narrowed when I heard something that sounded suspiciously like excitement. "What's he doing there? Is he spending the night?! Have you two finally decided to-"

"NO," I cut her off quickly, face flushing. "He's not staying the night."

Sylus chuckled, looking far too amused as I shot him a glare.

My mom sighed. "Why can’t he stay the night?"

I rubbed my temples and let out a frustrated sigh. "Mom, can you please not-"

She huffed. "I’m only suggesting!"

"Yeah, with zero subtlety-"

"Oh, I have plenty of subtlety," she interrupted then kept talking, describing all the ways she was subtle.

I groaned then jumped when Sylus pressed his chest against my back.

He chuckled against the side of my neck, his breath warm against my skin and I fought back the shiver that rippled through my body as his muscular arms wrapped around my waist, trapping me against him. "She's rather… enthusiastic."

I cleared my throat, feeling overheated all of a sudden, and forced myself to focus on my mom, who was still happily rambling on the other end of the line. "That's one word for it…"

He chuckled. "I wonder if she'll start planning our wedding next."

"Did he just PROPOSE?!"

I groaned. "Mom, he was joking. He didn't propose. We are not getting married."

Sylus snickered, his fingers tracing a pattern on my hip, and my eyes nearly crossed as heat flared in my gut. Damn it. Why did he pick now to get touchy-feely?

"What about babies?! I want at least six grandchildren!"

I bit back another groan, my face flushing as Sylus, the bastard that he was, decided to rest his chin on my shoulder and chime in. "Yeah… what about babies?"

"BABIES?!" My mom practically screamed on the other end of the line.

"Mom, seriously, you need to calm down-"

Sylus chuckled, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of my shirt and brushing against my stomach. "Did she just scream 'babies'?"

I groaned, my cheeks flushed and my heart racing as I opened my mouth to respond.

"BABIES, Bailey!!"

"Mom, seriously, stop. We are not getting married, and we are not having babies."

"But why not?" she whined. "I want grandchildren…"

I rolled my eyes then looked up at Sylus. "Can you not help fuel her delusions?"

He chuckled, his expression smug. "And deny her the chance to have us make babies? I wouldn't dream of it."

At that, I blushed and elbowed him in the stomach, hearing his soft "oof" followed by a low snort as I spun around to face him. "Sylus... knock it off."

He laughed. "You sure I should knock it off, kitten?"

"KITTEN? He just called you kitten!!"

I closed my eyes and groaned, feeling heat flood my cheeks as my mom practically giggled on the other line. "Mom, seriously- would you just… stop."

Sylus hummed as he stepped closer, making me step back until my ass was against the counter. "She isn't going to stop… she's invested now. She's probably already looking at wedding dresses as we speak."

"Sylus, I swear to God, if you don't stop, I will hit you."

"Hit me? You couldn't hurt a fly." My cheeks flushed as he leaned in closer, his lips right next to my ear. "Besides," he murmured, his voice lower than usual. "You know I like it rough."

I inhaled sharply as his words sent a shiver running through me and for a moment, I forgot where I was and what I was saying.

My mom chose that exact moment to chime in, her voice practically giddy. "Oh, he likes it rough, does he?!"

"Oh my God! Goodbye, Mom!"

"Wait, wait, hold on-"

"Bye mom. Love you. Talk to you later!" I reached out and hung up the call before she could say another word, taking a deep breath to calm myself.

"That was rude," he said with a laugh. "You could have given me a chance to say goodbye before hanging up."

"I don't think you deserve that privilege."

"Oh, really? And why not?"

"Because you're the cause of my current headache."

He hummed and pressed his nose into the crook of my neck.  "You smell good," he murmured. "Like... vanilla and something else." His nose skimmed along my jawline, his stubble scratching at my skin, "And you're barely wearing any clothes, kitten."

My face flushed. "I'm wearing shorts and a T-shirt. It's not that - ah!"

His teeth nipped at the tender skin of my neck. "Shorts and a T-shirt… which means little covering for your legs…" He ran his nose up the side of my neck. "I want those legs wrapped around my waist."

I shivered, heat pooling low in my belly at his words. This had started as playful banter, but now his voice was low and dangerous. "Sylus… I…"

His hands gripped my hips, lifting me onto the counter then positioning himself between them, his hands settling on my thighs. "Tell me to stop," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips before returning to mine.

I held his gaze, my heart racing in my chest, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe. I should tell him to stop. I should ask him to leave. But the words refused to leave my mouth.

He chuckled softly when I didn't respond, the sound dark and husky. "No protests?" He squeezed my thighs. "Not a single word of defiance?"

I swallowed, struggling to keep my composure. "Sylus… this isn't a good idea…"

His hands slid higher up my thighs, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin where my shorts ended. "When was the last time I had a good idea?"

I rolled my eyes, trying to keep myself from shivering. "Never-"

"Exactly," he murmured, his hands slipping beneath the fabric and continuing their path up my thighs. "Which means this is right up my alley."

This was a dangerous game we were playing, and yet… "I don’t think we should-"

"And why not?" His eyes met mine, and when his gaze dipped lower to where my nipples were clearly visible pressing against the fabric of my shirt, I could see the heat there… the desire. "Tell me one good reason why we shouldn't give in."

My brain struggled to string together coherent sentences. "Because… we're pretending to date… we’re friends-"

"We're good at being friends," he agreed, his fingers slipping higher, and a gasp escaped my mouth involuntarily when the tips brushed against my pussy. "But what if we're better at this?"

My brain screamed at me again that this was a bad idea, that I should push him away and tell him that he needed to leave, but instead, I found myself spreading my legs wider, giving him better access.

And that was all the invitation he needed.

"So wet for me," he murmured as he pushed two fingers into my slick entrance. "You're trembling," he murmured, his voice filled with arousal. "I could do things to you, things that would make you forget your own name. But I need you to tell me if you want this."

"Sylus," I gasped, trying to keep myself together as his fingers stilled inside me. My hands grabbed at his shirt, desperately clinging onto something. "We're not… we’re supposed to be pretending. We’ve always been friends and I-"

He stopped me, placing a finger over my lips. "We're also two adults, who want each other, and who have both admitted we're terrible at relationships." His fingers pushed deeper and curled, and my head fell back, a gasp escaping my mouth.

"Sylus-"

His finger moved from my mouth to my chin, tipping my head back. "Stop trying to find a reason why it's a bad idea. Stop trying to put up those damn walls you've always had. For once… just let go."

I swallowed, feeling completely undone by this man. My best friend. My boss. A man I had known for years. And now, he was making me feel things I never thought possible.

He was right.

I'd spent years building up walls, refusing to let anyone get too close, too comfortable. Hell, I was the queen of sarcasm and sass, hiding behind a snarky exterior, afraid of letting anyone see the true me.

But Sylus was great at tearing down those walls… and dammit, it felt amazing, but I still didn’t know what to think… how to feel… wanting one man while trying to make the other jealous… or was it the other way around?

I didn’t know anymore.

"I-"

He shifted closer, pressing against me and trapping me between the cabinet and his body. "Let go for one night," he murmured, his voice ragged. "Just one night, then you can go back to pushing me away and trying to convince me you don't feel anything for me."

I looked at him, my heart in my throat. It was a bad idea. I knew it was. And yet, as I stared at him, felt his touch on the most intimate part of my body, heard his words in that low, husky tone that drove me crazy… all I could think was 'to hell with it'.

"One night… just one night… but then everything goes back to normal."

His eyes darkened, heat flaring in his expression as his fingers continued their expert caresses. "One night. Deal?"

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to nod in agreement.

Tomorrow I would go back to pretending that I didn't feel a thing for him. Tomorrow I would go back to trying to convince myself and him that I wasn’t interested in him… that it was Caleb that I really wanted.

But for tonight... for one night, I would let myself go and I would feel.

"Deal."

The word had barely left my lips before his mouth was on mine, and suddenly, everything else just… faded away.

I gasped, my hands gripping his shirt tightly, and then my legs were wrapping around his hips as he lifted me into his arms then carried me through my apartment to my bedroom.

He pushed open the door, his lips never leaving mine, and carried me through before kicking the door shut before tossing me onto the bed.

I let out a muffled gasp as my body bounced slightly on the mattress then the breath was suddenly gone from my lungs as I watched him move with quick, sure movements as he removed his jacket and tossed it to the floor, his shirt following a second later.

My heart pounded like a drum against my ribs as I watched him, my eyes tracing the smooth expanse of muscles on his chest and abs covered in dark tattoos. I'd seen him without a shirt before, but this was different. Everything just felt… more… powerful. More intense. The tension between us thick, like a live wire that was ready to ignite.

And as he approached the bed, his expression dark and serious, I couldn't help but feel a shiver of anticipation run down my spine as his long fingers went to the button on his black jeans as he toed off his boots.

I was about to open my mouth to say something. Maybe tease him, maybe make a snarky comment, anything to keep the usual banter going but when I saw the look in his eyes all words died on my tongue.

All I was capable of was a sharp inhale as he unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down, kicking them off with an ease that made my mouth go dry before removing his socks and standing before me completely naked.

I could only stare, my breath catching in my throat as my eyes roamed over his naked body… taking in the sharp planes and curves of his muscles, the smooth expanse of his golden skin, the dark ink that marked his chest and arms, and the hard, thick length of his cock between his legs.

My eyes raked over the massive dragon tattoo that covered most of his upper body.

It was a magnificent beast, all black and grey shading with bright red eyes. Its head rested on his right pectoral, the body and wings wrapping around his shoulders and down his back and the tail wrapping around his hip then down his thigh as if it was guarding him.

He was a god.

A perfect, powerful, dangerous god.

"You're staring." His voice snapped me out of my daze, my gaze flicking up to meet his eyes as he stalked closer to the bed. "And you're still wearing far too many clothes."

Feeling shy under his intense gaze, I nodded. "Right, right…"

I started to move, intending to strip off my clothes, but he was suddenly there, his calloused hands pushing mine aside as he pushed up my shirt, his gaze dark and burning as his eyes lingered on my exposed belly before moving higher. "Lift your arms."

I obeyed, lifting my arms above my head as he removed the shirt from my body with a swift motion, leaving me in nothing but my shorts.

He made a low, guttural sound in his chest, the sound almost animalistic. "Such a pretty little thing, aren't you?"

I tried to say something, but all I could do was gasp, my eyes fixed on him as his hands slid to the waistband of my shorts. "Lift your hips."

I obeyed, lifting my hips off the bed, allowing him to hook his fingers into the waistband and slowly pull them down before tossing them over his shoulder.

His eyes roamed over my naked body as he slowly slid his hands up my legs then pushed them apart so he could stare at my pussy. "All this pretty skin… just for me."

The low growl in his voice made my head spin, had my hands balling into fists in the sheets as I struggled to find the words to respond. But all I could do was gasp as he let out another growl then lowered himself to the bed between my spread thighs and dipped his head, sealing his mouth to my pussy.

The sudden contact sent a jolt of pleasure through my body, and my hands immediately went to his head, gripping his hair as he started to lick and tease the sensitive skin, his hands gripping my thighs to keep them spread.

"Sylus... I... oh my god-"

I gasped, my body arching off the bed, and when I looked down, our eyes met, and the look in his eyes sent heat rushing through my veins.

He looked like a man who was starving, his gaze intense and focused as he continued to tease me with his tongue and lips.

"You taste so damn good, kitten," he said between licks. "So good that I could stay here… worship you for hours."

I moaned, unable to look away from him, the sight of him between my legs, looking like he was worshipping me, almost too much to bear. I could feel the pleasure building, coiling hot and tight in my gut, and it was all I could do not to come undone. "Sylus… please… I can't-"

I gasped, my voice breaking off into a moan as he flicked his tongue over my sensitive flesh… and when he sucked on my clit, his gaze still locked on mine, I saw his eyes practically glow with desire.

"Sylus, please…" I gasped, not knowing what I was asking for even as I rocked my hips against his face.

"Please… what? Please stop? Please don't stop?" he teased, the vibrations of his voice against my pussy almost sending me over the edge. "Tell me what you want."

"Don't stop," I gasped out, my fingers tightening in his hair as my head fell back against the bed. "Don't stop… oh god, please-"

He chuckled. "No need to beg, I have no intention of stopping until I've had my fill."

I was about to respond when he suddenly pulled back, leaving me teetering on the edge of bliss and frustration, my head rising to look at him questioningly. "What are you-"

He gave me a predatory smile. "Be patient, kitten," he murmured as he sat back on his heels, gripped my hips and pulled me into his lap. "I'm far from done with you."

The sudden action made me gasp, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, and I could feel the hard length of his cock pressed up against me. My fingers gripped his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as I tried to find my bearings.

"Sylus-"

He chuckled, his hands gripping my thighs, his expression almost hungry-looking. "I'm going to take my time with you, kitten. I want to savor every second of tonight."

I shivered at the promise in his words, heat flaring through me, the need to have him closer, the need to feel him inside me almost overwhelming. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"No," he murmured, his head tilting down to my neck, "… just drive you wild." His hands slid up my sides, his touch sending a shiver through me as I gripped his shoulders tighter and rocked my hips against his. "You're so damn impatient. Always trying to rush me."

I opened my mouth to reply, to argue that I was being completely reasonable, when he suddenly bucked his hips, the unexpected movement making me gasp as the long length of his cock dragged through the wet folds of my pussy. "Oh… you're doing this on purpose-"

His hands gripped my hips tightly, holding me in place, his expression almost cruel as he continued to rock his hips against mine. "Doing what on purpose, hm?" he murmured, "I'm just enjoying myself… enjoying… the way you look right now… so damn pretty."

My body arched in his grip as my nails dug into his skin, my breathing becoming labored as he continued to grind his hips against mine, the head of his cock sliding through my folds and notching against my entrance before sliding past.

I whimpered and leaned forward, biting into the flesh between his neck and shoulder.

A sharp hiss left his mouth, his eyes darkening with a mixture of pain and desire. "Careful, little kitten," he warned, his voice thick with warning. "Keep biting me like that and I might just have to put that smart mouth of yours to better use."

I shivered, a combination of arousal and defiance stirring in me. "Is that a threat or a promise?" I teased, my mouth moving to the opposite side of his neck and biting down, harder this time.

His grip on my hips tightened, and I could feel the muscles in his chest tense as a low growl escaped him. "Oh, it's a promise," he growled, his voice ragged. "I'll make you beg and plead and - ah, gods, kitten, careful." My teeth grazed across his neck again, leaving a mark this time, and his expression went feral. "Fuck… stop that before I put you in your place."

I didn't listen, continuing to leave marks, a sense of satisfaction running through me as I marked him, claiming him as mine even if it was just for the night. I wanted to push him, to see how far I could go… to see if he would snap and take me like he so clearly wanted.

I moved lower, scraping against the skin of his chest, and when my teeth grazed against a particularly sensitive spot right above his nipple, he hissed, his head falling back.

And that was it.

He snapped.

Without warning, he suddenly wrapped an arm around my waist, flipping us so I was underneath him, my back pressed into the mattress as he stared down at me. "Enough," he growled, his hands gripping my wrists and pinning them above my head. "You little brat."

I looked up at him, my body trembling with anticipation, my heart pounding in my chest. "What are you going to do about it?" I taunted, my eyes glittering with challenge as I struggled in his grip. "Are you going to punish me?"

His eyes darkened and he pressed down against me, pinning me firmly to the bed. "Oh, you're damn right I'm going to punish you."

you shiver fiercely as you draw your jacket tighter around you, trying & miserably failing to fend off the chilly october rain. huddling closer to the body beside you, you shoot your best friend a death glare and continue to trudge through the puddle-laden street.

"rosie, i swear to god, we'd better be getting really damn close." you swear at her. she nudges you with her hip and offers you a saccharine sweet smile. gesturing to the brightly-lit marquee hanging above the building far ahead of you at the very end of the road, she answers breezily, "it's right in front of you, silly, we're almost there."

you swear again, the building appearing much further away than it truly is due to the downpour. so much for the hour you spent straightening your hair; you wonder if your mascara has yet begun to trail down your cheeks.

the two of you are currently making your way toward the venue of tonight's concert, the third in a series of spontaneous going-out plans you and your friend have made for the fall. rosie has insisted that you'd do well to get out of your shell more often, and while you hate to admit it, she's right; since your not-so-recent breakup this past february, it seems you've been becoming more and more of a homebody, happy to hibernate in bed with only your cat, a good netflix binge, and a lit candle. which was still much more preferable than what you were doing now.

"you couldn't have picked a better place to park, huh?" you mutter under your breath even as the place draws nearer and nearer, earning yourself an elbow to the side. rosie quickens your pace; and despite your stream of grumbling complaints, the two of you reach the building in no time.

you stop under the overhang to put yourself back together from the rain, pulling your damp hair out from where you had it tucked under your leather jacket, fluffing it out and smoothing over your skirt to make sure everything is in order before rosie grabs you once again.

you blame her entirely for tonight's ensemble- a black miniskirt, deep red sleeveless top to match the color swiped on your lips, complete with boots and an oversized black jacket the same shade as the dark liner adorning your eyelids- but two things are quite apparent: one, she was absolutely right for choosing these clothes. you looked smoking. and two, the jeans you had originally planned to wear would have been nothing short of horrible in this weather.

"come on, y/n!" she tugs your hand and pulls you through the front doors, where bouncers had already glanced your way and deemed you old enough to enter- and thankfully had not spotted the two beers your friend had smuggled in her own jacket. "i'm sure the place is jam packed by now! let's try to find a good spot before the show starts."

and while the standing-room-only auditorium was packed, you both were still able to weave your way through the sea of people until you were only a few arms lengths' from the raised stage's right side, stopped at the railings of a barricade. tendrils of fake smoke- likely from a fog machine- curled slowly out across the air from behind the screen separating the expansive room from backstage, and beams of light from red & purple lasers chased each other around the crowded room from projectors dotting the high ceiling. as simple as it appears, you have to admit that it certainly sets the right tone for a hole-in-the-wall rock concert venue.

you pull out your phone and check the time as rosie beams excitedly at you, handing you a drink. with only a few minutes until the show is set to begin, you turn to her and ask quietly as she opens up your beers, "what's the name of this band, anyway? i didn't have time to look them up before we left."

you pull up instagram with your free hand and take a sip of the drink, typing to find said band's account once she responds with an excited squeal, "it's 3RACHA, they're based a few hours away from here. i knew the second i saw the poster on the website. i can't believe you've never heard of them, y/n! they're, like, huge right now in the music scene. it's a miracle i even got our tickets." you snort a little at that last part. rosie can be a bit delusional when it comes to her favorite artists; they're usually not as 'huge' as she thinks they are. but you're sure she means it as a compliment.

"look, i found their official account." you show your phone to her, "and knowing you, you're obsessed with at least one person in this group. who's your favorite member?" rosie's grin turns slightly feral, and she taps on a photo and turns the phone back for you to see. a buff-looking man with a megawatt smile fills your phone screen, his childish grin contradicting the broad muscles revealed by a tight compression shirt. you look back at your friend for an explanation.

"his name is seo changbin, he's the drummer. just look at him, y/n! isn't he so handsome!" she practically swoons. you study the photo with a little smile, shaking your head at her antics. while the guy on your screen is certainly attractive, he's not quite your cup of tea; but you're here for the music, not the men.

you close your phone without looking at any of the other pictures on 3RACHA's account, choosing instead to be surprised when they come out on stage.

as it would happen, that was the best decision you could have made. you just didn't know it yet.

—

the overhead brights finally dim a short while later, and the crowd all around you begins to cheer while rosie nudges you excitedly. the stage powers up on either side with long beams of red, flickering lights, nearly blinding you if you were any closer to the front, and the smoke begins to pour out more steadily from the machines, casting the room in a seductive haze.

the buzz of a backing track starts low and gradually increases, setting the mood; you feel anticipation begin to pool in your blood, eager for the start of the show. rosie jumps up and down excitedly, squeezing your arm so hard you're worried it might lose circulation.

just then, the screen behind the stage lifts to reveal the band themselves. and you've never seen three rockstars this hot before in your life.

your best friend's favorite, changbin, is first to take to the stage. and even if he wasn't exactly your type, you nonetheless have to check your mouth for drool at the sight of him in real life. he strides out to the drum set that has been lifted to the stage, taking a seat and making rosie scream like a banshee right next to your ear.

she wasn't joking about her obsession with him, the sounds emanating from your best friend becoming only slightly concerning.

but you don't really mind. you're too distracted by the next man walking onto the catwalk from one of the eaves. microphone in hand, he struts to the center of the stage, all rolling muscles and cut angles in his tight black sleeveless tank.

you fan yourself dramatically as rosie informs you that this man is named bangchan. again, the rockstar on stage isn't quite the kind who gets you all hot and bothered, but that's alright- you've got bigger things to think about than that.

because almost as if the universe has saved the very best for last, your jaw drops to the floor and never recovers once the third and final member appears. and you immediately know: you're in trouble.

the deafening sound of the crowd fades into second stream in your mind at the sight before you. you forget the noise, you forget the people, you forget where you are- hell, you forget your own damn name in favor of the man who is now walking down the right side of the stage in your general direction, a long-necked, deep maroon, electric guitar slung across his unbelievably broad shoulders that form a perfect contrast to his lean waist.

his dark hair is curled just above his half-mast eyes, and the smirk cast upon his lips is beautifully sinful. the glinting silver chain slung around his waist beckons anyone viewing to tug him closer, matching the necklace resting on his tight shirt; and suddenly, you realize you've never seen anything like this man now standing a mere few yards away from you on stage.

you're more interested in him and his insane demeanor than you think you've ever been in a man.

there are not enough adjectives in the english language to describe the passionate, powerful aura rolling from his body and filling the entire room with his presence. his steps are sure and confident, not a nerve to be found as he grins mischievously out at the gathered crowd.

and though the other two men have lights on them as well, the spotlight seems to love this one in particular. not that you can really blame it.

he opens his arms in a grand sweeping gesture, grabs the mic stand that you hadn't bothered noticing when he walked out, and says loudly, "seems like everyone's excited to see us tonight, yeah? let me hear some fucking noise!"

the crowd erupts into applause, ratcheting the energy in the room up to atmospheric levels. people are yelling and cheering with all their might in every direction, but you're frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights, eyes stuck on and unmoving from the drop dead gorgeous guitarist.

he takes a minute to introduce the band as a whole- you think you catch the name han jisung- and before you know it, he's grabbing that sleek maroon guitar and thumbing his way through the opening chords of a song, bangchan now singing loudly and changbin hitting the drums with enthusiasm.

and fuck, if you can't feel the bass from the notes he plays in every inch of your body. it becomes physically impossible to look anywhere but him; you're instantly entranced with the possessive grip he has on that guitar, those broad shoulders and dark curls, and that wild, devil-may-care grin taking up his handsome face.

some distant part of your brain registers rosie talking in the background, discussing the order of songs or the names of bandmates with some of the people around you. you can't find it in yourself to participate in the conversation. not when there are better things to do- things that include you making unintentionally direct eye contact with 3RACHA's guitarist.

his smirk grows impossibly wider still and he blows a kiss your way, though there's no telling if it was meant for the crowd or just for you. his dark eyes remain glued to your own, looking like sin and sex personified; and you swear you feel your knees start to buckle from the tension soaring between you, buzzing to life thick and heavy like a syrup to your senses, muffling the world around you until all your focus narrows onto him.

you think you may faint, and you aren't even being dramatic. the musician is still looking at you, heavy lidded eyes gleaming with mischief, his figure stalking slowly down the stage through the haze.

the song picks up and you start moving absentmindedly to the beat, never once letting your gaze wander, getting lost in the lights and the sounds and the sight of this man you've never met.

he eventually breaks your stare, instead pouring his focus into playing off an intense riff as the song crests and boils over into an addictive, wild tune. shredding chord after chord, his tongue comes out to play, ever so slightly peeking out and licking at his lips, sweat beginning to visibly bead at his brow with the effort.

he plays the riff out flawlessly; and when it's all said and done, he goes in for the kill, strumming one final reverberating beat that echoes into every crevice of your body, and then he tosses his head back with an inaudible laugh of ecstasy— all sweat and muscle and sex — like a god taking in the chaos he created.

his face takes up the screen behind the stage, and you can see every rivulet of sweat dripping down his vein-lined neck, every crinkle of emotion next to those captivating eyes, every glossy strand of messy hair falling into that perfect face.

it paints a picture in your mind that you know you won't ever be able to forget- a picture of sin, of want, of wild.

and that's all it takes for you to become hopelessly, irrevocably smitten. that toss of his head, that devious, toe-curling smirk, it all spells out your doom. you're obsessed.

the rest of the song passes with you watching him reverently- and so does the next, and the next, and the next; until, in what feels like a blink of an eye, the concert is nearly over. every song has made you feel some type of way. every song has seen you going absolutely insane with sheer emotion and feeling, never before having heard such incredible music.

in your awestruck daze, you couldn't feel the time passing you quickly by. now, bangchan announces that there's only one more song left for the night. you watch in wonder as he trades spots with the handsome guitarist, who now stands center stage next to the chair that appeared as a prop somewhere halfway through the show.

"thank you all so much for coming out to see us tonight," he addresses the crowd in that deep voice you've only heard every now and then throughout the evening. "it means so much to us that you took the time out to come and listen to our music. i hope you have time for one more."

without warning, he pulls up the chair and sits, and you use up every ounce of your willpower trying not to drool all over yourself at the sight. the leather material of his pants accentuates powerful thighs everywhere his guitar fails to cover up; muscles flex and ripple in his legs and arms at the change in position, driving you & the rest of the crowd completely, ridiculously nuts.

he puts his guitar pick in between his teeth and smirks, knowing the next couple chords will change the mood of the entire venue.

and change it does.

he strums a few bars, and you nearly swoon. this new song is much different from the last few. where they were loud and upbeat and energetic, this one is slow, seductive, and... sultry.

the red lighting and smoky haze filling the air certainly helps make matters worse, and you can't draw yourself away from the almost explicit look on the musician's face, eyes shuttered in lusty darkness and scarlet shadows from the stage effects. he's dripping sweat, still taking up the large monitor screen on stage, and those eyes sweep over the crowd like a homing beacon of sin. you could see yourself living and dying for that sensual gaze alone, trapping your attention like a moth to a flame.

he grabs the pick back out from his mouth. leaning over his guitar with determination creasing his features, he plays a few short riffs in quick succession, tongue out once again as he nails every single note with ease. you've never seen anything hotter than the way his tongue flicks at his upper lip before his mouth curls into another devilish grin.

the notes ring out clear and sharp through the room, and it's like every single being around you is now hypnotized by the same spell you've been under the entirety of the show.

and then- he begins to sing.

and while you've heard him earlier in the night giving backup vocals to bangchan, or rapping in succession with changbin over the drums, it's nothing compared to the gloriously smooth, silky vocals coming from him. the venue is filled with his music, every lyric teasing insanity and stirring up a swirl of deeply inappropriate emotions in you.

he shifts from his seated stance, standing tall with one boot braced up on the rickety metal chair beneath him, and you can't help but stare as his thigh flexes beneath leather, as his fingers coax melody from the guitar like it's an extension of his body; like it's a weapon, and he's already chosen his target: you.

the lyrics are sensual, dangerous, feeling full of late-night promises and bad decisions. he sings them like it's nothing- like it's casual. like he knows exactly what he's doing to you and can't be bothered to apologize.

his voice is surreal and effortless, lethal even; capable of killing with only a note, only a lyric. death by song feels inevitable to you now. the sultry lines dripping obscenely from his mouth speak of nights well-spent, of caving in, and of wanting more, more, more.

the words wrap around your spine and slither between your ribs, lingering at your every pulse point like he's challenging your body, daring you to just try and breathe in his presence.

he's sweating, chest heaving slightly, eyes still at half mast and locked on the middle distance — or maybe on you, as he gazes almost longingly into the camera. every movement he makes is practiced chaos: the way he flicks his tongue against his lips when they curl into another note, the subtle flex of his ring-clad fingers along the neck of the guitar, the dangerous smirk that never leaves his captivating face.

at one point, he leans back just slightly, exposing the long, delectable expanse of his throat, and you swear your knees almost give out from under you.

your mind is fulled with sudden- yet not unwelcome- fantasies of him baring that throat of his for your eyes only; images swirl to life in your head of licking a long, slow line up the length of it, maybe even earning yourself a sigh deeper than the ones he's given the crowd tonight. wondering if he'd be as loud for you behind closed doors as he is when he performs.

you aren't even sure if you're hearing the song anymore or if you're just feeling it like a drug in your bloodstream. it pulses to life within the most neglected parts of you, whispering "come hither" to every nerve in your body, lighting up every cell with undeniable, unmistakable need.

and the worst part? you knew it from the moment he walked out on stage- this was need all along. you needed his song and his stare like you needed the very breath in your lungs.

soon- much too soon for your tastes- he finishes on a held note, that voice of silk and sin ringing out high, clear, and unreasonably pretty. the final chord echoes in every atom of your being, your soul humming with the vibrations of his powerful bass, seemingly awakening and being brought to life at his fingertips.

the crowd goes wild, roaring with applause and shouts of praise and appreciation. he grins, just barely. lips twitching upward, satisfied. pleased with himself. and he should be.

and still — somehow — it's not enough.

but it's over.

he ruined you.

he ruined you.

-

hardly a moment after the stage screen descends and signals the end of the evening, rosie hugs your side and playfully nudges her hip into yours. "so? what did you think?"

you open your mouth... and nothing comes out. your throat feels dry. your lungs feel wrong, like you haven't truly breathed in nearly an hour. like somehow, without him on stage, your body has forgotten what it was meant to be doing with itself.

she laughs — full of adrenaline, all spark and motion — while you stand there, wrecked, ruined, feeling an otherworldly level of exhilaration that maybe doesn't quite belong in this room. rosie takes one look at your helpless, wordless state, and breathes out a laugh. "yeah. that's what i thought." you don't have the heart to roll your eyes at her.

the crowd is still thick, but the energy has softened — not gone, but warmer now. thicker. like a blanket over your senses, the fog lingers in the hazy room, steam curling up off the floor and sticking to your sweat-laden body like a second skin.

the few people who make no move to leave just yet are talking, buzzing, exhilarated. a few girls near the barricade are already tearing up, clutching their phones like relics- and honestly, you can't fault them for it.

but you?

you can still feel him in your skin.

han jisung.

his voice in your ears.

his fingers on the strings, dragging sound from his guitar like sin itself. awakening long- forgotten parts of your body, spirit, soul like he was calling out your name on that stage, like there was no one else in the room but you and him.

like with every chord he stroked, he was caressing your mind, coaxing forth fantasies, and darkness, and sheer, undeniable want.

rosie is still talking. you faintly register her complimenting someone's jacket. her voice flutters through your haze like a breeze you can't quite chase, not strong enough to break the trance you've been left high and dry in.

but a few words do make it past the fog in your brain, trying their best to pull you back down to earth. "i'll go get the car," she says, noticing the rain now cascading down like molten silver under the streetlights outside the venue. "no point in both of us getting drenched; i'll swing around to the front. you good?"

you nod slowly. too slow. the world still feels like it's moving in molasses, like time has come to a standstill without 3RACHA's lead guitarist performing for all to see. you're still floating in a breathless state of post-concert awe when rosie exits your line of vision, leaving you clutching the rails of the barricade near the stage like it might just have the power to break your spell. but it doesn't.

you don't want to leave; not yet. you don't even know what you're waiting for, only that tonight changed something within you. something solidified, crystallized, and snapped into place when he was playing song after song in this red-streaked room, something you can't put a finger on but can still feel in your very bones.

you don't want to lose that feeling yet... so you don't leave. you don't turn and walk away.

instead, you curl your fingers tightly over the cool metal railing in a desperate attempt to cool the warmth that sings in your blood, failing to think of anything that isn't him.

the venue is increasingly empty now, only a handful of stragglers hanging back, likely feeling the same daze you do. the ringing in your ears finally fades, replaced now by the low hum of equipment being packed and the soft murmur of the people lingering.

the barricade is scattered with a few hopefuls, their makeup smudged, their eyes wide, whispering in bated breath like they're waiting for someone to appear.

and then- with no warning at all, sending shockwaves down every inch of your spine- he does. he appears.

at first it doesn't register: just a silhouette breaking through the fog that obscures the entrance to the backstage area, a ripple passing through the group near the stage, subtle and breathless. a shift in gravity.

you follow it with your eyes.

there, emerging from the shadows backstage, is han.

not on fire now. not soaked in red light and reverb. just han.

his shirt still clings mercilessly to his body, a damp towel slung like a second thought around his neck. those untamable curls are sweat-slicked, his handsome face lightly flushed.

gaze still deliciously dark, he stops once the small swarm of heart-eyed fans circles him, chattering and sighing like he's some kind of miracle sent to them from the heavens. and maybe he is.

he signs small somethings offered up to him for the fans with one hand and runs the other through his hair, lazy and unbothered. he barely looks twice at the small crowd around him, nodding and smiling politely as though his mind is elsewhere.

he gets a reprieve when the other two members of 3RACHA, changbin and chan, walk out from backstage behind him, and the swarm quickly moves to encircle them once they have what they want.

you don't bother tearing your eyes from the guitarist, though- he's all you can see. all you can think of. he fills up your senses, steals your breath with his lazy prowl, walking out of the fan's bubble with a searching gaze; eyes scanning the room like a man on a mission.

and then he sees you.

his lips part subtly once his eyes land on you, brows quirking up ever so slightly, as if to say there you are. the faintest trace of a smirk ghosts across his mouth, that mouth that was singing all those sultry promises into your ear just a few moments ago.

he says something — quiet, offhand, to no one — and then starts walking. not fast. not slow, either. just an intentional pace, stalking closer to you beat by beat, your heart kicking up into a high-speed tempo.

every step is a pull. every second he draws nearer to you is a siren call, a trap, an unspoken promise that you won't be leaving this room unscathed. and you want that. oh, you want that so badly. and as if he can hear your thoughts, that smirk spreads, sidling up to you and leaning casually on the railings of the barricade just out of arm's reach.

you don't breathe. you don't blink.

neither does he.

you're finally, finally face-to-face with the man who was on that stage not twenty minutes ago. you feel the breath leave your lungs, and it's not because of the sudden proximity. it's because this man is insanely gorgeous.

the handsome guitarist hangs back just out of reach of your personal space, the smell of smoke and sweat adorning his clothes, and a roguish half-smile tugs at his full lips. tousled hair falls to thinly veil his dark eyes, the strands slightly slick with the room's humidity and so soft-looking that you find yourself leashing the urge to lift your hand up past those broad shoulders and run your fingers through it.

he looks so lithe and lethal; and you know now — the sight of him has already become your addiction. what’s even worse? you want more. and more. and more. you want it all- anything he'll give you. anything he'll allow you to take.

"hello, beautiful," his raspy voice all but croons, eyes dragging down your figure like he's reading the lyrics off your skin. "how'd you like the show?" he addresses you like you're not really strangers; like he knows exactly who you are. exactly what you are.

and in a way, he does know. because you're his- even if you don't know it yet.

you blink. you've been hoping, praying, that you'd get the chance to talk to him in, building this moment up in your mind from the very first second you saw him — but now that he's here, real, with that voice curling around your spine like a dark promise you can't wait for him to break? you can't help it- your brain goes soft, making you putty in his hands.

"it was..." you clear your throat, searching for anything to say that won't betray the heady rush that still buzzes in your veins, "...loud."

he laughs, low and amused, like you let him in on a secret joke. "loud's not always a bad thing." his eyes drop to your mouth for the briefest second; almost like he's imagining exactly how loud he could make you. like he's contemplating what he'd do to hear it.

you hate how easy he can read you- how your breath stutters, how your pulse quickens once his gaze flicks back up to your eyes, how your body lights up in response to even the simplest of his words, of his actions. and you hate it even more that he notices.

but what you hate most of all is that you want him to notice.

every reaction. every breath stolen right out of your lungs. every heartbeat skipping ahead of your control and pushing itself right into his waiting palms- you want him to feel it. to own it. because maybe he already does; and maybe, just maybe, you're okay with that. more than okay.

"you looked good out there," you say, breathless yet still trying to claw back even an ounce of control. he takes your scrambling compliment in stride, pulling a cocky expression that shouldn't work on you- but does.

"just 'good'? not astounding, showstopping, superb?" he asks, sultry voice laced with a teasing lilt. and damn you; that smirk- that self-satisfied tip of his head like he knows he already lives in your bloodstream- it threatens your undoing. or maybe it just speeds it along.

"don't make me flatter you," you murmur, hiding the way your internal self is shaking with anticipation and clinging onto his every word. "i'd hate to feed your ego."

"too late," he says with some kind of finality. "you've been feeding it since the moment you walked in."

your stomach drops — in the best way.

"what?" you try not to sound stunned; but it leaks out of you anyway, the question hanging in the thick air between you.

"that look," he says simply, as if it explains everything. you wait for him to elaborate.

he goes on, "like you were starving. thought maybe it was the lights messing with me, but..." his gaze drops and he gives you a once-over, as if assessing the way you lean into his presence ever so slightly; as if he's noting the way your breath stutters again and saving the information for later. like he's counting the beats of your pulse while it taps out his name in morse code.

"...nah," he concludes suddenly, head tilting with a flash of that dangerous grin. "you're still doing it."

you try to look away only to find that you can't. your brain screams say something clever, but all your mouth seems capable of forming is his name — as if your body's trying to manifest it again. as if it's all you know, all you care about. and that's not exactly a lie.

"are you always like this after a show?" you ask, voice thinner and more airy than you want it to be.

"depends," he says quickly, tossing back replies like he's passing notes with you in secret. "are you always this easy to read?"

your heart spikes. you feel it: that flinch of arousal, disguised weakly as indignation.

his hand brushes the rail beside yours, casual — but close enough to feel the static. you find yourself aching for him to drag it against yours, if only to feel the electricity spark into a flame. he leans just slightly closer, eyes scanning your face, not smiling anymore as you lose any words that might've been on the tip of your tongue.

"don't get shy on me now, sweetheart," he says. "you're not gonna pretend that wasn't real, are you?" you swallow hard at his admission- at the confirmation that he's feeling whatever this is, too. at the sudden delight that zaps down your spine with the knowledge that he's right there next to you on the edge of obsession and fantasy, just as caught up in the waiting as you are.

there's sweat drying on your back and an insatiable heat curling in your stomach. you've had zero control since he walked out on stage; but now he's this close, and somehow it's worse. or better.

"you've got this look on your face," he murmurs when you still say nothing, taking the reins you don't know how to hold. he goes on, "like you're trying to convince yourself this isn't happening."

his voice drops, rough silk scraping over your every sense. "you're doing a terrible job."

he smirks a little wider when your breath audibly catches. he knows he's got you hooked- you both know it- and he's wildly unapologetic, instead savoring the way you react to his every syllable, heart threatening to beat right out of your chest.

he moves ever so slightly further into your space, hand never quite meeting yours on the cold railing of the barricade, deeply enjoying the devoutly curious gleam to your eyes and the almost reverent tilt of your lips.

you're rendered speechless once more- you couldn't think of something else to say in this moment even if there was a gun to your head. that's how attractive he is.

the man in question has no issue with the lengthy, charged. he looks you up and down again, just once, and something flickers in his stare as he drags it from your legs back up to your eyes.

"are you not burning alive in that heavy jacket, sweetheart? i mean, it isn't exactly chilly in here, is it?" he asks darkly.

you can't help but notice the depth in his voice. nor can you ignore the way your throat tightens, a single shiver running down your back at his tone. he knows exactly how to rile you up, how to make your pulse scatter into the furthest joints of your body, and how to put it right back together just so he can go and wreck it again.

you should hate it. you should be walking away and trying to find your ride home. but you only want one ride, and it's one he knows he's silently offering up to you. one you still don't know if you trust yourself to take, but you're rooted to the spot.

you suppose his question is a fair enough thing to ask, considering that the air in the venue is still thick with humidity, sticking to your hair and clothes; though it seems you're incapable of registering anything that isn't about the gorgeous guitarist. humidity and warmth be damned.

and like his simple question has sent sparks racing through your veins, you give a brazen once-over down his body and find that your skin is starting to sear at the sight.

you wouldn't really consider yourself to be a bold person, but there's something about his gaze and words and the smoke still curling around the room that makes you brave enough to slowly slide the jacket off your body, letting the leather material drift further and further down your now-bare arms to reveal the planes of your collarbones and the tightness of the skirt your friend had picked out for you.

inch by inch the humid air hits your skin, and the singer's eyes are drawn to everywhere the jacket leaves behind. perhaps, you think to yourself, the red top you'd settled on wearing was a perfect choice for tonight.

you let the coat fall off your arms completely and catch it by hooking a finger, leaving it to dangle as you return what is, without a doubt, the most lustful stare you have ever had the pleasure of receiving.

your body feels like it's slowly catching fire, embers of a sensation you've not felt in months awakening inside of you simply by being in this man's overwhelmingly attractive presence.

you cock your head to the side and allow your tongue to come out and trace the edge of your lip, an action he certainly doesn't miss. with a coyness you never knew you were capable of until tonight, you ask plainly, "better?"

a soft curse that sounds a lot like fuck me leaves his mouth. "absolutely." he gives you another smirk, pushing himself slightly further into your space until your faces are separated by mere inches. "what's your name, gorgeous?"

"i'm y/n." you tell him, his heated gaze slowly mounting to be too much for you. you feel it everywhere: the way his eyes linger, soaking you in, taking. like no one else was ever meant to see you in the first place.

you fight back a shiver as he tests your name out on his tongue, not knowing it could sound the way it does when his voice is the one saying it.

"y/n. god, you're gonna be the death of me," he mutters, that last part mostly to himself. his answering smile is charming, even if it borders on orgasmic, and he finally takes your hand in his- not gentle, not firm. just holding, capturing, as if to signal that you're his to move, to guide, to lead.

and you both know the truth- you already are. "you already know my name, yeah?" it's not even a question, but you nod anyway.

he lifts your hand to his mouth- that wicked mouth- and kisses the back of it, letting his lips just barely skirt the skin there. you're instantly flooded with warmth; sparks shoot out across your body from every point of contact as he holds still for just a breath, letting anyone watching think he's being the perfect gentleman. but you know- he's anything but.

there's a hungry gleam in his eye, a silent vow, telling you that your obsession is mutual.

you don't know if you want him to kiss your hand again or help you drag it down his chest. the buzz weaving its way through your veins is entirely his fault; he knows it, and he's proud of it. he lifts his head but doesn't drop your hand just yet, chuckling darkly when your fingers twitch in his grasp- with want, with the need to curl tighter around his own, even if you're still trying desperately to hold yourself back.

"you're staring," you whisper like it’s a scandal, attempting- and failing- to steady your voice. he lets your hand fall even as his is itching to touch you again, already addicted to the feeling.

"you started it," he counters, "i'm just finishing the view."

you're once more stunned into silence, barely even breathing.

"can i have your number, y/n?" he murmurs suddenly, voice lower now, like it's only meant for you- and maybe it was. it's like the rest of the room has dropped away. you two could be the last people left in the venue, in the country, on the planet; and you wouldn't even know it.

he steps even closer, closing the last inch between you and your ever-fading sanity. his presence is magnetic, stifling, suffocating in the best way; it steals every thought from your mind, every word from your lips, every beat from your heart, and turns you into a living flame, made of nothing but want, nothing but need; nothing but more.

your body moves long before your mind catches up. you nod, reaching for your phone with shaking hands that feel foreign, like none of your body fits together quite right without his touch. the device is buried somewhere deep in your pocket, and it takes longer than it should to find it, unlock it, open your contacts — all under the pressing weight of his gaze.

when you finally hand it over, his fingers brush yours again. soft. deliberate. like he's teasing you, and himself, with the simple movement; letting you run wild with sudden fantasies of what those hands could possibly do.

those long fingers fly across your keyboard, silver rings catching the red lights still bouncing across the sticky room. he turns it to show you the name he's saved: "han(dsome)."

your lips twitch at the wisecrack. his smirk deepens.

you pause — heart still running laps, lungs barely working, spine sinking under the lack of his touch on your skin — and finally ask the one question itching at your throat. "why me?"

to his credit, he doesn't miss a single beat. "you looked at me like you'd already decided," he says, eyes on yours. "like you'd already said yes. even if i hadn't asked yet- even if you didn't know what i was asking."

you don't respond — not because you don't want to, but because your body already has. your lips part, breath caught halfway, eyes wide and hungry. your teeth catch your lower lip, almost as if to hold in unholy sounds; or maybe to hold back a plea of his name, a plea to see him again.

his gaze flickers to your mouth again at the action, slower this time.

"that lip," he murmurs, voice bordering on manic- caressing your ears like wafting smoke. "you keep biting it like you want something."

you do it again — without thinking. his eyes darken. and then he leans in.

not all the way; not quite. he has no intention of giving you what you want- not tonight.

he hovers, heat to heat, breath to breath, but still no touch. you can feel his smirk before you ever see it.

warm breath drags across your lips, just a sigh away from his own, driving you into endless pools of madness, the attraction solidifying into a dark water below you; beckoning you to jump as it swirls with desire and filthy devotion.

you're about to shamelessly dive in, begging him with your eyes for something you can't live without now that you've seen him, touched him, felt his lips upon your skin.

"not yet," he warns like he can read your thoughts. "i want to hear the way you ache for me."

he straightens suddenly — like nothing happened. like you're not on the edge of collapse; like he didn't just wreck your body with the barest of touches. then his hand comes up, confident, almost lazy; and he drags a single finger under your jaw.

barely there. a touch that brands. a touch that changes your fate forever, recklessly throwing itself into his open hands.

"see you soon, y/n." it's not a whisper. not a shout. it's a promise.

and just like that, he walks away — leaving your heart in your throat and your soul caught between his teeth.

—

but here you are — wide awake, staring at your phone like it holds the answers to the universe. you're sitting upright in bed, body still buzzing, heart still racing, screen lighting up your face like a stage spotlight; you've been staring at your open text thread with han for the last five minutes, patient. waiting.

and there they are. those three little bubbles. han jisung is texting you back.

text from: han(dsome) still thinking about that look on your face tonight.

how you kept biting your lip like you didn't know i was watching.

your pulse flutters, your body sighing his name without words. your thighs squeeze tight beneath your sheets in betrayal of your visceral want, desire outweighing all other trains of thought. your reply takes much longer than necessary to type because you're overthinking every letter.

you: i didn't think you saw me.

...i was trying not to make it obvious.

those three dots resurface almost instantly, making you catch your breath in surprise. you knew he was into you, sure. but he's so quick, so thorough, so completely involved in this; and you never expected that from him. from a rockstar, no less. your phone buzzes in your hand when his texts comes in.

text from: han(dsome) you failed. beautifully.

i'm playing again tomorrow. same time, same place.

backstage pass has your name on it.

come early for me, please? i want to see you before the lights hit.

you swallow hard. you've never agreed to anything faster in your life, fingers flying over the keyboard as your will finally lines up with your want. you hit send before you can second-guess yourself, knowing that the decision was inevitable- the pull to him is too strong for you to say anything but yes.

you:

i'll be there.

text from: han(dsome)

good.

don't wear that skirt again- i won't survive it a second time.

you grin wildly, muffling a laugh into your warm palm. you knew you looked damn good in that skirt. feeling like playing, you write back just as quickly:

you:

what if i want to? it's my favorite skirt. it goes with everything.

the three bubbles are back hardly a nanosecond after hitting send; he's just as obsessed, just as into this. into you. and oh, he plays so well.

text from: han(dsome)

not with my sanity it doesn't.

i can't make any promises if you show up in it again.

smirking now, you reply faster than you ever thought possible, your witty banter only raising the pressure rolling off the screen between you.

you:

maybe i don't want you to make any promises.

maybe i want you to break them.

with that, you power off your screen and let your head hit the pillow, satisfied with your message. it wasn't a lie- you wanted, and you wanted badly. and now it was clear: he wanted you, too.

you slip into a deep sleep littered with steamy dreams and imaginary sighs with the sweet relief that tomorrow, you'll find out what he's finally going to do about it.

-

the next night, you show up early.

same place, same room, same stage; the weather cooperates this time, but you're down to a party of one when you walk through the venue doors into the main auditorium.

rosie texted you earlier- feverish, apologetic, begging to still come. the rain last night got to her, and she called you sniffling, trying to get you to let her tag along through coughs once you recounted some of last night's events to her. you told her not to risk it; you'll tell her everything, anyways. she reluctantly agreed on the condition that she rejoins you for another show the second she's feeling better.

"besides," you told her when she worried about how you'd handle being alone in the crowd, "i won't be alone. not really."

but now, surrounded by other concert-goers who came pouring in only minutes after your intentionally timed arrival, you feel the isolation just a little.

it's a small hurt, though- smoothed over by the knowledge that backstage, someone's thinking of you.

your phone chimes with a text. unlocking it instantly, you feel some of the unease leeching from your body when you see who it's from.

text from: han(dsome)

i'll be on stage soon. will i see your face in the crowd?

you grin to yourself, feeling like a schoolgirl with a secret to keep as you type back instantaneously.

you:

yes. i'll be right up front, waiting for you.

break a leg!

you add that last text as an afterthought, wanting to wish him luck before his performance. you go to pocket your phone, but it buzzes in quick succession, drawing your attention right back to the screen where han's last messages wait to be read.

text from: han(dsome)

what a good girl, waiting for me like that.

thanks sweetheart- but i'll be breaking more than that tonight… you'll know i'm playing for your ears only.

your stomach swoops at that casual praise as you turn your phone off with an exhilarated shiver, knowing he's not just talk; dying for the show to run fast so you can see him, touch him, maybe even taste him.

screen black and heartbeat loud, you slide it into your bag and look up- just in time to see the house lights dim. the crowd howls. people crush forward toward the barricade, making you press right up against the cold metal railings that do nothing to calm the fire crackling to life inside of you.

the room pulses, a living, breathing thing- electric and thick with sweat, and heat, and haze. plumes of smoke pour from the stage wings, the same sultry red as last night. only now it's laced with something darker. thicker. filthier. a promise, maybe; a dark suggestion of things to come.

your stomach flips. your thighs clench, mouth going dry when the stage lights come to life, red beams chasing themselves across the empty stage.

it's starting.

just like last night, changbin and chan are the first two to take the stage; crowd going ballistic, shit-eating grins on their faces, instruments at the ready for them to play another life-altering set. the excitement pumps itself directly into your veins until you, too, are buzzing with anticipation.

and then he walks onstage like he owns the concept of sin. han jisung. the man who won you in a single night without ever trying, the man who wooed you with nothing more than a song; the man whose very soul calls out to your own in a frenzied dance of need and electric power.

he's dressed to devastate tonight. black on black, those drool-inducing muscles wrapped in midnight leather, straining against the fabric like they're begging to be set free. loose curls wild at his forehead like he clawed a hand through them right before stepping into the light; some of them dropping down to barely conceal his dark eyes, flashing with heat and ignition like an engine ready to catch fire and burn.

that maroon guitar is slung low across his chest; his jaw is sharp, his smile sharper.

you can't hear your own thoughts. only bass. only beat. only him.

he takes up every inch of your mind, holding it captive without even glancing your way. his neck is on display tonight, a deep v-lined tank adorning his body, spelling trouble. you think you catch a glimpse of delicious ink lining the skin of one pec- but it's gone before you can really be sure.

he doesn't greet the crowd tonight. doesn't wave. doesn't ask for attention at all; and yet, it's being lavished on him. by everyone, of course; but especially by you. you're spellbound. his head stays lowered as he approaches the mic- and god, the crowd screams- but you don't scream.

you can't. any and all air has been stolen from you, replaced only by han. han. han. you can't think straight, can't move, can't speak; not unless you want this entire venue to hear you scream his name. because right now? that's all you know.

your whole body locks, bracing for impact. he looks like more than a man tonight- tonight, he looks like a fuse about to blow, sending you and everything in your wake up in flames when he does.

when he finally lifts his head and opens his eyes, they cut through the smoke like blades. those captivating eyes are gleaming with predatory intent, flickering dangerously in the stage lights as he scans the crowd, gaze zipping from one side to the other like he's frantically searching for his favorite sin.

and then he finds you. the moment his eyes land on you, you cease to see anything else. you're done. gone. finished.

his full lips part into a vicious smile; it isn't warm, isn't inviting in the usual sense- it's inviting you to play. the smirk that overtakes his achingly handsome features is something filthy, something possessive; something you feel in your bloodstream. it's a silent statement: tonight is for you. you feel it in his gaze, even moreso in the curl of his lips.

your own mouth tugs upwards just slightly, as if in answer to his unspoken call; a private smile, just for him. in it, you attempt to tell him: i'm watching. i know.

you're pretty sure he gets the message.

and then he lifts his guitar. the first note hits — and you come apart at the seams; floating weightlessly in his orbit, helpless to do anything but watch, anything but listen, anything but want.

the sound rips through you, drips down your spine. it's meaner tonight, dominating the stage with its reverb, caressing you with intangible hands tracing your skin. it's almost too much; heavy, heady, sticky with distortion and swagger and words meant to be moaned into pillows.

his vocals tonight are almost orgasmic. his voice is low, much lower than last night. the words leaking out of him are syrup-thick with sex and raw emotion. every lyric sounds like a secret he wants to fuck into your throat, every note he utters borders on a sigh, on a promise to deliver. he moans- actually moans- through a line halfway through the first verse, and the girls next to you audibly gasp. one of them grabs the barricade like she's going to topple over.

you don't blame her for falling; you already are. your mind isn't just chanting his name- it's praying. praying to whatever god created him that he'll unleash himself on you when the performance is said and done.

but for now, the show must go on: he shifts his stance during the chorus- wide-legged, bracing, like he's either about to solo or destroy a life. maybe yours. and when he throws his head back to sing, his tank catches, that v-line tugging down just an inch too low.

you don't breathe.

not when the ink flashes at the junction of his right shoulder. not when the crowd collectively loses its mind, and yours is yanked right out of reality to land in a realm of dangerous, desperate thoughts. a realm of unholy fantasy and sheer need.

he looks down at you again. oh, he knows exactly what he's doing; you'd bet money he did that on purpose, putting himself on display for you like that. he licks his lips, spit glistening carnally in the concert lights, driving you wild with the desire to taste it for yourself- what sin and sensuality will feel like when it finally melts on your tongue.

he strums hard enough to make the speakers cry, every taut muscle rolling with the restraint painted across his face. he looks depraved; he looks like he's on the edge of doing something obscene, and a red-hot spike of delight runs through you when you realize you're the only one who knows why.

someone in the wings says something to changbin; the motion catches your eye. a shake of the head. a confused shrug. a what the fuck is he doing tonight? look.

you know the answer: he's playing for you.

and tonight, he's going to make sure you feel it everywhere. between your legs. in your soul. vibrating with the bass in your teeth. stretching his very existence to live in the parts of you that call his name in the dead of night- the desperate lover in you who craved him long before you knew the right name to cry out.

once more, you lock eyes from where you stand at the stage's edge. he doesn't let his gaze leave yours for the rest of the night after that.

every song that follows is soaked in sex, dripping with desire so sweet you could fall apart untouched with just the sound of his voice, singing those filthy things into your ear. as the night progresses, he lets that wicked smirk bloom like a bruise, deeper and darker than the ones his expression promises to press into your body when the show is over.

and you know, beyond a shadow of devious doubt: he's going to ruin you tonight. and he's going to take pleasure in watching you crack open under his branding touch.

when the tempo finally slows- dragged out like a tease, like he wants to make you cry for it, like the beat is what you'll be begging for- he strolls back to center stage, grips the mic stand, and says: "the show felt good tonight. you guys are fucking loud." he pauses, and the audience around you laughs collectively. "but one of you..." he pauses again- for dramatic effect? for lack of words? from awe? you're not sure.

he looks straight at you. "you're the reason my hands were shaking. you're my muse."

and then — he rips into the next track as the crowd erupts into screams of his name, echoing the voice inside you that's secretly been his all along. and you never recover.

–

the second the final note crashes through the speakers, the second jisung flashes that sweat-drenched, godless smirk and vanishes offstage- your body shatters.

sure, you're still standing. technically. but it feels like you just got dragged into hell, your own personal circle of it; one filled with torturous moans and imaginary kisses that leave marks across your soul in the waiting.

then comes the tap on your shoulder.

you turn, dazed, and a staff member nods politely. all calm professionalism while you're still convulsing internally, drunk on the show, high on the performance.

"jisung said to bring you backstage."

your stomach plummets, your pulse spikes, your knees buckle. you nod; because what else is there to do?

you follow them down a narrow hallway- lights flickering, walls vibrating with leftover reverb. your boots sound too loud. your skin's too hot, not sitting right over your bones, like nothing works without a certain touch. your blood isn't even in your veins anymore: it's in him.

the hallway bends. a final corner; and then —

the green room door.

the staff member points. doesn't touch it. maybe he's scared to?

regardless, he just says: "he's waiting for you."

you swallow, nodding sharply- you know exactly who 'he' is. the staff member exits abruptly, and you sigh deeply through your nose as you steady yourself, preparing to once again see your darkest dreams personified staring right back at you with a smirk that could slay giants.

you reach up to knock... but the door opens first. from the inside.

and han jisung is already there.

-

he's still glowing head to toe from stage light and sweat, his black tank damp against his chest, hair curling wild and rakish at his forehead. his voice is hoarse from singing- but much hoarser from restraint.

and his eyes? they burn. like you're the encore, and he's about to perform for his life.

"you showed up." he levels the observation in a honey-thick voice, emotion roiling off him in waves. you nod- what did he think you were going to do? bolt? not a chance.

"of course i did." it's no more than a whisper; airy, deceptively light, not a hint of the war waging beneath your skin for him.

he sticks his tongue in his cheek and steps a little closer, hands in his pockets like he's got all the time in the world. "been thinking about you all night," he says like it's nothing, "can't get you off my mind." he shuts the door with a soft click. the lock shudders with the action; your heart does too.

you decide to lay all your cards out on the table. "i can't stop thinking about you, either."

if his answering grin is anything to go off of, that pleases him immensely. he crosses the remaining distance between you in slow, agonizing steps, dragging the moment out like a song he refuses to end. his gaze travels down your body, deliberate and devastating, until it lands at your knees. and stays there.

his stare freezes like ice, smothering your senses into nothing but haze. his eyes are dark, sharp, hungry- and his jaw ticks once, betraying just how hard he's working to keep it together. a thrill zaps through your body like an electric shock, realizing that you're the one threatening to break his composure. and you're nothing short of smitten with the knowledge that you have this effect on him, too.

a low breath escapes him, barely audible, like it punched its way out. like it didn't have permission, and it'll pay for misbehaving.

his hands flex in his pockets. restraint incarnate, hanging only by a thread of sanity. "that fucking skirt," he mutters under his breath, almost like he didn't mean to say it out loud.

you smile coyly before you can even help yourself. "i told you it's my favorite," you tell him innocently, like you have no idea what he's talking about.

the tension crackles between you, electrifying and chemical; so strong that if you were to stick your hand out to cut through it, you'd get yourself burned. and you'd take him with you.

han drags a hand through his already-messy hair and lets it drop, stalking forward again until he closes the last few inches between you, your legs almost hitting the vanity table behind you. his hands don't touch you- not yet, soon- but they bracket your waist on the table, caging you in. leaving you no way out. no escape from this dangerous game.

but it's more than a game now. it always has been more.

"you were watching me," you breathe, voice thin as a wisp of smoke.

he huffs a laugh. "of course i was watching you. you were starving, sweetheart. practically coming apart for me right there at the edge of the stage. where the hell else am i supposed to look when you stare at me like i'm god?"

his hand finally finds your skin, and something in you begins to burn at his simple touch, his finger resting just at the hem of your top. he slides one knuckle upward, slow, dragging the fabric with it until his fingertips rest just beneath your bra. you suck in the breath that he's stolen from your lungs- and he hears it. he stops. teases you still; even now, when you're breathless and wanting, when he has you right where you should be.

you want his touch to go on so badly, you're about to shamelessly whimper for it. your eyes plead with him, wide and sparking with need; it's what he loves to see.

he leans in- almost the rest of the way- and then his mouth is so close you can feel the syllables on your jaw when he croons, "oh, y/n. you're not ready for what i want to do to you."

you shiver at the way your name rolls off his tongue; like something holy, something divine. it fills you with a confidence that peaks within your ribs, shocks your body, and spills out of your lips in a single bold confession: "i think i am."

you shouldn't have said that.

you meant it- but you shouldn't have said it.

because in one single sweat-soaked, glorious instant, your entire world tips over into nothing but heady delirium. his fingers tangle in your hair as he closes in for the kill; his body presses you into the table at your back, one thigh slipping between yours, and you gasp at the feeling like you've been shown heaven. or hell. you're not sure which one yet.

he groans low and broken against your jaw when he sees your desperation soar, when he feels you light up in response to him, back arching to press yourself closer than close. your mouths are separated by less than an inch, less than a whisper; his hands are gentle but sure in their conquest of you, sliding through your hair to trail a scorching path down the planes of your neck that you so willingly bare for him. an abandoned noise leaves you- and nearly sends han over the edge of his restraint.

"god, jisung." you pant breathlessly, a whine breaking loose that sounds like you've already come undone, "i can't bear it. just fucking kiss me already."

his hands slide down to your waist, trailing along your sides until he's hooking you closer, wrapping you up into his looming presence. he doesn't respond to your desperate plea; he doesn't need to. not with words.

his lips brush yours, soft at first- like he's testing the waters. you attempt to surge up to meet him, but he keeps you in limbo; lips touching but not quite connected, not quite a kiss just yet. he's teasing you- even now. you whine, the sound tearing from some primitive yearning deep inside your throat, and your reality shatters into a million pieces when han finally, finally captures your mouth with his.

the blaze is instant. it roars to life beneath your skin, singing his name in wild, unrelenting waves of heat as he claims you outright with nothing but his lips. you kiss him back like it's survival; like you'll die of starvation without him, like you were made only for this. only for him.

and han? he kisses you like he knows it. like he believes it. like he's been living in a drought, and your lips are the first thing that's ever tasted like rain. the only thing that could ever satisfy him. the only one who could ever know how to.

his grip on your waist tightens. not possessive- not yet- but needing. tugging. anchoring. like he might disintegrate into ash if he lets you go. you cling to his arms, red nails all but digging into the corded muscle there, drawing out the most orgasmic groan you've ever heard in your life; you do your best to keep up with the wild pace he sets, one hand winding itself tightly into his mess of curls and tugging. sharp. he grips your body harder and traces his tongue across your lower lip, dragging it in feverish question.

you open for him willingly, wantingly, and he licks into your mouth with abandon, tongues meeting in a frantic dance. he isn't just kissing you- he's claiming you, branding you, ruining you for any other kiss but his. he's all you know now; just him. just this. just more.

his mouth moves with yours in practiced precision that slowly, slowly begins to unravel. a drag of teeth. a gasp of breath. each breath is a little more frayed, a little more ragged, a little more drunk on want. it's the kind of kiss that breaks rhythm until it becomes a slow descent into madness, steadily turning into freefall.

he deepens the kiss slowly, achingly, like he wants to savor the exact second your knees go weak, to feel the very moment your mind gives out and your body takes over. his lips mold against yours like they've always belonged there, like this was fated, inevitable, a collision that was always going to end in fire. he was a fuse, you were a live wire- and now, you're detonating. setting off. scorching everything in your path, and leaving no survivors. you won't be walking away unscathed from this tonight.

you're already breathless, already dizzy, and he hasn't even truly moved. hasn't rushed. just this- this unbearable, exquisite press of his mouth to yours, lips parting and sliding and lingering, teeth clashing and tongues tangling like something painted in sin and poetry. you kiss him back as if you're trying to memorize it, like you're taking a piece of his soul out with every burning movement. like you're afraid he'll disappear if you stop. you want to leave your taste on his tongue and your breath in his lungs, and he wants to taste every inch of you without ever stopping for air.

there's no rhythm. no grace. only need; only hunger.

he tilts his head, angling deeper, and you whimper into him as your mouths slot together again- this time hotter, wetter, open and shameless. his teeth scrape lightly at your bottom lip and you gasp into him, arching further, pressing yourself into his body like you don't belong anywhere else. he swallows the sound like a shot of liquor.

your fingers twitch where they've fisted in his shirt, and you realize it's already wrinkled from your grip. he's barely made a move to touch the rest of you, and already, you're trembling. you're trying to keep up; you're not sure if it's your heart or his pounding in your chest, but you know there's a frantic rhythm pulsing in both of you that makes stopping impossible. unthinkable.

your lips are already swollen. you've forgotten where you are: all you know is this kiss. all you know is him.

and when he finally breaks for air, just barely- lips brushing yours still, breath fanning your skin like a secret- he doesn't speak. he just takes one look at you, at the mess you've become beneath his power, and groans like a man on the brink of losing touch with reality.

he dives right back in- like it pains him to do anything other than kiss you as if his life depends on it; devouring your mouth like pausing would undo him. like your kiss is a drug he's waited his whole damn life to taste, and now that he's had it, he'll claw through time and space to keep it.

you lose count of how long it goes on: minutes, hours, eternity. your lips are slick with spit and desperation, stinging with barely-restrained fire, tender from the unrelenting friction. but you don't care. you'd stay right here until your lungs give out.

until suddenly- he pulls back.

only a breath, only a fraction. you gasp at the loss, chasing his mouth as it leaves your own, but he doesn't give it back to you. not yet. instead, his eyes search your face like he's trying to memorize you in this moment: breathless, ruined, fucked out. all over a kiss- his kiss.

"fuck," he half-whispers, half-laughs. like a prayer. or a curse.

and then he's descending, lowering his mouth to your throat.

a helpless sound escapes you the moment you feel his kiss-slick lips against the delicate skin of your neck. you tilt your chin up instantly- a surrender, a sacrifice, a plea- and he doesn't hesitate to take your offering. his lips press heavy against you, hot and reverent just beneath your jaw, an open-mouthed kiss that melts straight into your bloodstream.

his hands stay exactly where they are, caging you into him- but his mouth? his mouth moves. he's absolutely everywhere, all at once. he kisses down the column of your neck like he's writing dirty love songs into your skin. like he's tasting every part of you he's dreamed about. he takes his time: slow. open-mouthed. filthy. and you fucking love it.

without warning, he finds the sweet spot between your neck and your ear, ghosting over it with a devious trail of his tongue before sucking a mark above your pulse- then kisses it gently like a silent apology. you twitch tangibly in his grasp as his tongue flicks at the base of your throat, and you moan out- low and broken- body arching into him like you've lost control of every muscle you've ever owned.

he groans in return, pants about a million sizes too tight, his breath ragged against your skin. "you have no idea," he rasps like he's treading water in a sea of insanity, "what you fucking do to me."

he noses along your neck, the action pushing you to slide your hands into his hair and grip on for dear life as he licks small circles into your sensitive skin, hot breath fanning your collarbone just enough to drive you mad.

you whimper under your breath as he sucks another mark- his mark- into your throat, soothing the erotic sting with another expert pass of his tongue. he does it again, and again, and again; until you're littered with love bites and tugging his hair like a woman gone insane, panting like you've run a race. he doesn't move fast- no, he's savoring you, drinking you up like he wants every last drop, and drinking you in like the night's just begun.

and god, it has.

you're already shaking. you don't even realize you're whispering his name like a late-night confession until he hums against your skin — low, dark, and dangerous.

"say it again," he murmurs. like it'll keep him sane. like it's the only thing tethering him to earth.

like you could say his name and he'll use eternity to ruin you slowly, sweetly, in a song only you were meant to hear.

you breathe it out again, drawing out the three letters. he jolts like he's been physically struck, eyes briefly rolling back as he lavishes his tongue across your skin. he's teasing, tantalizing, merciless with his exploration of your neck; he licks stripes from collarbone to ear, nibbling ever so slightly at the lobe, then kissing his way back down to scatter bites across your pulse points.

his hands begin to wander- not forward, never there, not yet- but backward, sliding up under your shirt, warm and greedy and yet reverent, all at once. his fingers, calloused from the rough strings of his guitar, stroke images of sin into your back and trace your spine like he's writing his name on it. like he's marking himself into the parts of you no one else has ever touched.

he finds the clasp of your bra. just finds it. holds there. a ghost of pressure; a threat of intent. but he doesn't undo it. doesn't even try to.

because of course he doesn't.

you can't help the long, obscene whimper of sheer frustration that claws its way forward out of you- he's too good at this. too in control. too drunk on the way you're already shaking for him, already gasping into his mouth like you'd let him take anything he wanted, and he knows it. knows it and devours it, lips never leaving your neck.

your fingers fist into his hair. you pull- hard. hard enough to make his hips jolt forward; enough to feel it just barely skirting over your skin, over nerves so hot and taut that you don't know how to behave. god, you feel him. every inch. every hard, aching truth he's been hiding behind dirty lyrics and darker looks and erotic, unspoken promises etched in smoke.

a pornographic moan breaks loose from you, weaving itself into the charged air. and suddenly his mouth gets messy.

the kisses he leaves on your skin morphs into something sloppier. wetter. louder. it's all spit and groaning and wild, clashing lips now. no more teasing. no more waiting- he's everywhere. you're pulling at his belt like something's breaking apart inside you- not to take it off, not yet, just to feel it give beneath your hand. to feel something snap. to feel him snap.

han's hips surge forward again, this time not by accident. you moan his name again- or maybe he moans yours. maybe both. it doesn't matter. nothing matters now except mouth and skin and friction, and more, more, more.

his fingers dig into your back as his mouth drags deliciously up the entire expanse of your neck, leaving trails of slick in his wake, before he takes your lips in his own once more, swallowing every pitiful sound escaping you.

his teeth graze your lower lip, the faintest ghost of a bite, then he soothes it with his tongue, just like he did with your neck. he does it again- rougher this time. like he wants to mark you with every part of him. like he'll crumble into madness if he doesn't merge his very soul with yours.

he breaks the kiss only to breathe; but even that's a lie. he doesn't pull back. he doesn't move away. he just pants against your cheek, against your jaw, dragging his lips across your skin like he misses you in real time.

"fucking hell, y/n" he rasps, breath hot, mouth still open against you, the sound of your name falling from him like that turning you on like nothing has ever done before. "you taste like something i've been chasing in my dreams. you taste like ecstasy."

you're only capable of giving him a broken whimper as his hands slide lower, just barely. he goes to grip your hips like a man unhinged. you shift in his hold; grinding, ever so slightly. chasing the friction like he's chaos, like he's the only thing holding you together. and it feels like worship. it feels like something dirty disguised as divine intervention.

the table behind you shakes. your thighs ache. your lungs burn.

still, it isn't enough. not for either of you.

and that's when he does it.

with one arm still around your waist, he spins you toward the vanity mirror at your back. one hand lifts your chin, capturing it like a silken vice and forcing you to look. to gaze upon the destruction he's caused, the mess left of you in his current.

"look at you, baby." his voice is low and wrecked, pulsing with the need that radiates from both of you like heat off pavement on a scorching sunny day. you obey and glance into the mirror, and your lungs stop short at the sight that greets you.

it's you and han. entangled hopelessly, devoutly, sinfully; unsure where one of you ends and the other begins.

your lips are smeared red, glistening from his mouth and smudged with your lipstick. his curls are rugged and wild from what felt like hours of having your hands in it; your face is flushed, his shirt is half-untucked and belt hanging precariously off of his slender waist, and both sets of eyes are gleaming with barely-restrained desire.

you nearly come undone right there. han opens his mouth to nibble at your ear as you continue staring, inhaling sharply like he's about to say something.

but then-

there's a voice in the hallway. melodic laughter. a quick knock at the door- and jisung freezes. you feel his whole body tense behind you. his mouth brushes your ear again.

he sighs, like this interruption pains him to the ends of the earth, and unwinds his hands from around your body. you frown at the loss of contact, barely holding yourself back from grabbing his hands and putting them right back on you where they belonged.

he turns you gently back around, stroking your jaw delicately with the back of his knuckles, like any other kind of touch would set him off again. you chase his mouth; he doesn't kiss you. he pulls back instead, and you'd complain if it weren't for the restraint etched into each line of his handsome face, devastating willpower on display. he brushes your hair out of your eyes gently, reverently; like he didn't just almost ruin you.

"you deserve better than a backstage quickie," he murmurs regretfully, kissing the skin just above your ear with an aching tenderness. "i want to hear you fall apart somewhere you can scream."

you nod as if no words could ever do, breathless. wrecked. waiting.

once he's sure you've been appeased- for now, at least- he reaches for the couch only a few paces away, grabs the black band tee he wore before changing into his onstage ensemble, and holds it out to you like an offering; like a gift of mercy.

"wear this home." he says simply, like he isn't about to give you the most sensual and meaningful memento of all time. he throws you a half-smile, still rueful with regret over not wrecking you properly, and adds, "it smells like me. wear it to bed tonight for me, yeah?"

you pull it over your head with shaking hands. he watches your every move, devouring. but he doesn't touch. doesn't kiss. just looks with this devastating mix of lust and care, stopping himself from coming back into your personal space to kiss you goodnight. because he knows it won't end with just 'goodnight'.

"tomorrow," he says- and you see it in his eyes, the resolve forming. it's a caress of a whisper; it's a promise. you nod shakily, still not trusting yourself to do anything more than beg if you were to open your mouth right now. "i've got another backstage pass with your name all over it." you smile despite your ruined bubble of intimacy, feeling just a little hopeful that it won't stay wrecked forever.

"and sweetheart?" he adds, voice stretching over you like silk before he walks out to see who knocked on the door, "wear something i can rip. something you'll let me tear off of you with my teeth."

and then he's gone. you're still standing there in his clothes, his mouth all over you, his voice running down your spine like static electricity.

and it's not enough. you know it now; tonight has solidified that from this moment on, nothing will ever do but him. han jisung. and he took his sweet time making sure of it.

-

you never took it off. you're sitting in your sheets wearing his tee and little else, body unbelievably warm. the top still smells like him: like smoke, and sweat, and sin. it drapes over your thighs like a secret. it sticks to your chest like a brand.

you lie back in your bed, staring at the ceiling as if he's somehow hiding up there, legs shifting under the sheets, mind nowhere near sleep. your phone buzzes.

you don't need to look- you already know who it is.

text from: han(dsome)

still picturing the way you looked in my shirt.

i swear, you'll be the death of me.

you bite your lip- just a reflex. involuntary. filthy.

you:

i can't stop thinking about earlier.

three dots appear. pause. vanish. then they return, dropping a message with enough force to knock the breath from you.

text from: han(dsome)

you touch yourself yet?

you nearly drop the phone as your body flares to life. your fingers twitch over the keyboard, already run away with the desire to do what he's asking if you've done- for you. for him. you inhale, breath nothing but a shaky shallow sound. the air you receive from it is not enough.

your teeth tease your lower lip as you mull over what on earth to say to that. you haven't done it yet. but oh, you want to; and you want him to know. you want to tease yourself while you wear his clothes and fall apart with his name on your lips.

so you don't answer with words. you send a photo instead. you sprawl out across your silky sheets, spreading your bare legs out in invitation as you drag your hand down the length of the tee, rumpling it up until it pools in a way that just conceals where you'll fall apart if he so much as looks. turning on your flash, you snap the picture, hand laying intentionally over the tee.

you:

(attachment: one image)

mm, was going to.

but i think i need some instruction.

three dots. they appear and vanish again, and again, and again. your heart tries to beat its way out of your chest. then your phone buzzes repeatedly, his messages coming in one right after the other, sending you spiraling into delirium with his explicit instructions.

text from: han(dsome)

god, i need those thighs shaking around my head. you want instructions, baby? you got them.

start with one finger. under the shirt. slow.

don't take it off.

make your way down your body, right to where you need me most.

and pretend it's my hand on you. my fingers touching you. my direction for you to fall apart.

i want you coming in my clothes.

you try- really, you do.

your hand slips under the tee, drags itself down your body slowly, sensually. your fingers reach and press down further, until you reach the one part of you that aches. you move them in slow, devastating circles. you arch. gasp. grind.

but it isn't him.

it's not his voice in your ear, not his breath on your neck; not his hand pinning you down or his tongue flicking cruelly over your skin. it just isn't him.

you try again. harder. slower. begging your own body, pleading with yourself for release under his guidance. you fist the shirt at your stomach. you moan into the dark- his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer, like a chant.

but nothing. no release. no end. just sultry, miserable ache.

frustration twists in your chest. you blink against the sting of tears, because it's almost right- almost. but it isn't han jisung.

and he's the only thing that will ever work now.

your phone buzzes again, forgotten on your pillow, chiming one last time.

text from: han(dsome)

you're coming tomorrow.

that wasn't a question.

you stare at the screen, heart leaping into your throat. hand still trembling between your legs, working yourself ragged. you type the only thing that feels true as sigh after shaky sigh leaves you into the charged night air.

you:

i'll be there.

tossing your phone somewhere in the depths of your bedsheets, your fingers work yourself faster, harder, circling tighter and tighter, trying desperately to get yourself to that peak. but it never mounts high enough- never crests into bliss; no matter what you do, what you imagine, it never lives up to the feeling of han jisung in the flesh. and your body knows it. it won't let you finish if he isn't in the room.

you let out a long, frustrated whine, flinging yourself back onto your pillow and staring longingly at the ceiling of your dark bedroom- as if somehow, you can will him into existence, right here in your bedroom, to finish the unraveling he started in you two nights ago.

—

the grin that blooms on her face is immediate; sharp and wildly amused, with mirth glinting in her eyes. she knows everything that went down- you called her up feverishly earlier today, telling her every dirty detail, pleased that she was feeling well enough to tag along when you asked her to join you for the last show- and that knowledge dances in her expression as you approach her seat at the bar.

"damn, babe," she drawls, dragging her eyes over you like she's scanning for evidence—and finding plenty. "you're radiating 'warning: i just got wrecked and still want more!' you sure you don't need a bucket of ice or something?"

you roll your eyes, but it's useless. your blushing skin gives you away- tips of your ears burning crimson, flush spreading down your chest where it disappears into the v-neck of your top.

the faint smudges of concealer along your neck are fighting a losing battle against the constellation of bruises han left behind on you, a token of last night's ruined ravaging in the green room.

your lips still sting from the bruising pace of that kiss. your thighs are sore from clenching around nothing alone in your bed. and you're wearing your black leather miniskirt once more, the one that clings to your skin like a brand, tucked neatly into the cinch of your corset-style satin top.

you're dressed to kill tonight. and you're dying to make contact with the target.

"you're not helping," you mutter, slipping into the seat next to her and taking the drink she slides your way without question. you clink your glass with hers, the tinkling sounds echoing in you like finality, like it's sealing your doom; you knock back a generous shot, barely even grimacing.

the burn settles in your stomach, low and warm- like him. god, what have you become? you've turned into a woman on the brink of madness, one who can be relieved by nothing, nothing but him.

rosie just smirks at the frustrated way you down the drink, leaning in like she knows your secrets. "he text you yet?" you nod. you don't even try to pretend like he hasn't been on your mind since you woke up. since before that. since the first moment his eyes laid claim to you in the crowded room a few paces away.

rosie hums approvingly, swaying a little side to side in time with the music echoing from inside the venue, where the opening act was playing. you couldn't find it in yourself to care about anyone who takes the stage tonight but him.

“those marks, though. he really said 'property of han jisung,' huh?" she laughs- bright, loud, knowing. "like, it really looks like he tried to eat your neck, y/n."

you choke on your drink, laughing through the mix of embarrassment and arousal that pulses through your system at the memory, the ghost of his hot lips on your neck over and over again. "shut up."

"you shut up. you're lucky i even let you out like this," she fires back playfully, flicking one finger over your outfit- that black satin neckline dipping just low enough to threaten, skirt just short enough to drive your point home.

your red nails tap against your glass with barely restrained energy. your legs won't stay still. your breath comes in short, shallow waves, like you're on the verge of panting his name- right here, right now, in this crowded bar- and you know it's not just the alcohol buzzing through your bloodstream. it's him.

the simple thought of him: that's what's doing this to you. that's what makes your skin burn with a heady flush, what colors your figure as a woman possessed with wanting to anyone daring to look twice. your texting thread from earlier with the man of the hour is still burned behind your eyelids, driving you further up the wall of sheer insanity:

you:

still thinking about last night.

jisung:

still hard from it.

you:

if i show up looking like trouble...?

jisung:

then you'll leave crawling. mark my words.

rosie catches the dazed look on your face, the way you still can't respond to her teasing through your fucked-out haze, and snorts loudly. like she knows everything that's about to happen to you tonight. "hon, you're done for."

you don't argue. you can't.

you know it's true- and you're ready.

you knock back one more shot, swallowing hard like it has the power to chase the heat right out of your body. it doesn't though- leaving you sitting at the bar with your best friend, thighs clenched and skin sticky with anticipation, yearning like a scorned lover to see the one man who can fix this mess you're in.

the drink settles low and slow in your stomach, but it doesn't help—not really. you're already catching fire from the inside out, your body burning and restless on the bar stool, your breath shallow in your chest. rosie is laughing beside you, some snide comment about the drummer's eyeliner, some quip about the opening band, but your mind is already gone.

you pull out your phone.

your fingers move on pure instinct- on craving, on hunger, on something unholy pressing into your ribs like a secret trying to claw free. you need him like you need your next breath, and the waiting is going to be what sends you six feet under.

you:

i want your hand around my throat, jisung.

pushing me into the wall.

your mouth on my neck.

your voice in my ear telling me how you're gonna ruin me.

and then doing it.

send.

you don't breathe. you don't let yourself second-guess the message- that was the dizzying spiral of lust talking. that was entirely his fault; he had it coming, and you were burning up with the torture of not telling him.

your body practically vibrates with anticipation, dreading the ache he'll undoubtedly stir up in you with whatever he deigns to respond with. you set the phone down on the bar, swallow thickly, try to pretend the air isn't heavy with waiting and wanting. and then:

buzz. buzz. buzz.

your phone is getting texts in a rapid-fire succession. you pick it back up and unlock the screen with shaky hands, careful not to let rosie see the proof of your desperation.

text from: han(dsome)

jesus fucking christ, y/n.

you want to be pinned?

you want to be helpless and shaking and begging with my name in your throat?

you better be ready to take it. no teasing. no mercy. not tonight.

you stare, teeth catching your lip to keep from crying out. the words crawl under your skin, ignite something low and dangerous. you bite down hard, trying to stay in control despite knowing it's futile to even try anymore. but he isn't done.

another message lights up the screen, searing your brain as you read it.

text from: han(dsome)

you want instructions? i'll give them.

take your phone. find a wall.

imagine me pressing into you from behind—my hand on your throat, my cock grinding up between those thighs you won't stop flashing me.

still want to play this game, baby? i'll make you scream without laying a single finger on you.

your hand trembles. your phone shakes in your grip. you can barely read the screen, eyes swimming with the sweet desperation of the promises he's sending, daring you to unravel for him before he ever touches you. your thighs clench beneath the bar at the sensual images he's summoned in your filth-ridden mind.

there's a pulse thrumming in your ears, in your wrists, between your legs; he's not here—but it's like he's everywhere.

you move to text him back, fingers tracing the keyboard like you wish they were dragging delicately over his face instead.

you:

you're not going to make it through the show if i keep going. i'll ruin you right back.

you're wrecked and ruined- but you still feel like playing. still feel like making him suffer the way you are now, sick and pathetic with need. you send it before you can stop yourself, heart jackhammering, drunk on the ache of his dirty vows.

the typing bubble appears. disappears. returns. and when it lands... it's deadly.

text from: han(dsome)

you already have.

i'm going onstage hard.

you better pray i don't drag you into the wings and fuck you up against the walls while you scream my name over the crowd.

or maybe i should do it. let them hear what i do to you. what you turn me into.

your whole body floods with heat. you flip the phone screen-down like it'll save you, like it'll help, like it'll put the fire out; but it doesn't. nothing can douse the fire that's been started in your bones, between your legs, in your hazy, lust-laden mind. you're about to explode, and it's all jisung's fault.

across the venue, the music swells and comes to an end, signaling the end of the opening segment. the crowd roars.

rosie pays the tab, grabs your arm, and slings your vip lanyard over your feverish figure, all but pushing you into the venue where you easily take your place at the front.

you don't even have time to think, to breathe, before 3RACHA takes the stage for the last time. changbin appears. then chan; and then you reach a boiling point once the picture of all your fantasies stalks out of the red fog like a panther on the prowl.

he's in all black once more; wild curls. jaw set. cut-off tank hugging his frame like a second skin, and a chain around his throat like he's wearing the memory of your texts as if it's jewelry- meant to adorn him.

and when the crowd audibly gasps, you know exactly why.

he's hard as a fucking rock- all for you. all on display. unashamed, unapologetic, wild.

rosie screams into your ear like a madwoman, voice shocked and unbelieving. "holy fucking hell, y/n! what did you do to him?" she yells over the screaming audience, all eyes on jisung. you have no words- not even one.

you shake your head helplessly, eyes enslaved to watching him; he walks down the stage in your direction like sin incarnate. like he's already tasted what's waiting for him after the last song. like he knows no one else will ever compare once he's had you.

you watch him raise his mic to his lips, guitar slung across his back at the ready. even from here, you know he's looking for you.

his eyes search the crowd. finds you- claims you. wildly, desperately, madly. your breath stops.

he's about to perform for his life, and you're about to give yours right over into his waiting hands.

the lights shift- smoke and crimson and something darker. something crackling at the edges of your sanity.

fog curls over the stage like sin rising from the depths of desperation. the bass booms. your chest shudders. and then he grabs his guitar, flipping it around his body with practiced ease; making you hungry, desperate to know what he'd do with you in his hands instead.

when he strums the first chord, your body jerks like a live wire, staggered by the sound. your knees damn near give out. not just because of the music- darker, deeper, more sensual than any of the songs you've heard before- but because it doesn't even sound like music. it sounds like what he'd whisper with your legs wrapped around his waist.

he's different tonight.

he's depraved. he's ravishing. he's unleashed- setting his need free into the electric air, staring you down like a feast he can't wait to devour, stalking your every move with his eyes like a predator trapping its prey.

han jisung all but fucks the stage, performing like a man possessed. his mass of curls is wild, that tease of a chain glittering against his throat like a treasure map for things to come. his black tank clings to every sharp edge of his body, every rolling muscle of untapped power, damp and tight with sweat like he's been burning to ash before the show ever began. like your texts lit the fuse- and he's about to light up right there on that stage.

he plays through the possession, capturing you wholly. each riff hits harder than the last. his hips shift filthy with every beat like a choreographed dance for your eyes only. he moves like a killer with a target. and when he sings, it's not lyrics: it's foreplay. laced in velvet, dripping with sex, oozing eroticism- his words are a siren song of what he's going to do to you. tonight.

his voice cracks low over the mic, wrecked and hoarse, steel wrapped in silk, dragging through each line like it costs him the last reserves of his restraint. there's a moment where he hisses into a high note and throws his head back, glorious inches of skin on display for you, and the tank hikes up- just a little. just enough.

a flash of ink- there, low on his side. your mouth goes dry.

and he doesn't stop. no, he prowls to the edge of the stage — toward you.

and oh, god. the way he stares. the way every note he strums answers a magnetic call from your soul to his. he isn't just claiming you. he's laying waste to the idea that you could ever live without him from this night on.

he plays like it's about you. he performs like he wants you to break; and every glance is a command. a rhythmic promise. a tantalizing suggestion, smothered in moans and stifled sighs.

you feel your nails dig into the metal barricade, grounding yourself. barely. nothing is enough to rip you from this living fantasy, this lucid dream of sin; your thighs press together instinctively, and still, it's not enough. not even close.

rosie dips back in to your field of consciousness for only a second. clocking your state immediately, she leans in, hollering in your ear with a wicked grin, "girl, if he keeps going like that, i'm gonna have to carry you out of here."

but you can't answer. can't get enough air into your lungs to think about saying anything but his name. your breath is ragged; your pulse is chaos. your entire body begs for the man performing just a few feet away.

onstage, jisung leans into the mic, eyes never leaving yours, and everything stops.

he changes a lyric mid-song. just a single word.

but you know it's for you.

and when he sings it, he smirks, the grin unfurling viciously. feral. knowing. drenched in sin as the crowd screams. and you? you spiral. your pulse has dropped in between your legs, your blood an unbearable boil of desire in your veins. lust clouds your head, the sensation sticky and slick, sending wave after wave of need down your spine. and you're insatiable- only he can cure it. only he could ever know how to.

he throws his head back again mid-solo and moans; deeper than last night, longer, more drawn-out. intentional. no mic. no vocals. just pure, guttural sound.

the tank shifts again, baring more ink. this one at his shoulder. something sharp and dark across his right pec, slick with sweat, lit like it's alive under the stage lights. calling to you in an undeniable whisper.

he looks down at you like he's watching the wreckage unfold beneath his calloused fingers.

mouth open. tongue peeking out. lips glistening- he winks. licks his upper lip. and then he kisses the mic; nearly making out with it on stage, never once letting his eyes leave your own.

and then he drops to his knees onstage, singing low and filthy, hand reaching out in your direction. he crooks a single finger, eyes half-mast and promising danger, and signals you in one little 'come here' motion.

you black out.

or you must. because you don't remember the next five minutes.

you only remember heat, pooling low in your body, begging for a release. you only remember your grip tightening on the barricade like it's the one thing anchoring you to earth. all you know is the frantic squeeze of your thighs, the way your body sings his name in tight, spiraling cursive letters, and the sound of his voice like sensual satin caressing your every atom.

and he knows it.

when the show is over, when the lights flicker back on and reveal the mess you've become- he knows he didn't just play guitar. he's played your body like an instrument, strumming your destruction and sighing his own demise.

-

the final chord lingers like a tendril of smoke in the air, seductive, vibrating through the soles of your feet and rattling your bones. even when the stage goes dark- no light, no sound, no oxygen- you still feel him. inside you. around you. etched into the wet heat between your thighs like a fever, like a dream you can almost taste.

you don't even register the crowd losing its mind, the cheers resounding all around you. you don't have the capacity to absorb the way people scream and stomp and chant his name like a hymn. you're somewhere else. somewhere darker, deeper. somewhere only he can reach.

rosie's grip tightens around your arm, grounding you the smallest sliver, dragging you back into your body just long enough to reintroduce the world around you into your hazy, lust-filled state of mind.

then a tap on your shoulder comes. insistent, urging. a new voice breaks through the fog between your ears.

"are you y/n?" the stranger asks, all black polo and lanyard and strictly business. you nod, heart in your throat, in your shoes, in your panties- beating out a rhythm that only han would know.

"he's asking for you by name. come with me." his words are clipped, like he doesn't really want to be here right now. you can't find it in yourself to give a damn about that. you shoot rosie one last look- equal parts apology and thrill- and she just grins like the devil in red, chaos sparking behind her knowing eyes.

"try not to die in there," she says, wickedly amused. "i won't bother waiting up."

you follow the manager wordlessly- no time for breath. no time for second-guessing. no room for anything but lust, but want, but han.

the crowd is still roaring behind you, but every footstep carries you further away from the deafening noise and deeper into the place your body knows you belong. behind the curtain. down the hall. toward him. your heels strike the ground with purpose, skirt shifting with every step like a threat, like a promise. you know what you look like. and more importantly? he does, too.

and then- like your mind has conjured him from the depths of your swirling fantasies- he appears.

just standing there in the poorly-lit hallway like a goddamn hallucination, still breathing heavy from the encore, curls damp with sweat and stuck to his forehead. his mouth is parted like he's been panting for you since the moment he walked off stage. his whole body hums with post-show adrenaline and desire, and something more. something animal. something that tastes a lot like ruin.

han stands in the middle of the hallway like he's been waiting for you his whole life; and maybe, maybe he has been. that chain is still glinting at his throat like a threat to your own undoing. he's on the edge of madness, obsession emanating from every pore and curve, body radiating the kind of heat that's meant to devour.

his eyes drag over you like a love song, slow and filthy, and when they meet yours- oh.

he's not just looking. he's starving.

like he's been crawling headfirst through the desert, and he's just found his own oasis of sin and devotion pooling in your eyes as they gaze pleadingly into his own.

"you wore the fucking skirt again," he says, voice thick and dark and edged with the kind of insanity that makes your body keen in expectation. you nod, breathless just from the sight of him, already spiraling out of your own control and tipping right over into his.

the stage manager opens his mouth- maybe to ask a question, maybe to lead you further, maybe just to get you to stop fucking each other with your eyes- but han speaks first. doesn't even take his stare off you to acknowledge the other presence in the hall.

"i'll take it from here."

his tone is sheer finality, his delivery leaving no room for no. enough to make the poor guy nod and vanish into thin air, like he was never even there.

han doesn't move right away. just stands there, eyes dragging over your lips, your throat, the hollow of your chest- contemplating. deciding how he'll take you; how he'll ruin you for any touch but his own, as if that hasn't already happened. he watches the way you breathe for him, obsessed with the motion.

and then he's on you.

the movement is fluid without being rushed, full of almost predatory poise. his hand curls around your neck, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw- gentle, possessive, dangerous- and he leans in. not for your lips. not yet.

he kisses your cheek instead: slow. devastating. loaded with want, with need, with delirium. the simple touch has you practically coming out of your skin in response to his lips against you. his mouth lingers near your temple, warm breath ghosting along your ear as he exhales words that make your knees threaten collapse right out from under you- sealing your fate eternally.

"you have no idea what you've done to me."

his fingers slide down your spine like he's playing you the way he does his strings, hands settling heavy at your waist, a guiding touch at the small of your back. he starts walking- and you follow without a word. your thighs brush with each step. his presence wraps around you like heat, like hunger, like velvet stained red with restraint. like you're already halfway undone and he hasn't even touched you yet.

the hallway feels endless. or maybe it's just your sanity that's starting to slip, each step echoing with all the things you both haven't said- but will be crying out soon enough.

because he's leading you somewhere private. somewhere soundproof. and when the door closes behind you, you know you'll never be the same again.

-

han opens a door far backstage, away from the maddening crowd, and gently ushers you in.

the room he's brought you to has his name hanging on the door; maybe a changing room, a private suite. it's cleaner than you expect- but not by much. not pristine. not untouched. it's just lived-in, broken in, worn like a favorite pair of ripped jeans. the heavy door thuds closed behind you. his cologne hangs in the thick air; he smells like heat and rouge and hunger, like sweat-slick adrenaline and something darker. something yours.

one click, and it's sealed. locked. trapping you within the bounds of your most desperate desires with the one soul who knows how to make them come true.

you're alone with him now. and it's soquiet you could hear the sound of sin brushing up against skin.

one long, sagging leather couch stretches along the far wall, creaking just from the breath of your presence, as if it aches like you do for what's coming. a massive mirror leans against the opposite side, tilted just enough- like it exists only to catch the wreckage han plans to make of you from every unforgiving angle. a few water bottles litter the floor, a few paintings line the walls. but all you see is han.

no windows. no escape. no interruptions.

"no one's coming in here," han reassures, more to himself than to you. his voice is low, like gravel and honey, like a man moments from combustion. "no one's hearing you but me."

his dark words strike your ears like a vow of destruction, and a shiver of anticipation slithers down your spine. you should say something. you should move.

but you've lost control of your body- it's his now. you can't move, can't speak; not with the way he's looking at you.

controlled chaos, that's what this is- he's barely bridled, barely breathing, barely able to stay within his skin. his chest still heaves with post-show adrenaline. his hair is wild, his jaw tight, his chain glinting like it's flashing you a welcome-home sign.

and that gaze of his? hunting. claiming. nothing short of branding.

his eyes drag over you like they're cracking you open from the inside out. the trail he follows is slow. vicious. feral with want. that delicious, sweeping stare locks on to the poorly-covered bruises littering your neck, a dark smirk pulling at the corner of his lips when he witnesses your failed attempt to disguise his marks.

"tried to hide them, didn't you?" he says, voice curling dark around the edges. he takes a step forward, and your back hits the door you just came through, helpless in his presence to do anything but hold yourself upright- barely. "you think that's gonna work on me?"

you swallow hard- cheeks flushed, thighs clenching like he's already there, like your body's betraying every secret you've tried to keep hidden. like it's already singing for him.

"i didn't think it would," you whisper, voice thin and brittle with the waiting. "i just... didn't want anyone else to see what you left." it's true. those marks he left on your neck- they're private. holy. meant for his eyes, and his eyes only.

he stops- blinks once, like your words just carved him open from the inside. then he's in motion again, slow and wrecked and so goddamn full of need. "fuck," he exhales, the word like a prayer, like a curse, a snare cast around your senses woven of steel and sex. "you have no idea what that does to me."

he's closer now, chest almost brushing yours, hands flexing at his sides like he's aching not to grab you, not to fall apart completely in your skin.

"you covered them up?" his voice cracks, half a laugh, half a groan. his hand lifts to your neck, fingers ghosting over the marks he left, eyes locked on your lips like he's seconds from losing control.

you gaze headlong back at him, pleading silently for his touch to tighten around your throat, to bare its teeth and claim you outright. "you gonna remind me who they're for?" your voice is barely a whisper- barely even yours.

he groans as though you've uttered the words that unravel him from head to toe. "baby," he murmurs, like it's the only thing left in his vocabulary. "you think anyone else gets to touch what's mine?"

he leans in, forehead nearly pressing to yours. the very picture of starvation. "you think i can breathe knowing you're out there looking like my wildest dream, dripping with the memory of me and pretending it's not driving you insane too?" he says it reverently, like a prayer. like a claim. like a threat.

his mouth doesn't find yours- yet. but the weight of everything he's holding back trembles between you like a fault line about to split, a dam holding back a tide that could level entire kingdoms.

you can't help the way your breath stutters. he sees it. revels in it. steps even closer.

he's already caged you in—body boxing you into the door, heat radiating like a second skin. his hands rest on either side of your head, but they don't touch you- not yet. he's breathing hard, chest still heaving from the stage, from the spotlight, from you. like he's at the end of himself—patience fraying, restraint splintering by the second.

and god, the way he looks at you.

not like you're prey. like you're purpose.

"you watched me tonight," he murmurs, the statement husky in your ear. it's not a question- it's a confession. his voice drags rough over your skin, low and dangerous. "stood there front and center while i lost my fucking mind. every move i made, i swear i could feel your eyes burning through me."

you swallow, throat dry. "i didn't look away."

his jaw clenches. something flickers in his eyes; pain, pleasure, obsession, all tangled up together in this whirlpool of seduction. he groans, soft and hoarse, like the truth is breaking him open. he sighs into your hair, "i know."

his eyes flicker down your body like a mission, like a vow. "i walked out hard for you. played like i had your mouth on me the whole goddamn time. you know what that show felt like?" he leans closer, nose just barely brushing yours, voice crumbling into something wrecked. "it felt like fucking you in front of a thousand people and making them watch."

you audibly gasp, knees threatening to buckle. his breath fans against your lips like a ghost. you're not breathing. you're unraveling, offering yourself up for him on a platter, wholly his for the taking.

"han," you whisper with abandon- just his name, but it sounds like surrender. it sounds like please.

he smiles, something bordering on feral curling at the corners of his mouth. "you don't even know what you do to me. i see you in the crowd and it's over. i'm not performing anymore. i'm worshiping, sweetheart. every chord is yours. every breath. every lyric. it's all for you- all because of you."

your fingers twitch where they hang at your sides. "i felt it," you utter as though you're in awe of the secret he's just lavished into your very being, "every note, jisung. it felt like your hands were on me already."

he shudders. visibly. like you've undone something crucial to his survival, unwound the thread that's barely holding him together.

"say that again."

you meet his eyes, voice barely yours anymore. "i felt your hands on me. on my thighs. my neck. i felt it all." raw, open, honest- it's all true. all his.

he exhales, the sound landing sharp and broken like glass skittering across your skin. "and you still stood there all pretty and dripping, letting me fuck that stage while knowing i couldn't touch you yet?"

you nod, body igniting at the filth, the vulgarity; the need. "you'll touch me now, though... right?" you breathe out in desperate question. you think you'll die if the answer is no.

"jesus fucking christ," he mutters, voice a mix of prayer and punishment.

then- he finally touches you.

his hands find your waist- firm, possessive, whiteknuckling your top with sheer restraint. your back arches. your body offers. he hasn't even kissed you yet, and already, you're melting into his grip like honey slicking his tongue. a runaway whimper escapes you; low, airy, barely there. but jisung hears it clear as day.

his breath catches like the sound alone cut through his control. his fingers tighten—dig into your sides like he's claiming purchase on reality, like you're the only thing tethering him to earth and he'll go crashing through the heavens without your touch.

"you don't know what your body is asking me for," he says, voice cracking like thunder on the edge of restraint.

you shake your head fiercely, driven mad by the need to taste his lips right now. you know what your body is telling him- it echoes the plea in your mind. you're not afraid to beg for it. "yes i do." your reply is immediate, fierce, ruined. "and i want it. i want you, jisung."

the second his mouth finds yours, it's carnage.

his lips crash to yours like he's been starved for centuries and you're the only thing that can save him. and maybe you are.

there's nothing gentle about it- no softness, no prelude, no tease. just need. just endless waves of wanting crashing against each other, finally flooding the shoreline.it's a brutal, breath-stealing, soul-splitting kind of kiss; one that devours everything in its path.

you gasp into his mouth, and he groans like it's fucking salvation—like he's finally allowed to drown in you, and he's going under willingly, eating up your every sound like he'll never have the chance to dine again.

his hands are everywhere. gripping your waist. sliding up your spine. fisting in your hair like he's hanging on for dear life. like he wants to drag you inside himself until you can't tell where you end and he begins. you moan- shameless, open-mouthed against his lips- and it shatters something in him, the last bands of his control falling away into nothingness.

his teeth graze your bottom lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to own. to claim. to possess, utterly and wholly.

"mine," he mutters like an oath against your mouth, ragged and reverent, as if he's breathing the word to life in your bloodstream and tattooing it across your soul.

"yours," you gasp in return, broken and bare, like it's the only truth that's ever mattered.

your fingers claw at his shirt; frenzied, desperate, aching to feel him.you yank him closer until there's no space left between your bodies, just friction and fabric and furious need- like you're both trying to fuck through your clothes. like you'll fall apart if he ever stops touching you, kissing you, branding his name on every inch of your being.

it's not just a kiss. it's a goddamn reckoning: heat and hunger. rhythm and ruin. a secret only you can share, a world where pleasure is just beginning; one where it has no end in sight.

"god," he murmurs against your lips, every syllable wet and desperate, "you taste like the end of me." he presses you harder to the door, breath harsh against your jaw.

then he kisses you again- slower this time, but not softer. never that. it's deeper somehow; filthier. sharp teeth and spit-slick tongues clashing dangerously, the heat between you rising so fast it burns.

his mouth claims yours like he's trying to ruin the shape of it, like he wants your lips bruised with his name. his tongue licks into you- aggressive, greedy, insatiable- and you moan for it, letting him swallow up the sound, surrendering every last breath.

one hand fists in your hair; the other roams down your spine in a frantic sweep, dragging over curves like he's memorizing the texture of a dream. his touch is wild, greedy- skating over your ribs, your waist, down to your hips, gripping wherever he can like he needs more than one place to hold, like anchoring you keeps him from combusting. he groans against your mouth, the sound pure sin. he's hoarse, wrecked, completely undone.

he kisses you like he's trying to win a war. like pleasure and punishment are the same thing.

"you knew i'd go insane the second i saw that skirt again, didn't you?" he whispers, teeth grazing your throat now, tongue coming out to play. "you wore it for me. to undo me."

you nod, helpless, breathless as he licks delicate little lines across your neck. "i wanted to be the reason you snapped." his hands slide lower- around your hips, down to your thighs.

he groans low, filthy. carnal. "you are."

then he shifts, and you move like you were built to follow. his touch stays- constant, claiming. he doesn't stop looking at you like you're divinity and damnation in one.

the couch groans as the back of his knees hit it, and he drops.

"sit." his voice lowers to something dangerous as he commands you to follow his lead, caressing you like velvet over a blade.

you obey: of course you do. you move to sit right next to him, but he quickly corrects you.

"straddle."

your pulse stutters. you crawl into his lap without hesitation as though it's where your body was always meant to end up; skirt already rucked up indecently high, thighs bracketing his hips as your bodies align like they were made for this.

you can feel the delicious weight of him- hard, hot, barely restrained- pressed up tight against the thin barrier between want and having.

he exhales like it's killing him. like you're killing him, softly. slowly. spiritually.

his hands find your hips; tight, commanding, the touch grounding you and sending you flying all at once- before dragging you down, slow, like he's lining you up with every filthy intention he's ever had, every dark fantasy staining his wrecked and ruined mind.

"take what you want," he murmurs, voice utterly destroyed. worshipful. "i'll tell you when to stop."

and then he's pulling you forward, settling you over the thick, proud tension in his lap. leather drags against the inside of your thighs everywhere your little skirt fails to cover, and your breath catches at the heat trapped between you. the pressure is unbearable in the best way; it's addictive, sinful, soaked in red-hot desperation.

you lose yourself on his lap, his pants stiff and smooth, his thighs rock-solid beneath you, and your own panties are already soaked through. he doesn't move. doesn't buck. doesn't give you anything- just lets you take, take, take. he sits there like a throne, like a challenge, like something sacred you have to earn.

your fingers curl against his shoulders, searching for leverage. your hips shift once- twice- until you find it: that filthy, perfect drag of your clothed cunt against the rigid line of his zipper. it's slow at first, ever-rising with the tension as it hits a boiling point around you. your breath leaves you in a gasp. his does, too.

but still, he doesn't move. just stares up at you almost in awe, like he's watching a miracle unfold in real time. like you've been sent from the heavens with the sole purpose of rubbing yourself filthily across his lap.

"that's it," han breathes so low it's almost a growl, eyes flickering down to where your bodies meet. "use me."

your hands grip his shoulders tight for balance, red nails digging into his tank as you move- faster, frenzied, frantically chasing that high that keeps eluding you. he sits like a king beneath you, his restraint making you ravenous.

your body chases the rhythm on instinct, gasping into his neck as he exhales sharp against your jaw, breath warm and maddening. it's too much friction and yet never enough. your thighs are shaking already, the pressure mounting in your belly like something on the verge of snapping. you drag yourself over him again and again and again, chasing that peak with lustful, hungry movements, dizzy on the edge.

han's voice cuts through the mounting bliss, hoarse and low and deadly calm. "did you touch yourself last night? like i told you to?"

your body jolts at his question, rhythm stuttering for a second. your eyes flutter open to meet his- dark, watching, devouring your every move.

you swallow hard, voice on the brink of shattering. "i- i tried," you whisper. "but i... just couldn't."

he blinks, the smallest twitch in his jaw betraying the storm beneath the calm. his hands tighten around your hips. "couldn't?"

your cheeks burn, your movements growing erratic in his grasp. your words come out in a desperate whimper, "not without you... couldn't come. not without your hands. your voice."

he groans- it's not a battle cry, but it's not quiet, either; it's guttural, like it's been dragged from somewhere deep in his chest. like your gasped confession wrecked him more than your hips ever could. his hands press tighter on your waist, thumbs digging into skin like he's promising to bruise your soul through it. he tilts his head back for half a second, as if trying to compose himself, as if he's just barely hanging on.

then- he stills you completely. stops your grinding mid-thrust with both hands, and your body jolts with the loss of friction. you cry out; a long, broken thing, the sound clawing its way out of your chest like a wolf howling at her moon.

"han—" you start, breathless, desperate.

his mouth is against your ear before you can finish the indignant moan of his name. "i can't let you fall apart without tasting it."

and just like that, the game changes.

he stops your movements fully- hips stilled in his grip, your soaked center trembling against him. his hands roam up your back, slow and intentional, fingers ghosting over every dip and curve like he's touching something precious. his breath is wrecked, uneven; it fans against your cheek as his mouth hovers near your ear, not kissing, not speaking- just breathing hot, heavy. like he's barely keeping it together.

and then his fingers find the strings of your corset top. he stills for a moment, like he's memorizing the map of laces across your back, like he's planning to take his sweet time unwrapping you.

he doesn't yank. doesn't rush. he unlaces it slowly, loop by loop, dragging each one free with a murmur that claims you in a way that makes you ache. "swear to god, y/n, you're made just for me..." his voice is awed, sacred. it betrays the sound of a man completely undone by his muse.

he's still as the final tie loosens, easing the garment off your shoulders with hands that stay gentle, deliberate; like he's savoring the moment, not rushing it. like looking too fast might ruin the pleasure of unwrapping what's his. you allow him to slide it down your arms, peeling it with ease from your figure as your body becomes pliant in his lap- soft, willing, made to be touched by him. only him. the corset falls away like an afterthought.

he sees what's underneath- and everything inside him fractures.

he freezes. just for a second. just enough for you to feel the breath hitch in his chest, his first true loss of control. he still holds the reins in his hands, but he's in danger of losing his grip on them when he sees what you wore for him tonight.

his eyes drag down the exposed skin on display, drawn like a moth to a flame as he sees how your lingerie- delicate, dark, submission made of lace- is painted across your skin like a secret only he's allowed to know.

his gaze devours you whole.

he swallows hard. his voice, when it finally comes, is hoarse. "you wore this for me, sweetheart?"

your lips part, chest rising and falling in shallow waves as the lace clings to your every movement. his eyes track the motion, a wrecked kind of devastation gleaming in them. "you told me what to wear," you murmur, hardly able to breathe with how he looks at you. "i listened."

han groans- a sound punched out of him like he's physically in pain. his hands tighten, worshipful and possessive all at once. "fuck, baby," he whispers like a prayer. "you're gonna kill me."

and then his mouth is on you. not quite your chest, not yet; instead, he kisses just beneath your collarbone, every press of his lips open-mouthed, hot and slow, trailing lower with each drag of his tongue. his mouth traces confessions of love and lust into your body with every expert flick until his lips hover just over the edge of your bra, teasing without tasting, threatening insanity with his twisted form of mercy.

he mouths along the top of your breast, tongue dipping beneath the lace just enough to make you twitch. every touch is praise and possession. reverence and ruin. and you can't get enough.

"so perfect," he breathes against your skin, slick with his kisses. "so fucking perfect. all this-" his teeth scrape lightly over the curve of your chest, making you arch yourself into his mouth, "-all for me. all mine."

his hands are on your waist again, not pushing, just holding. grounding himself. like if he doesn't grip you, he'll come undone without even getting inside you. you can't help the airy moan that escapes you, repeating yourself as your breath takes form in a whispered word, "yours."

he smirks into your neck before kissing a line up your chest, across your clavicle, back to the hollow of your throat, following his lovebites like it's a map of ruin. never taking more than you give. never touching what he really wants, what he burns for- not yet. every movement is a promise. every kiss is a crazed countdown.

and beneath it all, his body is buzzing. vibrating with the sheer effort of his restraint. every move he makes is edged with hunger, lit with something dangerous and dark; something divine.

you can feel it. in his breath. in his trembling hands. in the way he worships every little inch you've exposed for him.

han jisung is starving for you.

he shifts beneath you like he's settling into something sacred, like he's preparing to be unleashed. one of his hands leaves your waist only long enough to curl a finger into the hem of his tank, and his eyes never leave yours.

"fuck- look at me, sweetheart," he breathes, wrecked and raw. "look what you've done to me."

and then- slowly, like he's giving you a gift too dangerous to open all at once, a pandora's box of his skin etched with ink and sin- he lifts it.

inch by inch, the planes of his body are revealed like every atom is meant to be worshipped. sculpted muscle, taut and flushed, tattooed in ink that speaks in a language only you can understand. the fabric drags up his torso, catching on every hard ridge like it's reluctant to part from his body.

your breath catches when the first flashes of ink come into view: sharp, dark lines etched over his right pec, a compass with lines of text coiled under it like a secret spell. your eyes flick lower, and there it is: the other swirling stretch of midnight ink crawling up his left side, a word of motion made permanent. a brand upon his skin that threatens your doom in delicious, sprawling script.

he tosses the tank aside like it's meaningless, like all he needs to wear is your hungry gaze; like he's not just stripped down but laid bare. and when he speaks, his voice is a rasped command masquerading as permission. "all of it," he murmurs like a promise. "yours."

your fingers twitch with want before you even realize you're reaching for him. they settle first on the compass, tracing slow around the edges, delicate and reverent. he hisses under his breath like your touch scalds him and completes him, all at once. you read the letters without speaking them, but he watches your mouth move in silence. his skin jumps beneath your touch as though begging to follow every scrape of your red nails across his chest.

"can i?" you breathe, voice raw. a plea to burn for him, to set you both on fire and take him down with you.

he nods once, finality dripping from him in waves of dominant addiction. "anything, y/n. it's all yours now. go ahead and touch."

you move like you're answering a prayer. like he's the altar and you've finally been granted permission to kneel. there's nothing hesitant in your hands now, only devotion; only desire. they slide over his skin with purpose, memorizing every curve of ink and sinew brewing with barely-concealed power under your touch, every sacred mark carved into flesh just for you to devour with your hands, with your eyes.

your thumb brushes beneath the compass's arc and he shudders, the reaction torn from him like instinct. he breathes hard and ragged like he's been struck: raw. involuntary. betrayal of the sin he's keeping on short leash beneath your fingers.

he rasps out another command edged with feral ache: "lower."

you obey.

your palm follows the swirl of his side tattoo down, mapping the ink with your whole hand now, letting your nails skate lightly over his ribs- just a scratch; just a whisper. you feel his breath catch. his fingers flex hard against your thighs, still spreading for him on either side of his hips. his cock twitches beneath you.

but still- he doesn't interrupt. doesn't take the reins back. he just gives you permission to worship. just allows you to take what he's bared for you.

you lean forward, unable to resist, and press your lips to his neck. once. soft. and you feel him fighting time and space under you to keep his power controlled at the first touch of your mouth to his skin.

you do it again- this time a little lower. a little warmer. needy, hot, pleading.

he exhales hard, hands tightening on your thigh like he feels the worship in your mouth. like he's about to fuck your devotion deeper into you until you cry with divine submission spilling from your tongue.

"shit, sweetheart," he whispers, the sound rumbling in his throat until the vibrations tease your lips. "your mouth feels like fantasy."

you hum against his skin. not a tease- just a yes, just truth. your lips drag over the column of his throat, and he tilts his head back, offering up more of himself for your devotion.

you eagerly take the gift he's giving you, allowing your mouth to roam. you leave sloppy kisses of awe and praise everywhere your lips touch; tracing the length of his jaw, down the delicious vein lining his neck, chasing the dizzying taste of his sweat and skin over the hollow of his throat.

his words are nothing but a rumble, a thunderclap against your tender lips, when he speaks once more.

"right there. suck."

you do as he commands. slowly. deeply. your mouth seals over the spot just beneath his jaw- all tongue, lips, and teeth- and you suck like you're branding him, like you're sealing a pact with the devil writhing in his skin.

a bruise rises there: a vow in violet, a mark that promises celestial undoing. his grip on your thighs tightens- hard. desperate. like his restraint is snapping thread by thread; he's not just a man now. he's a storm about to break.

your body responds in kind to his tempest of need. your thighs squeeze around his hips, instinctive and aching, as your center throbs against the thick line of him beneath you, soaked and pulsing with need. the friction isn't anywhere near enough, but it's maddening all the same.

you can't stop the gasp that slips from your lips, broken against his skin, sounding suspiciously like a plea of his name. you're desperate—and he knows.

and then he moves.

in a single, devastating shift, you're on your back. the world tips. your pulse shatters. your cunt clenches around nothing, pulsing fiercely like a second heartbeat with the ache to be relieved by him.

you don't even have time to beg.

you're claimed. pinned. panting. pliant. and the look in his dark eyes is promising to show you the end of the world.

your skirt's already hiked high from the sudden change in position. your chest heaves as he nails you to the couch with just a searing glance; his eyes are violent. precise. magnetic as they feast upon you from above.

you lie there, gasping beneath him, pulse hammering in every little junction of your body as your thighs fall open in instinct- in submission. in invitation. in delicious, irresistible need.

and jisung?

he looks down at you like you're both his prey and his prophecy. a trembling, sacred thing beneath him; a divine right laid bare before him, your body begging for his touch without words.

he doesn't lunge. doesn't pounce. he prowls.

shirtless and starving, skin slick with your kisses and his sweat, he crawls down your body like a man heading straight for the gates of ruin- and choosing damnation with every maddening drag of his fingers. his mouth is parted; his breath hot, wrecked.

his hands plant firm on your bare thighs, spreading them wider inch by inch until he can see everything. your soaked panties. the rise and fall of your breath. the desperation radiating from every inch of you, singing his name into the silence.

he watches your body stutter, twitch beneath him- and then he smiles.

"look at you," he murmurs, voice gone lethal, wrecked with restraint and approval. "you're so fucking perfect like this." one hand slides up, slow, to the hem of your skirt- but he doesn't push it down. not yet. instead he touches it like it's a relic; like peeling it away will summon something unholy.

his fingers brush over the fabric, the curve of your hip, then down again to where your thighs meet. and still, he doesn't remove. he just looks, just claims; every sweep of his eyes across your skin spelling out lusty demise.

"this little skirt," he whispers, leveling it like it's a sultry accusation. "you wore it for me, didn't you? all this time?"

you try to nod. try to breathe. try to survive the tortuous pleasure of his unwavering stare.

he hums like he knows every truth you're not brave enough to say, every secret your body is shouting at him. his head dips down with painstaking poise, nose skimming your thigh. he inhales sharply like he's balancing on the thinnest edge of his control.

"knew you'd be soaked for me," he breathes. "but this..." he presses a warm hand down against the panties you've already ruined, just enough to feel the wet heat beneath the fabric. "this is fucking obscene, baby."

his mouth is close. his breath fans over you through the last layer protecting your sanity. he doesn't move to peel them off yet; doesn't even pull your skirt the rest of the way down.

he just stares. spellbound. like he's addicted to the sight of you like this: spread out for him, trembling under his gaze, yearning for his touch.

"fuck me," he growls, voice nearly broken with how hard he's holding himself back from losing his mind and fucking his name right into your soul. he presses a kiss just above the waistband—obscene and unholy, mad with desire. then another. lower.

your whole body jolts. burns with the ache that's oh so close to finding sweet relief at the promise of his mouth on you, right where you need him most. your legs twitch, trying to close. he stops them.

"don't hide it." his grip tightens, keeping you open and wet and waiting. "look at how ruined you are for me." his breath ghosts over your center. your panties are soaked through, dark and slick, and he just stares.

"jesus, y/n. fuck, you're dripping," he growls, guttural, like he's pained. he leans in and presses a kiss right to the top edge of the fabric—filthy and reverent. "all this for me?"

you nod frantically, and you're rewarded with another kiss- lower.

he repeats the madness again, and again, leaving kiss after filthy kiss across your body, up your legs, until he's right above where you throb for him.

you can't think. can't even breathe. every nerve in your body is tuned to the ache of him- above you, all around you, his presence searing inside your skin like a fever you can't sweat out. the heat of his breath, the burn of his gaze, the press of his fingers just shy of where you need him most- every bit of it sets you unraveling.

you're trembling. soaked. spread out like a prayer turned plea, like a sacrifice laid down at the altar of lust and depravity. and if he doesn't touch you now- if he doesn't devour you like he's promised with every filthy word and every kiss that's only just missed its mark- then you'll fall apart right here.

you're utterly undone by want. ruined by restraint. begging to be wrecked by the musician of your body, begging for him to play you into your crescendo- just so the ache will finally, finally end.

your thighs clamp on instinct, shaking.

he pushes them apart again with a chuckle that's all teeth and teasing. "you're fucking desperate," he whispers into the damp fabric. "you want it bad, huh?"

a broken plea leaves you at his cocky question, sounding a lot like 'oh god'. you're reaching a point of no return the longer drags this out, the longer he leaves you open and wet and desperate, your body chanting his name without sound.

he kisses the inside of your thigh once- soft, open-mouthed, precise- and your whole body shudders.

then he does it again. slower. wetter. his tongue presses dirty little secrets into your skin like he's tracing the path of your pulse, like he's licking feral devotion straight into your bloodstream.

you whimper helplessly, hips twitching up toward him with a mind of their own, but he doesn't move any faster. he just keeps kissing his way up: achingly slow, maddeningly patient, leaving trails of spit and seduction in his wake- until your thighs are trembling around him and your hands are clawing into his hair like you'll lose your mind if he doesn't give in.

and he lets you. lets you tug, gasp, beg with your body while he lavishes kisses on the space just shy of where you need him.

he breathes another kiss against your inner thigh, nose brushing lace, and murmurs into your skin like he's casting a spell- or maybe a curse. "you want it here?"

a flick of his tongue, lower now.

"you've been begging all fucking night." he says into another kiss, the words holding nothing but tantalizing truth. his teeth graze the tender flesh near your heat, and you gasp, every breath leaving you utterly wrecked, ruined. like this is the culmination of every fantasy you've ever had, and it's unraveling your soul to wait for it to come alive against your skin. a wanton moan escapes your lips, bordering on a cry for mercy.

he laughs low- the noise dark and broken. "fuck, sweetheart. you gonna cry for me?"

your eyes meet his, glassy and wide, betraying your devastation. you might. you honestly might.

you're soaked and shaking and your cunt is aching so bad you could scream; but still he waits, still he worships every inch of you except the one place you need him most.

until—

he moves. finally.

with one last kiss to the crease of your thigh, he sinks lower and hooks his teeth into the waistband of your panties. and tugs.

the sound that leaves you edges on unholy. punched from your gut, ripped from your throat. your hands fist tighter in his hair as he drags the soaked fabric down with excruciating precision. inch by inch, you come undone the further he lowers it, his tongue pressed to your skin, his breath a benediction.

the lace stretches between his teeth. his eyes lock onto yours. they're absolutely wild, glinting with possession- hungry. holy. utterly han.

and then:

he drops the ruined fabric to the floor, spreads you wider with his hands, and breathes like a man about to consume his final meal.

he doesn't say a word. just settles between your legs like he belongs there- like he was born there. like the place he's about to ruin is the altar he's spent his whole life crawling toward.

and then, he tastes.

and the world splits open.

his tongue drags a slow, devastating stripe up your cunt, and your whole body bows off the couch like you've been possessed, like he's exorcizing your pleasure deftly with nothing but his mouth. a gasp tears out of you- the sound shattered, strangled, saturated with sinful divinity- and you don't even know if it's his name or god's that slips violently through your parted lips. because they feel the same right now.

"jesus fucking christ," he mutters into your heat, voice low and reverent as he licks again, not letting a single drop of you go to waste. "you taste like sin."

and then he's devouring.

there's no other word for it: his mouth is a miracle and a curse, that merciless tongue flicking and flattening and curling in ways that make your eyes roll back, make your thighs clamp around his head like keeping him close is instinct. but he doesn't mind- doesn't stop.

his arms wrap under your legs, hold you wide open, lock you down while he feasts. he moans against you like he's getting off on it, like your pussy is his religion and he's on his knees to worship.

your hands dig wildly into his hair, your hips rock helplessly, your cunt throbs against his mouth with every maddening swirl of his tongue- and still he goes deeper. rougher. hungrier.

one hand slips down between your thighs, two fingers sliding into your soaked entrance like he's been waiting years to feel you stretch around him, like your body was made to take him in stride. they curl, the feeling pulling pieces of your soul out and dropping them into his waiting grasp, and he hums against your clit as his tongue continues to work wonders around it.

you keen so loud you hear his name echo around the empty room.

you're unraveling fast now. gasping while tears prick at the corners of your eyes from the sheer overload of it. he groans again, rutting his face into you, tongue flicking hard over you desperately while his fingers fuck you with expert precision.

"messy little thing," he breathes, voice ruined and proud. "dripping all over my face."

and you are. you feel it; you feel how wet you are for him, feel the slick pump of his fingers thrusting in and out, feel his tongue lapping it up like you're the last taste of sanity he'll ever get.

you cry out again, louder now. not his name- not a word. just desperation. just please.

his tongue brings you to that edge so fast and filthy, fingers curling into your g-spot with ruthless, perfect rhythm, those full lips sucking your clit like it's his own salvation. it's too much. it's not enough.

every lick brings you closer to god. every thrust of his hand brings stars to your vision. you're spiraling higher and higher, soaring, cresting over into that blessed peak; you don't know if you're falling or flying, if you're still in reality or if you've already rocketed off into outer space, but you just know you're going to break. you're going to collapse. you're going to scream his name so loud the whole fucking universe hears you come undone beneath him-

and then he stops.

your thighs lock around his head.

not in a futile attempt to punish; not to stop him. just a movement made on pure, pulsing instinct. your body chasing his mouth like salvation, like he's the only thing tethering you to this earth.

he groans into you- fuck, he groans like he loves it. like your desperation is the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. but when your thighs squeeze tighter, reflexive, wrecked; he laughs.

dark. delighted. ruined.

"oh, sweetheart..." his breath is molten against your soaked skin. "not even letting me breathe, huh?" he punctuates his statement with an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh.

"you're desperate for it now." he's not teasing. not really. no; he's worshipping.

you're trembling again. leaking, aching, starved of the high he so beautifully ruined. and when he finally lifts his head, face slick and shining, he looks like he's just tasted heaven- and he's about to break you apart for more.

his gaze drags up your body like a flame. you just know that your hair's a mess, body naked and exposed to his gaze, nothing left to cover you except for his eyes and the scrap of lace across your chest. your lips are parted with his name only moments away from rolling off your tongue. you're gasping, twitching, utterly wrecked below him.

and he rises. slow, powerful, and devastating. his hands stroke down your thighs as he goes, like he can't bear to lose contact, like pressing into your skin is his favorite place to be. he doesn't speak for a moment; just watches you, his chest heaving, cock straining against his jeans, feral eyes black with hunger.

you sit up, swaying from the high of his mouth, and your fingers find his belt.

your hands are shaky, trembling as they reach for him; but it's too much. too close. too holy. you can't think, can't breathe, can't even begin to function. so you sink lower, helpless to the heat of him, bowing to the unspoken power before you. your lips brush the sensitive skin above his waistline, tracing that delicious vee with your tongue... and then, you drag the zipper down with your teeth.

because you have to. because you'd do anything he asked. and because you want to do this- to do more- without being told. it's not even a choice, it's more than a want. it's a need.

he exhales sharp, like the sight cuts deep into him.

he stares down at you like you've just set him on fire. his breath punches out of him, sharp and ragged, like he's just taken a hit straight to the ribs. his hips jerk once- reflexive, helpless- and his hand fists in your hair, gentle but commanding. not to guide. not to hold you down. just to anchor himself in reality while you kneel between his thighs, lips brushing his skin, trembling with the need to please. the need to devote yourself to him.

"fuck. fuck." he drops curses like they're torn from his throat; like he's reached the furthest edge of his restraint, and one more breath from you might send him hurtling over it. his other hand grips the back of the couch hard enough to turn his knuckles white. he doesn't move to touch you further. doesn't dare interrupt your act of reverence.

but he's about to snap, and you can hear it in every sharp breath.

"fuck- baby –" his voice breaks on the word, hoarse and guttural. like your devotion hurts him. like it's wrecked something deep and sacred inside him, altering some piece of his soul he didn't even know was vulnerable.

then—

"do you even know what that means to me?" his words rasp out raw, choked. a breathless, disbelieving laugh shakes his chest. "you didn't even wait to be told. you just..." he cuts himself off, jaw clenching, hand winding ever tighter into your hair.

"fuck, you'd ruin yourself for me, wouldn't you?"

you look up through your lashes and nod subtly, wide-eyed and waiting, crazed and dripping from the depth of his gaze, the feel of his power over you circling the room and trapping you in the delicious ecstasy of submission to it- to this feeling. to him.

he snaps.

"get up here."

he drags you up his body, crashes your mouths together. this kiss is nowhere near soft; made of coal and sin and deranged, animalistic need. it's ravenous, all need and heat and the electrifying taste of your own wreckage coating his tongue.

his control is unraveling at a dizzying pace.

he's shedding his clothes like they're too hot to touch, like they burn against his skin now that you're beneath him once more on this poor couch- open, waiting, wet.

the belt hits the floor first. then with the zipper undone by your devotion, his jeans slide down his thighs, dragging his last layer loose as it goes, and his cock springs free—flushed and heavy, glistening at the tip, desperate. and it looks like it's calling your name, begging for you to rewrite every cell of your being on it.

you gasp- you can't help it. because he's fucking beautiful like this. wild and wrecked, undone for you, deliriously hard and solid above you like he can't bring himself to hold back another second.

"oh my god, jisung," you whisper, voice caught somewhere between a moan and a prayer.

but han? he's not speaking yet.

he's moving.

his hands drag up your sides, firm and slow; like he's trying to feel every inch of you, trying to claim it. and when they land on your hips, he pauses. grips tight. not to restrain- but to anchor. to remember. to worship.

his cock presses right against your slick heat, not inside yet—just there. ready. thick and throbbing and pulsing like it knows exactly where it belongs. the feel of his bare skin against your own sets you off like a bomb; your eyelids flutter, too heavy for the weight of the sensuality pulsing between you, throbbing in every nerve as you lie in anguished wait.

he doesn't move in for the kill yet. doesn't thrust. doesn't dare blink.

because he's looking at you like you're his undoing.

"fuck," he mutters, breath shuddering as he takes his sweet time sweeping over your wrecked and ruined figure. "look at you."

he sees it all: your trembling thighs, your flushed chest, your kiss-swollen lips parted for him and only him, ready to scream his name when he decides to finally fuck you into the gates of heaven. or hell.

"you're so fucking perfect, baby." it's no more than a dazed, divine whisper. "so mine."

you whimper in response. it's barely sound- it's submission, soaked into the sin of his touch and his words, your obedience and sheer, ever-mounting want whispered into the ache between your legs.

"say it," he begs- voice cracked, low, thick with every ounce of restraint he's about to unleash for you. "say you're mine."

your whole body arches, desperate to meet him, to pull him in. and your answer leaves you like a cry for mercy. ripping from your throat- raw, real, reckless.

"yours."

his mouth crashes to yours in ravenous approval: hungry, hot, claiming. he kisses you like he's drowning. and then- he pulls back just enough to see you. his cock slides lower, finds you soaked, open, begging for the ruin only he can give. he lets himself hover just above your entrance, teasing you- even now, even past the borders of his restraint. a broken sound leaves you.

"you want it?" he rasps, voice utterly mad with destruction. "tell me you want it like this. like you've been waiting for me, just me, all these nights. tell me you needed me all this time."

you nod, frantic, trembling.

he still keeps you on that edge, still doesn't push in until he has you begging for him to brand your soul with the proof of his desire. "say it."

you don't even think- you can't anymore, your body and mind melting in his hands. "please, han- need you. need you inside. need you to ruin me."

he groans like your words tear him in half. "fuck, baby."

he lines up, thick and twitching where you drip for him.

and when he pushes in- fucking finally, still achingly slow- twin sighs leave the two of you like the world has been stripped down to pure, raw sensation.

inch by inch, he sinks into you, stretching you open around him like he was built for this. built to lose himself in you. your jaw falls slack, lips parted in stunned disbelief, eyes wide as your nails dig into the hard lines of his back. you moan obscenely as your rake your nails across his shoulders, your eyes threatening to roll back into your head if only the motion wouldn't cause you to break his debauched stare.

he's holding your gaze the whole time: not blinking. not breathing. not breaking. just watching you take him, so filthy and real and right.

"so fucking tight," he groans, the sound wrecked, fraying around the edges like he's barely holding himself back from splitting you open completely. "so perfect for me, baby."

you feel so full. so stretched. and you haven't even taken all of him yet.

his hand finds your jaw, cradling it. his thumb strokes your cheek like a vow as that burning gaze runs together with an edge of tenderness. "you feel like fate," he breathes, voice laced with something awed, something holy. "you feel like my destiny."

you keen beneath him, breath hitching in your lungs, thighs already trembling from the pressure. but he doesn't move. doesn't pull out. he just stays there for a moment- buried deep and desperate, chest pressed to yours, mouth only a breath away.

"look at me," he says- the words soft, but no less commanding. "let me see how pretty you fall apart for me."

he starts to move.

not fast; not yet. just shallow, slow pulls, barely withdrawing before he's pushing right back in. deep. precise. holy motion tangled with erotic filth, the movements meant to make you feel every inch, meant to ruin you slowly. you gasp, mouth open, thighs twitching around his hips as your body struggles to keep up.

and han?

he's fucking gone.

he's looking at you like you've hung the stars, like your body is the altar and this is the final prayer. "god, the way you take me," he chokes out like it could be his last breath. "you're gonna make me fucking lose it, y/n."

all you can do is moan. "han..." you pant breathily, his name the only thing left in the wake of your undoing.

his hand slides between your bodies, up to the last scrap of lace still covering your chest. and with one careful, dominant pull—he peels it up and off, exposing you fully to him.

he groans at the sight, gaze turning feral. "fucking finally," he murmurs, hand dragging down the exposed flesh of your breasts like he's caressing your heart through the skin. like he's waited years to touch you like this. he leans in, teeth grazing your jaw, breath hot at your ear. "i need to see you. all of you when i ruin you."

your nails rake sharp, unforgiving lines of desire down his back. he growls into your mouth, the sound low and wrecked and yours.

you're gasping now- clawing. unraveling. you need him everywhere, deeper, faster, all at once.

"faster," you whisper. "han- god, i need you, i need—"

he grins against your ear, wicked. teasing, even when he's on the verge of ruin.

"say please, sweetheart."

your voice trembles, wrecked and longing. "please."

and that's all it takes. he owns your body, your heart, your soul with every move he makes.

he fucks forward in one sharp, stunning thrust- and the sound that tears out of you is pure devastation. your back bows. your hands dig into his shoulders for purchase. your cunt clenches so tight around him it nearly knocks the breath from both of you.

"shit, baby," he growls, and then he moves.

he slams into you again and again, grinding in deep with each bruising thrust, fucking you like he's carving his name into your bones. you can practically feel him in your stomach. it's almost too much- almost.

"you can take it, sweetheart," he pants, fucking into you harder now, pace brutal and relentless with need. "i know you can. your body was made for this. made for me."

you choke on a cry. your hands dig into his shoulders. your legs try to close around him and fail miserably, forced to stay open with sheer helpless need.

he doesn't stop. doesn't dream of it.

he reaches for your jaw again, just to ground you- making you feel him everywhere. making sure you know you're his.

"you feel so fucking good," he moans, voice splintering under the weight of your combined pleasure. "so tight. so perfect. like you were made to take my cock. like the whole fucking universe built you just to break for me."

his voice is in your ear again—filthy, breathless, almost worshipful. he's rambling like a madman now, unhinged from the act of taking you so wholly.

"three nights," he whispers. "three fucking nights of dreaming about this. about you. soaking my tongue. clenching around my fingers. begging for it with every fucking breath."

his hand slides down between your thighs, finding where you're dripping around him. he groans at the mess, fingers swiping through it before bringing them to your lips.

"open."

you do. you always do.

he pushes them in, makes you taste yourself. makes you suck, slow and sensual, while he watches with hooded eyes and keeps fucking wildly into you, hips clashing with yours over and over like a feverish promise.

"you taste like heaven," he breathes. "you taste like mine."

he's slowly approaching the edge now. you can feel it. the tremble in his arms. the dark flush on his skin. the way his thrusts are turning feral, snapping his hips into yours with a force that makes the couch groan beneath you. and you're right there with him, ready to go flying at just one command falling from his lips.

but he's holding himself back. holding you steady. dragging this out like he wants to feel every second of your destruction.

he fucks you like he's rewriting the damn cosmos.

you feel it in every stroke, every strangled curse buried into the skin of your neck, every growled praise. his power spills into every filthy breath he pulls from your lungs. he kisses you hard, the contact searing.

his thrusts turn punishing. frantic. every snap of his hips ricochets through your bones, a shockwave of pleasure that tightens your walls around him until you're near bursting. you can't even think. can't form words. just a haze of heat and sweat, and the sound of skin slapping skin, louder with every brutal collision of his hips to yours, hot, dirty breath fogging up your brain.

he's everywhere—everywhere—inside you, above you, wrapped around you like smoke and sin, drowning you in the holy fire of his obsession. you cry out as you feel it: that molten edge looms tantalizingly close, pulling tight in your core, threatening to split you in half as you throttle towards it at full speed.

he hears the change in your breathing, sees the wild glassy look in your eyes, and slows just enough to keep you on that brink before you hurtle over into insanity.

"still with me?" he pants, voice rough silk, teasing even now.

you whine in response, barely coherent, wanting sweet release so bad you can almost taste it. he leans in, lips brushing your ear with wicked intent. "that's not a yes." and then- he grins.

he doesn't let up. doesn't falter; just fucks you harder, deeper. "use your words, baby. come on."

your body jolts with the next thrust, sharp and impossibly deep, and your voice breaks as you try to obey. "han..." you gasp brokenly, "still- still with you-"

he grabs your jaw, knowing your body better than yourself. you're putty in his grip; nothing but his to ruin, his to master, his to destroy. he keeps your fluttering eyes locked to his even as he fucks into you harder. it's not cruel- never cruel- just controlled. deliberate. devastating in its precision.

"good girl," he breathes, low and dangerous, like moaning for him is the holiest thing you've ever done in your life. "knew you could take it."

he doesn't ease up. doesn't let you catch your breath. he drives himself into you like he's claiming every part of you, hips snapping against yours with such filthy force you swear you can feel him in your throat, tattooing himself into your every atom of existence.

the couch groans. the room echoes with the sound of skin on skin. the air smells like sex, dirty and wet and needy.

you're drowning in it, in him- in the sensation, in the stretch, in the slick, relentless pressure building with every punishing thrust. he buries himself so deep you start seeing stars, clenching madly around him, body hyperaware of every ridge and veiny drag of him inside you.

"jisung" you gasp, voice wrecked beyond repair, "i'm- fuck, i'm close—"

his hand slides down your stomach, presses firm against your clit as he fucks you through the spiral he's dragging out of you. you buck wildly into his palm as he takes the rhythm from bruising to brutal. "that's it, y/n" he pants, breath searing at your ear, "come on, baby. give it to me. let me feel you fall apart."

and with his permission pounding through you like a drumbeat, you shatter.

your orgasm hits like a detonation meant to level the cosmos. it hits you like a tidal wave: blinding, brutal, all-consuming. your legs tremble, toes curling, your entire body arching violently into him to press skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat as you sob out his name like it's the only thing tethering you to this earth. white-hot pleasure fractures through you in waves, devastating and divine, your cunt pulsing around him so tight he nearly loses it right then and there.

you cling to him, fingers clawing red lines needily at his back, desperate for something to hold on to as your release tears through you with reckless force and destructive power.

and han?

he watches all of it. jaw clenched, sweat-damp hair falling in his eyes, hips still rolling into you with practiced control as he murmurs, "fuck, baby, that's it. just like that. look how beautiful you are when you break for me."

your body seizes beneath him, every nerve on fire, every breath stolen, your core pulsing wildly around his cock as he keeps moving, keeps praising you through your release like it's his favorite fucking prayer.

you're still fluttering around him- slick, soaked, wrecked- when he leans in again, his bare chest flush to yours, keeping you caged. the weight of his body, the grip of his hands, it's not just overwhelming. it's deliberate. leading, guiding- like he knows you're not done. like he's going to make damn sure of it.

"you fading out on me, sweetheart?" he murmurs, voice a husky rasp at your ear; equal parts command and craving.

you breathe out something helpless through the wreckage left in your throat, half a moan, half a sob, too buzzed with live-wire pleasure to form anything more.

he laughs- low and sinful, the sound soaked in dark affection. "yeah," he says, voice dipping even lower, one hand curling beneath your chin to tip your ruined face up to his. "that's what i thought."

his gaze roves over your features like he's memorizing the moment: every shattered breath, every flutter of your lashes, all for him. "so good for me," he breathes, still fucking you deep. "so fucking perfect when you fall apart."

he kisses you, the hungry desperation leaking into your mouth with every swipe of his tongue. his hips shift, and it punches the breath from your lungs. he's still pounding ravenous inside, still thick and twitching where you pulse around him, and every inch of movement feels impossiblyintense. like you're being split open again from the inside out.

he doesn't let up. doesn't give you a second to come down. his next thrust is slower, deeper, grinding into your overstimmed cunt like he wants to etch himself into every groove of your body.

"what a good girl," he growls, the praise rough and raw and filthy, "taking it so fucking well."

he fucks you like a rockstar. your thighs shake. your spine arches. your brain fizzles, overloaded and electric.

and han just watches- eyes hooded, expression tight with control- as you writhe beneath him, caught between the sting of overstimulation and the helpless build of something new. something bigger.

"don't run from it," he warns, voice low and stern, fingers curling at your hips like he's guiding your body through every flutter and pulse. "you can take it, y/n. i know you can."

he grinds deeper: slow, punishing circles with his hips that make your toes curl and your breath hitch.

"fuck," he groans. "feel you clenching already. so fucking sensitive, aren't you?"

you whimper. can't even answer. can't do anything but take it. your body jolts with every drag of his cock, overstim lighting up every nerve ending like sparks.

his palm slides between your bodies, fingers slipping down to where you're still dripping for him, so overstimmed it ravages you.

"you're gonna come for me again," he growls, not asking. telling. commanding. "and you're gonna let me watch you break for it, yeah? again."

your body arches into his every touch, a broken cry leaving your lips that sounds a lot like 'please'.

he fucks into you hard- slow, deep thrusts that make your eyes roll back, the tension coiling tight in your belly all over again. you're teetering on that edge once more, body out of your control and solely held in his, ready to fly off the handle for him a second time. it's heaven. it's hell. you can't get enough.

"come on, baby," he mutters, breath ragged now. "let me feel it sweetheart. give me one more."

you're almost there, barely holding on.

he watches you squirm beneath him, wild-eyed and open-mouthed, the softest whimpers spilling from your lips like confessions. you're wrecked, overwhelmed, barely tethered to the couch cushions beneath you- but still, you nod. still, you submit. you give him everything- it's his to take, anyways. only his.

and han fucking beams.

"that's it," he praises, voice low and dangerous and so full of wicked devotion you could drown in it. "that's my girl."

you moan wildly. he shifts- deeper now, harder, the rhythm relentless. your back bows off the couch, hands flying to his shoulders like they're the only thing keeping you from falling through the earth. like gravity is limited to the hard, sweat-slicked planes of his skin, and nowhere else.

he leans in, mouth at your ear again; his favorite place to ruin you from.

"shit, sweetheart. look at you," he growls, hand dragging down your front and sides, possessive and adoring and hungry all at once. "still taking it. still fucking perfect."

your breath comes in shattered sobs, every thrust striking something devastating and divine. you're beyond sense, beyond sanity; your body feels like fire and ice and smolder and shock, every nerve lit up like you're about to short-circuit completely.

his hand slides between your legs again, fingers slick as they circle your clit with practiced precision—no mercy. no hesitation. just wave after wave of overwhelm, of rattling sensation that feels like too-much until it blends into not-enough.

you scream his name. you can't even help it. the sound tears straight out of your throat like it's been waiting years to burst forth, like every move you've ever made has led to this: to being claimed, utterly and madly, by the man who plays your pleasure like an instrument beneath his calloused hands.

"god, the way your body begs," he moans, teeth gritted as he grinds deeper. "you were made for this. for me." you cry out desperately in response, as if to agree, to tell him that you're his to take, to wreck, to ruin.

his voice is still low and hot in your ear as he fucks you like the world is about to end. "give me that sweet fucking finish, baby. show me how much you needed me."

and then- he commands it.

"now."

he breaks the dam with a powerful, claiming kiss- and you explode, his mouth swallowing every incoherent sob.

you come undone a second time with a magnitude that shatters the ceiling, your body locking up in every buzzing joint as pleasure rips through you like a blade. your legs tremble violently, your cunt clamps down around him, gripping him so tight it's like you're trying to keep him inside forever.

"fuck, yes- that's it, y/n," han groans, hips stuttering even as he fucks you through it, pace relentless and unforgiving. "just like that. so fucking good for me. so mine."

you're sobbing, gasping, jerking beneath him, every muscle lit with lightning. you're not sure what planet you're on- just that it's named after him. just that he's there, holding you down, whispering filth and praise against your skin as you ride wave after wave of agonizing bliss.

and still, he doesn't stop. doesn't let you breathe unless it's to drag his soul into yours.

"you've got one more in you," he coaxes, already shifting your hips, fucking you deeper like he needs to ruin you again to survive. "you're gonna give me one more, yeah? and then i'm gonna fill you up so good, baby. gonna come so fucking deep inside."

your body is still shaking, still fluttering around him with a mix of overstimmed agony and the still-growing, impossible desire for more, when han growls low in your ear.

"turn around."

you barely register the words. you barely exist outside the way your cunt is still pulsing in the aftermath of that second reality-splintering orgasm. but he moves you anyway, ever the guide of your body and mind, orchestrating your pleasure deftly until he deems you ready to spiral out into oblivion. his hands are rough but achingly gentle, spinning you to your knees and pressing your chest to the couch with a groan so guttural it scrapes down your spine.

"look at you," he rasps, lining up behind you while you can only lay there feverishly and let him devastate you. "fuck, should've ruined you like this first."

then he slides back in with one soul-deep thrust, and you scream.

"that's it," he croons, pace religiously brutal from the start. "you know you were built to take it. take every inch of me, sweetheart. gonna give you every last drop of me."

your moans turn frantic- breathy, feral, unhinged. you're dizzy, melting, eyes rolling back and hands clawing at the couch as his hips slam into yours again and again from behind, deeper than ever before, the filthy slaps of skin-on-skin echoing in the room like a goddamn war drum of destruction. his hand wraps tight in your hair, tugging just enough to arch your back perfectly.

you cry out like a woman possessed, leaving yourself bowed and trembling at the altar of his desperation. the stretch, the pressure, the pure filth of being used like this- it tears gasp after gasp of his name out of you, and han fucking loses it.

"you're so good like this," he growls, panting hard. "on your knees for me. letting me fuck you like i own you."

you find your voice long enough to moan fervently, "you do."

his other hand finds your ass, grips hard, uses the leverage to drive into you deeper- harder- so intense your knees nearly slip on the couch. you scramble to hold on, hands grasping the cushions like lifelines, but it's useless.

he's everywhere. he's everything.

"god, y/n, you're perfect- so perfect, baby," he gasps, voice splintering at the edges. "i'm close. fuck, i'm close." you're nearly there too- your whole body is alive with imminent release, your core tightening with unbearable, aching need.

then- he leans down to command you once again, his voice rasping in your ear sounding fucked-out. filthy. final.

"come for me, sweetheart." it's more than a demand, more than a plea. "give me one more. i need to feel you fall apart on my cock again." he says it like he can't fathom pleasure without having you tangled up in the throes of it with him.

and you obey. god, you fall apart. one last time, just for him.

you shatter like glass with a pornographic scream, your body convulsing around him as you lose yourself for the final time- wrung out, destroyed, remade into something new in his hands. han moans like he's dying, like he's witnessing a miracle beneath his palms.

"where do you want me, y/n?" the question is riddled with urgency, his rhythm starting to break.

you shudder, breathless and ruined. "inside."

the one word is all you're capable of. but he fucking growls all the same.

his hips stutter, slam in once- twice- and then he's spilling into you, cock twitching deep as he presses his body flush to yours, grinding through every pulsing throb. he gives you all of him, pushing so deep you feel your souls merge, feel your lives rewrite themselves to tie together.

"fuck, baby- fuck, you're perfect. made for me to get lost in," he pants, voice cracked wide open as his climax still hits, hot and messy and all-consuming.

for a moment, there's only breath. slick skin. the sound of his heartbeat pounding against your back.

then his arms wrap around you from behind, holding you there, so tight you couldn't fall if you tried.

"mine," he whispers again. low. wrecked. eternal.

you're just barely fluttering at the edge of consciousness, hardly feeling it when han presses sweet, lingering kisses up the length of your spine. his hands smooth over the bruises he's left on your hips, still not pulling out- just there, buried deep inside as your body struggles through the aftershocks.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. just stays pressed against you, buried inside, as if letting go would undo him completely.

you breathe in tandem, barely holding together what’s left of yourselves.

and somewhere between his kisses and the shiver of your name on his tongue, you realize he’s not just inside your body- he’s lodged in your fate.

you’ll never come back from this.

and you don’t want to.

—

i will be writing an epilogue, at some point, if enough people want one!! hope you enjoyed this delicious slow burn. rant and rave in the replies if you fell in love with rockstar han!!

—

One Shots

Reckless convictions @moonjxsung This fic??? Hot professor Han falls for a student and chaos ensues. This shit rewired my brain chemistry.

On my mind @staytheword One of the first smut pieces I read and it is just so fucking beautiful. Stressed college student roommates hit home. This fic has stayed with me for so long, it showed me what fics can be like when someone really puts their all into it. I tagged more of Mari's stuff at the bottom because her fics are all so beautiful.

Weather the storm @doitforbangchan Ladies night out gets cancelled due to weather so boyfriend Han comes over and makes a fort with you. So cute, funny, and steamy.

The Heat @hwanghyunjinenthusiast Roommate Han brings home sex cookies. The hottest aphrodisiac fic I've read.

Friend Agreement @cas-skz First time with bff Han. So good. I don't normally love first time fics but this one is so cute and steamy, I couldn't leave it off the list.

Building Forts and Confessions @httpseiki Prompts: "Don't tempt me" and "lets build a fort". Bff2l story that was so good. Reader and Han are adorable and I loved it so much.

I need you, I love you @cb97breathing Amazing f2l with a nice accidental drunk confession. Everything I love in a fic. Belle is such a great writer, their fics are all amazing.

Blue Sunrise @quokkawritesarchive This fic??? Brothers best friend BLUESUNG!! Subby Ji is so hot in this fic jfc.

Same But Different @skzdarlings w/Felix. The world building is ethereal. I would legit read a whole novel. The entire threesome series darling wrote is so good but this one is one I have reread so many times now because it has such a phenomenal story. Check out the sharing a bed series too while you're at it 😘

Series

2:23 AM Pt. 1, Pt. 2 @webcorelino Flora wrote the first smut I ever read. This is from her old account but there was a time when I read this multiple times a week. F2l fic that is just so amazing. First fic I saved in my notes app on my phone.

Like Never Before Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3 @writerracha Best friends brother fic that is so fucking steamy and just 🤤

Kinkuary 17, Truth Comes Out, Start of Something New @kwanisms I accidentally read the second one first because I thought these were oneshots but the whole stranger turned best friend Felix's roommate pipeline went so hard. These fics are so damn good.

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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…”

it’s been a month. a quiet, soft, beautiful and magical month.

sometimes you still wake up thinking it might have been a dream, but then, han’s name lights up on your phone with a good morning text or he’s already waiting outside your dorm with his hands tucked into his hoodie sleeves and his hair still messy from bed, smiling when he sees you like you’re the best part of this day and then-

that’s when you remember.

it’s real. you’re his, he’s yours. 

your days slowly fall into a routine that feels so natural it almost makes you believe it has always been like this. walking to class together in the mornings, your shoulders brushing, your hands bumping until one of you finally intertwines your fingers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. his hand on the small of your back when you crush the street. his thumb rubbing circles on your palm whenever you’re talking.

studying side by side in the library, whispering jokes together, his knee pressed against yours under the table the entire time. coffee runs after long labs and classes, sharing snacks together because why not. 

late walks back to your dorms, talking about nothing and everything, from childhood stories to dumb fears, but always with your hands swinging together between you.

movie nights with both of you crammed onto a tiny bed, his glasses slightly crooked because you keep stealing kisses and knocking them out of place.

little things, small things.

and today is no different.

classes end early, and changbin had texted han to tell him he’d be staying late at the gym with friends, which means-

“so… your dorm?”, you ask casually. 

han’s ears turn red immediately.

“yeah”, he says adjusting his glasses, “we could. if you want. i mean, we-”

you laugh softly, “i do”

and he smiles so wide you have to look away for a second. guess some things never change.

you’re in his room, the door closed, the lights dim.

han’s bed is a little messy because you’re both lying on it, on your sides, facing each other, his laptop on the table near the door, some random movie playing that neither of you is really paying attention to anymore.

the blanket is thrown over both of you, your legs tangled together without even trying. you rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat while the movie dialogue plays quietly in the background.

you can feel his fingers running lazily through your hair, slow and comforting.

“y/n… you’re not watching the movie”, he says.

“neither are you”, you mumble against his hoodie.

“... true”

you both laugh softly and then you tilt your head up to look at him. he’s already looking at you, of course he is. you smile at him and he smiles back, smaller, still shy, the smile you fell in love with.

“what?”, you whisper.

“nothing”, he says quickly.

“jisung”

he huffs a tiny laugh, “i just like… looking at you”

your heart does that flip you’re so used to now, “you’re so cheesy”

“but only for you”

you pretend to groan but you’re already leaning closer, and he meets you halfway.

the kiss is soft, slow and familiar now. his hand slides to your waist, warm through your t-shirt, his thumb rubbing small circles like he always does. you kiss him again and again. little pecks that turn into something deeper, longer.

his glasses bump your nose and you both break into quiet giggles.

“wait, hold on”, he says, pushing them up properly.

“nerd”, you tease him fondly.

“hey-”

you kiss him again before he can defend himself and he melts instantly, his hands around your waist again. he always melts like this, like you undo him without even trying, like he’s been waiting all day just to be close to you. 

your fingers slide up into his hair, his soft curls slipping between them, and you tug lightly just to hear the quiet sound he makes in his throat. it’s barely there, but you feel it, and it sends warmth straight down your spine. 

“y/n…”, he breathes your name and that’s enough to jolt through your body, the heat between your legs growing. 

you don’t stop, you don’t want to stop.

you shift closer instead, pushing yourself up on your elbows so you’re hovering over him, your knee sliding between his legs, the blanket tangling around your hips now. his hands tighten instinctively on your waist, steadying you, holding you there.

his eyes are wide behind his glasses when you pull back just enough to look at him, his cheeks flushed and his lips pink, and you think - not for the first time - that he looks unfairly pretty like this. 

“what?”, you say again, smiling softly. 

he swallows.

“you’re-”, he stops, embarrassed.

“what?”

“... nothing”

you lean down and kiss him again before he can hide behind his shyness. this time the kiss is slower at first, then deeper.

your mouths move together more naturally, more confidently than your first kiss that month ago. his hands slide from your waist to your lower back, his fingers splaying there, warm and firm, and it makes you shiver.

you press closer without thinking, your body fitting against his perfectly, and his breath stutters. the movie keeps playing forgotten in the background, voices and music blending into meaningless noise because all you can hear is him.

his breathing. 

your heartbeat. 

your hands moving and touching. 

the sound of your lips brushing, parting, then meeting again. 

you climb fully over him, settling on his lap, straddling him carefully so you don’t put too much weight. his hands freeze for half a second, then settle on your hips like that’s where they’re meant to be, like they’ve always belonged there. 

your fingers slide down his chest, bunching the fabric of his hoodie and you kiss him deeper, hungrier, just… wanting.

wanting him closer, wanting to feel everything. 

he kisses back, his glasses fogging slightly, and you laugh against his mouth. 

“still wearing these?”, you say, your lips brushing his with each word.

“i- i can’t see you without them and i- i… need to see you” 

you slip them off gently and place them on the bedside table without breaking eye contact. his pupils look bigger without them, softer, more vulnerable. 

“i’m right here, jisung”, you say softly. 

you kiss him again and this time he makes a quiet sound that goes straight to your core. his fingers dip into your hips, pulling you down just a little closer.

and that’s when you feel it.

he lets out a moan against your mouth, a moan that is silenced with one of your own. he goes still instantly, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. you feel his hands loosen, like he’s about to pull away. 

“wait-”, he whispers, his breath shaky.

you stop immediately.

“what’s wrong?”

he looks away, his cheeks burning red all the way to his ears.

“i… i’m sorry, i just-”

“jisung”, you say softly.

“i’ve never… done anything”, he blurts out, his words tumbling over each other, “like … this. with anyone. i don’t really know what i’m doing and i don’t want to mess up or make you uncomfortable or go too fast or for you not to enjoy it-”

his voice gets smaller and smaller and your heart aches. god, he’s so him, even now he’s worried about you first. 

you cup his face gently, your thumbs brushing his warm cheeks until he looks at you.

“hey, jisung, look at me”, you say.

he blinks at you, nervous and shy all over again.

“you’re not messing anything up”

“... i’m not?”

“no”, you smile softly, “and we don’t have to rush anything. ever”

his shoulders loosen a little.

“really?”

“really. i like this”, you murmur, leaning closer to brush your nose against this, “just being with you. that’s enough, and it will always be enough”

he looks at you like you just handed him the world, like he can finally breathe again. 

“you’re so good to me”, he says.

you smile and then move closer to kiss him again, gentle and tender this time. slow and sweet. his hands slide back to your waist, calmer now, his thumbs tracing lazy circles again like they always do. after a moment, you shift off him and settle back down beside him under the blanket, your head returning to his chest.

the movie is still playing, some scene you both definitely missed.

“i’m so lost i don’t even know what’s going on anymore”, you say laughing referring to the movie. 

“yeah, we really suck at this”, he chuckles softly, kissing the top of your head.

you tilt up and steal another kiss, then another. soft little ones, lazy and comfortable. his fingers slip back into your hair, playing with the strands while your hand rests over his heart and you stay like this together.

warm, tangled in his bed, trading slow kisses between quiet laughs and the movie you’re definitely not watching.

you and han are going back to your dorm after a date night. nothing expensive or fancy - just some warm lights, tiny tables and music playing in the background. he had told you that morning he wanted to take you out properly that night. 

everything had been perfect - you had shared food, you had stolen fries from his plate, he had wiped sauce from the corner of your mouth with his thumb and then sucked it without even thinking about it then froze and blushed while you laughed at him.

just perfect. 

you’re walking hand in hand, with the night air cool against your cheeks. the streets are quieter, just a few students here and there and the hum of traffic far away. you swing your joined hands between you as you walk.

“i still can’t believe you dropped your fork”, you say laughing again.

“it slipped!”

“into your drink, jisung”

“i panicked, okay?”

you laugh so hard you have to stop walking for a second and he just watches you like you’re the funniest, prettiest thing he’s ever seen. 

“stop looking at me like that”, you mumble, embarrassed when you see him.

he shrugs, smiling, “i can’t help it”

when you reach your dorm building, he insists on walking you to the door of your dorm and when you get there, neither of you lets go.

“well”, you say softly.

“yeah”, he says just as softly.

but neither of you moves. 

you stand there, your hands still linked and then, he leans down and kisses you, and you kiss him back immediately. 

your hands slide up his jumper, his hands settling on your waist, pulling you closer to him, like he physically can’t stand even an inch of space between you.

“i should go”, he murmurs against your lips when you break the kiss.

“yeah”, you whisper, not moving at all.

another kiss, longer, your noses brushing.

“okay, really”, he says softly, his forehead resting against yours.

“mmhm”

neither of you moves and he laughs quietly against you. 

“we’re gonna be here all night”

“we should be”, you say.

he steals one more kiss, then you steal another. then one more just because you can. 

the thought of him actually leaving - walking away, sleeping in a different building, not being next to you - it just feels so… wrong. too far. so before you can overthink it, you tug lightly on his sleeve.

“jisung?”

“yeah?”

“do you wanna come inside?”

he blinks. 

“jihyo’s probably sleeping already. we can just… hang out for a bit if you want. it’s just… i’m not ready to say goodnight yet”

your voice comes out so soft, so honest, that he melts instantly.

“yeah”, he says, almost too fast, then adds quieter, “yeah, i don’t wanna leave either”

your chest tightens and you squeeze his hand and pull him inside. 

you both walk on your toes, like kids sneaking around, trying not to make noise. he tries not to laugh every time the floor creaks.

“shh, quiet”, you whisper, hitting his arm lightly.

“i’m trying”, he whispers back, smiling at you.

you peek into the living room. 

dark.

jihyo’s door closed.

“she’s asleep”, you whisper. 

he nods. you grab his hand again and guide him straight to your room, closing the door softly behind you. your desk is messy with books and pens, fairy lights strung along the wall, some of your clothes thrown over the chair.

han looks around like he always does, he likes being here.

“hi”, you say quietly, suddenly shy for no reason.

“hi”, he says, smiling.

you both just stand there for a second then you flop onto your bed.

“come here”, you whisper. 

he laughs softly and climbs in beside you. you end up lying on your sides, facing each other, your knees bumping. you lie close to each other, so close you can feel his breath in your face, and your fingers find his sleeve, playing with the fabric.

“today was nice”, you say.

“yeah”, he says, “really nice”

“thanks for inviting me”

“thanks for coming with me”

you smile and then silence settles between you before you start talking about random things and laughing softly, sharing that private bubble that only exists when it’s just the two of you.

every now and then, your hands brush, until you finally lace your fingers together. you move closer, your foreheads touching now. his free hand moves to your face and pulls you even closer, just so his lips can find yours again, slow at first.

just a gentle press that lingers there, like he’s still asking, like he’ll always ask. 

your noses brush and you kiss him back just as carefully, your thumb brushing over his knuckles where your fingers are still laced together. it’s warm and comforting, the kind of kiss you could fall asleep in but then, his hand on your cheek slides down, from your jaw, to your neck, to your waist. 

and something shifts. 

your fingers tighten around his and he tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss and you part your lips without even thinking, letting his tongue explore your mouth. you moan at the feeling and his breath stutters against you. 

your hand slips from his and curls into the fabric of his jumper, pulling him even closer, until there’s barely any space left between you. he keeps kissing you, each kiss heavier than the last. and then he shivers, and you notice immediately.

“you okay?”, you whisper against his mouth.

he nods, breathless, “yeah… just- kiss me again”

that shy smile flickers across his lips and then you have no choice but to kiss him again. not that you would choose any other thing.

weeks ago, he would’ve blushed and pulled away, but you’ve learned each other now, and ever since the day he told you he was worried about doing things wrong and you had told him you didn’t have to rush anything, the makeouts have gotten heavier.

you have taken the time to learn each other, with no pressure, no rush, just you and him, together. and tonight, it feels different. maybe it’s the way neither of you is ready to say goodbye yet, or maybe it’s just that you want each other too much. 

your hands slide up into his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands at the back of his head. he lets out a moan into your mouth and you kiss him deeper. without really thinking, you shift closer and your knee slips between his legs, your body nudging him back into the mattress. he lets out a surprised little laugh against your lips.

“hey-”

but he doesn’t stop you, not even a little. not this time.

you push gently at his chest and he falls back onto the bed, still smiling, still searching your lips with his. you hover over him for half a second and then you swing your leg over his hips and settle on top of him, straddling him.

your hair falls like a curtain around both of you and for a moment you just stare at each other, both breathing harder than ever. his hands move to your waist, they definitely belong there you think.

“... hi”, he whispers, a little flustered. 

you laugh softly, “hi”

then you lean down and kiss him again and god, the angle? the closeness? the way his hands tighten on you? it makes everything hotter.

he kisses you back like he’s forgotten how to breathe, like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. your hips press down, trying to get closer, and he moans sharply against your mouth. your heart pounds, and you can feel yourself getting wet with his reactions. 

you can feel how warm he is under you, his bulge getting harder and bigger under you, solid and real. his hands slide up your back, then down again, hesitant but needy, his fingers flexing like he doesn’t know where to hold you but still needing to be close to you and hold all of you at once.

you move your head to kiss down his jaw, his neck, just soft and open-mouthed kisses that make him squirm and whisper your name, little moans escaping his mouth.

“y/n…”, he moans.

your stomach flips.

he’s never said your name like that before.

you kiss him again quickly, trying to hide how needy you are, how wet you are. you pull away from the kiss and your foreheads bump, your noses brushing. you’re both smiling and kissing and smiling again. you can feel how his hands tighten while also trembling, how his breathing changes, how his hips shift trying to rub against you, and it only makes you want him more. 

you look into his eyes, his pupils blown wide, dark and full of a mix of wonder and want that makes your chest ache. your fingers trace lightly along his jaw before you whisper.

“do you trust me?”

he nods immediately, “y-yeah, i do”

the words send a rush of warmth through you, deepening the trust that’s been building between you like a slow-burning fire. you lean in to kiss him again, soft at first, your lips bruising in a way that tells there’s more to come.

as your mouths move together, you start to shift your hips, pressing down against the hard length straining under you. the friction is immediate, your core grinding slowly over his bulge, the fabric of your clothes creating a teasing barrier that only heightens the sensation. 

he gaps into the kiss, his body tensing under you for a split second before he relaxes. his hips buck up instinctively, seeking more contact, but then he freezes, as if second-guessing himself. you can feel his inexperience in the way he hesitates, his hands gripping your waist a little tighter, like he’s afraid to push too far. 

“it’s okay”, you say against his lips, nipping gently at his bottom one before soothing it with your tongue, “just move with me, let it feel goot”

you roll your hips again, deliberate and unhurried, dragging your clothed cunt along the solid ridge of his cock, your arousal soaking through your panties, making each slide smoother, hotter. 

he moans softly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. he starts to match your rhythm, his hips lifting to meet yours in tentative thrusts. you kiss him deeper, your tongue tangling as you grind down harder, feeling his cock throb against you. his breaths come in short pants now, breaking the kiss to trail his lips along your neck, whispering your name.

“god, y/n… that feels…”, he trails off into another moan, his fingers digging into your sides as he rocks up into you. 

the heat between your legs intensifies, your clit pulsing with every pass over his hardness. you can tell he’s getting lost in it, his body responding more fluidly now, his hips rolling in a steadier grind that has you both whimpering. 

the room fills with the soft sounds of your bodies moving together - the rustle of clothes, the wet smack of kisses, the shared gasps and moans that echo your growing need. you’re both slick with desire now, the dry humping turning almost slippery from your wetness seeping through. 

you can feel him swelling even more against you, but you want to draw it out, to guide him further, so you slow to a stop, lifting your weight slightly off him.

he blinks up at you, confusion clouding his lust-hazed eyes, his chest heaving.

“w-what’s wrong? did i… did i do something wrong? are you okay?”, his voice is small, laced with worry.

you smile softly, cupping his face to kiss him reassuringly, your thumb stroking his cheek, “no, nothing’s wrong. you are perfect, my love. i just… want to make it even better”

leaning down for one more lingering kiss, you slide off him just enough to reach for the button of his trousers. your fingers work quickly but gently, popping it open and tugging down the zipper. he lifts his hips to help you, a shy exhale escaping him as you peel the fabric down his legs, taking his boxers with it.

his cock springs free, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. he averts his eyes at first, a flush creeping down his neck, his hands fidgeting at his sides.

“i… i um…”, he stammers, clearly self-conscious about being exposed like this for the first time.

“hey”, you say softly, settling back over his thighs, your hand hovering near his length, “it’s okay, i want to touch you but i won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, okay?”

his gaze meets yours, the trust there melting away his shyness bit by bit.

“please”, he whispers, his voice barely audible.  

with that, you wrap your fingers around his cock, giving a slow stroke from base to tip. he jolts, a sharp inhale turning into a low groan as his head falls back against the pillow. his hips twitch upwards, seeking more, but he bites his lip, holding back like he’s still unsure.

“just feel it, jisung”, you say leaning in to kiss his jaw, your lips moving then along the column of his throat.

your hand moves steadily now, piping him while your thumb circles the sensitive head of his cock. he moans your name again, louder this time, his body finally surrendering to you as his hands find your hair, threading through it lightly.

you kiss lower, nipping at his collarbone before sucking lightly, leaving a faint red mark, a lovebit that will become a mark of your love for him. he shudders beneath you, his cock pulsing in your hand, growing even harder. the sounds he makes are intoxicating - soft whimpers mixed with deeper groans, his breaths ragged as he starts to rock into your fist. 

“y/n… oh god, t-that… don’t stop”, he begs you, his voice breaking. 

you can feel him tensing under you, but you’re not done. shifting lower, you release his cock for a moment, earning a confused whine from him, before you raise his jumper a bit, just enough to lick his hipbone, then continuing southwards. 

he props himself up on his elbows, watching you with wide eyes now.

“w-what are you-”, he says but his words cut off as you look up at him, holding his gaze as you lean in, your breath ghosting over his cock.

he stares down at you, hypnotised, the sight of your face so close to him making his cock twitch visibly. then, without breaking eye contact, you part your lips and take the head into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip to taste him.

he cries out, a sharp, desperate sound, his hands fisting the sheets as his body arches off the bed. you hum in response, the vibration drawing another moan from him, and slowly slide down further, taking more of him in.

“f-fuck, y/n… your mouth… it’s t-too much”, he moans but he doesn’t pull away, instead, his hips shift forward, chasing your mouth. 

you let out a moan of your own, hollowing your cheeks and pressing your tongue on his cock as you take him deeper. you can feel him throbbing on your tongue, his control breaking as his breaths turn to pants. he reaches down tentatively, brushing your hair a bit to see you better.

“i’m… i’m gonna… i don’t… in your mouth”, he manages to say between moans, his voice strained, his eyes pleading as he fights the edge of his orgasm.

you pull back just enough to speak, your hand moving to take his cock again while your lips brush his tip, “come for me, i want it”

you wrap your lips around his cock again and that’s all it takes. he shatters with a broken cry of your name, his cock pulsing as hot spurts of cum flood your mouth. you swallow around him, your throat working as he trembles through the aftershocks. his body goes limp, his chest heaving, a daze smile tugging at his lips as he watches you lick him clean with your tongue.

when you’re done, you crawl back up his body, capturing his mouth in a deep, reassuring kiss. it’s the first time he tastes himself, but he doesn’t hesitate, and he kisses you back with a tenderness that speaks volumes as he wraps his arms around you.

“that was… incredible”, he says against your mouth, his hands stroking your back and then, with a shy glance, he says, “i want to… make you feel good too, like you did to me”

you can see the earnestness in his eyes, the way he wants to reciprocate, but you can also see there’s a lingering uncertainty there, his inexperience still peeking through. you smile, kissing his lips again then pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“you already make me feel good, jisung, just by being here. but we don’t have to do anything else tonight, it’s okay”

he opens his mouth to stop you, but you give him a quick peck to silence him.

“i can tell you’re wiped out and i already told you, we don’t have to rush anything, okay? everything’s perfect just like this”

he looks at you and you can see him relaxing visibly, relief washing slowly over his features, “yeah? are you sure?”

“yes, but… can you stay with me tonight?”, you ask him softly.

he smiles at you before nodding and kissing you again. you help him put his trousers and boxers on again and then, you snuggle into his side, your head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart slowing back to normal. he pulls the covers over you both, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm.

he moves you closer to his body, and kisses the top of your head, a sigh escaping him, “goodnight, y/n”

“goodnight”, you whisper back, your eyes drifting shut as warmth and peace settle over you. 

han can’t stop thinking about you, which, honestly, isn’t new. no, it’s not that. 

han can’t stop thinking about that night. about how good and safe you had made him feel. he would be lying if he said he had never thought about you… that way before, but now, his brain had material. very specific and vivid material that, of course, kept replaying at the worst possible times.

in class.

during the lab. 

while brushing his teeth.

while having breakfast.

more often than not, he would dream about you, on top of him, looking at him while you so slowly and carefully took him into your mouth. that always ended up with him waking up and using his own hands to solve his not so little problem. 

he can’t help but think about how you had looked at him, took care of him so gently it almost hurt. you completely and utterly broke him. 

and now, he just wants to do it again and again. obviously one part of him says it’s because he felt so good he just needs to feel that again, but also, it’s because he wants you to feel as good as he did. he wants to make you melt, he wants you to say his name like he said yours.

he wants to take the next step with you because he’s finally ready. he’s not scared anymore. nervous, yeah, and flustered obviously, but not scared. and with your two-month anniversary this weekend and changbin going away to see his family, he knows he has the perfect opportunity.

and this is exactly how he ends up that morning, sitting stiffly at the tiny dorm table, staring at changbin like he’s about to confess his biggest secret.

changbin is halfway through his coffee, squinting at him.

“what?”

han swallows, “i need to ask you something”

“you’re being weird, jisung”, changbin says.

han rubs his face, “i’m not, i just… don’t make it weird, please”

“that makes it worse”

silence, then han takes a deep breath. 

“how do you, um…”

changbin waits for han to continue, using his silence to drink his coffee again.

“... pleasure a girl?”

changbin chokes on his coffee, actually chokes - coughing, wheezing and slamming the mug down.

“what?”, changbin asks, his eyes wide, almost leaving his face.

“bin!”

“why would you ask me that?”

han hides his face in his hands, “i knew this was a bad idea-”

“no, wait wait… what do you mean ‘pleasure a girl’? what kind of question is that?”

han groans, “changbin, please, i’m being serious-”

“are you two having sex?”

“no, well, not yet, i mean-”

“not yet?”, changbin asks, his voice getting louder, finding this situation absurd but at the same time comical. 

they both freeze, breathing slowly again, trying to calm down.

han’s ears are bright red, “i just- i want to be good, okay?”

changbin blinks, “… good?”

“yeah!, like, she did stuff for me and it was… it was amazing and i just want y/n to feel good too and i don’t wanna mess it up or be awkward or hurt her or-”

the words spill out fast and messy as changbin’s expression softens.

han looks down at the table, “i don’t want it to be just about me”

there’s a beat and then changbin sighs.

“you two are disgustingly cute, you know that?”

“shut up”

changbin leans back in his chair.

“okay, first of all, i’m proud of you my boy”

han groans as changbin continues, “second of all, we are absolutely not doing a detailed anatomy lesson while eating breakfast”

han groans again, “bin…”

“but”, changbin says, “i will tell you some things”

han perks up immediately.

“listen to her, literally, just ask her what feels good, the things she likes, and if you’re doing something and she tells you not to stop or if she keeps, you know… making… sounds… don’t stop”

“okay”, han nods seriously, like he’s in the lab learning about a new project. 

“hands, they are important, very important, and the mouth and tongue and… fuck, jisung, it’s so fucking weird to talk about the two of you like this, you’re my friends”

han’s brain short-circuits a little.

“okay but really, the most important thing is to stop overthinking and be you, jisung. you love each other, and i assume you have talked about this with her so just… don’t be afraid to take your time and explore and try things, it will be awkward and messy at first, no one is perfect the first time, but you have all the time in the world to find what you two like and enjoy and… yeah, to be together”

“okay, that um…”, han says, slowly nodding and looking at the table, “that actually helps, bin”

changbin laughs and reaches over the table to smack his arm.

“you’ll be fine, romeo, just don’t google anything weird”

“... too late”

“for fuck’s sake, jisung”

they break into laughter, messy and loud as the embarrassment slowly fades away and han thinks about you and him.

close and together.

han stands in the middle of the kitchen preparing your food for your anniversary today. he looks at the pans, wooden spoon in hand, panicking and talking to himself.

“okay, this looks… edible, right? yeah, this looks edible”

he had been googling recipes and watching cooking videos for the last couple of days. he didn’t want anything fancy, just something warm that you would enjoy. 

so he had cooked your favourite pasta, some garlic bread he almost burned before and he had also bought a small chocolate cake for the two of you.

his chest squeezes just thinking about your face when you see everything he has prepared for you. the dorm looks different too - he had cleaned everything, like vacuumed under the furniture clean, placed two candles on the table, put some fresh sheets on his bed and also bought fairy lights for his room because he knew you liked them and you had them in your room too.

what if it’s cheesy?

what if she thinks it’s too much?

what if she doesn’t like it?

what if-

a knock at the door. 

he freezes then forces himself to go to the door, almost tripping over his own feet, wiping his hands nervously on his clothes before he opens the door to find you already smiling at him.

“hi”, you say.

“hi”, he smiles back.

then he leans in and kisses you before you go inside. your lips press gently against his and he melts instantly, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer to him. 

when you pull back, you tilt your head, “why do you smell like food?”

“well, that’s because i uh… i cooked”, he says nervously.

your eyes widen, “you cooked?”

he steps aside, letting you in, “yeah, i… i wanted to make something special for you”

you finally look around and your heart stops. the lights, the candles, the table set for two, the food. everything is perfect. 

your hand slowly comes up to cover your mouth, “jisung…”

he rubs the back of his neck, “it’s nothing crazy but i thought we could eat here instead of going out and-”

you cut him off by walking straight back to him and kissing him again, harder this time, with your arms around his neck. he squeaks into the kiss, surprised, then laughs against your mouth. when you pull back, your eyes are shining. 

“you did all this?”

he shrugs, suddenly bashful, “it’s our anniversary…”

your expression softens so much it almost hurts to look at.

“you’re unreal”, you whisper before kissing him again. 

“come on, let’s eat, i promise i will not poison you”

he reaches for your hand, lacing your fingers together, then walks you to the table, where you two sit together, your knees bumping under it and the candlelight flickering between you. the words slip out so easily between you that there’s not an awkward moment during the dinner. 

he keeps watching your face while you eat, making sure everything’s perfect and that you’re actually enjoying yourself. you reach over and steal a piece of garlic bread from his plate just to tease him.

“hey, thief”

“what are you gonna do about it?

he leans forward and kisses you, quick and soft, just a press of his lips against yours. and then your laughters mix together. you keep eating like that - talking, sharing bites, your feet brushing under the table, your knees bumping together and your hand finding each other once you finish the cake. 

“okay, i have to say to did really good, chef han jisung”

he grins proudly, “told you i wouldn’t poison you”

“well, the night’s not over yet…”, you tease.

“hey, have some faith”, he stands up, taking the plates. 

you watch him carry everything to the sink, his curls falling into his eyes while he runs water over the dishes. something about it feels so domestic it makes your heart ache, like this is what forever could look like and there’s nothing you want more than this.

“oh”, you perk up, “we should watch that movie you told me about the other day, you know the one with the superheroes and time travel”

he turns around just to look at you, “okay, go set it up in my room, i’ll clean this up first”

you nod and go to his room, your heart still warm and floaty. you look around and find his laptop already on the table. you sit on his chair, opening his laptop, finding the movie and then pressing pause on the opening screen, just waiting for him. 

you don’t even notice how quiet the dorm gets until you hear his footsteps coming down the hallway. you glance up and then freeze. something about him looks… different.

he’s still han, obviously. but something in his expression is different. his eyes are darker somehow, less giggly and more intent.

“you okay?”, you ask gently.

he blinks like you pulled him out of a thought, “wh- yeah, y-yeah, i’m fine”

you tilt your head, “you look… weird”

“weird? how”

“i don’t know, just… different”

for a second he just stays there, looking at you, like he’s trying to build up courage for something before he smiles softly. 

“it’s nothing”, he says, but his voice is quieter than usual.

you stand up as he steps closer, slowly and unhurried. the air changes and you feel it immediately. 

that shift, the same one from the other night in your dorm. 

your heart starts pounding. 

“the movie’s ready”, you say when he stops right in front of you, but it comes out softer than you meant, you don’t even know if you have said it out loud.

“mmm”, he hums. 

he doesn’t look at the laptop, he only looks at you. he reaches out, his fingers brushing your waist first, gentle, like he’s asking permission without words. then his hand slides around you, pulling you closer. 

he kisses you, but it’s not rushed or clumsy. it’s slow, deep, intentional. it steals the air from your lungs and you melt into him instantly, your hands pulling him closer.

his lips are warmer than usual, hungrier. still soft, still him, but there’s something underneath it now, something that’s been there for a long time. your mouths part and your tongues find each other. his hands move from your waist to your back, his fingers spreading like he needs to feel all of you. you moan quietly against his lips and he swallows the sound as he starts guiding you towards his bed.

your back hits the edge first and your pulse jumps. he pulls away just enough to look at you, to check again, then kisses you as he eases you down onto the mattress. his body follows, hovering above yours, one of his arms braced beside your head. your hands slide up his back, under his t-shirt, needing to feel him closer, to feel his warm skin.

you feel him shiver and the reaction makes heat pool low in your stomach. your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, pulling him closer to you. he exhales softly against your mouth.

“y/n…”, he whispers, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

you smile, kissing the corner of his lips, his jaw, his cheek. everything feels slower but also heavier, full of want and need for each other. then he pulls back to look at you, his curls falling into his eyes, brushing your face. his lips are flushed, his breathing uneven. your heart stutters because you recognise that look. 

“do you trust me?”

he asks you the same thing you asked him that night. and you know what this means, and the fact that he’s asking you makes your chest ache with how much you love him.

you reach up, brushing his hair and smiling softly, “i do, always”

his eyes soften at your words, a flicker of relief and determination crossing his face. he leaves his glasses on the nightstand and then, leans down, capturing your lips again, his tongue sliding against yours with a newfound confidence. slowly, he breaks the kiss, trailing his lips along your jaw before dipping to your neck. you tilt your head back, giving him more access and a moan escapes you, his name slipping out in a breathy whisper.

“jisung…”

the sound makes him pause for a heartbeat, then he groans against your throat, his teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothes the spot, making you arch your back off the bed. he lingers there, kissing and sucking gently, drawing moans from you as your hands slide up to tangle in his curls, holding him close. 

his hands roam your sides, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your t-shirt, but he doesn’t push further yet. he lifts his head, his eyes dark with desire but still holding that gentle uncertainty and nervousness. his gaze drops to your hips and with a slow exhale, he reaches for the waistband of your trousers. 

you lift your hips to help him, your heart racing as he tugs them down your legs and takes them off. his hands return to your thighs, parting them gently so he can settle between them. his face is inches away from your core, still covered by your panties, and you can see the way his cheek colour, his lips parted as he takes in the sight of you like this - legs spread for him, trusting him completely.

you meet his eyes, reading the mix of awe and hesitation in them but before you can speak, he whispers, his voice rough with nerves.

“y/n.. i want to make you feel good, but… can you guide me? tell me what you like? i don’t want to mess this up”

you heart swells at his honesty, at the way he’s opening himself up despite the vulnerability. you smile softly, reaching down to cup his cheek as your thumb traces his jaw.

“hey, you’re doing perfect, there’s no messing up here, we’re figuring it out together, okay? just touch me like you want to and i’ll tell you, okay? i trust you, jisung”

your words are tender and reassuring and han leans into your touch, his eyes closing briefly before nodding, a small and grateful smile on his face.

he lowers his head, pressing a tentative kiss to the fabric of your panties, right over your mound. the warmth of his mouth seeps through and you gasp softly, your body responding immediately and a fresh wave of arousal flooding your cunt, making your panties dampen under his lips. 

he kisses again, firmer this time, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you steady as he nuzzles closer. you can feel yourself growing wetter with each kiss, soaking through your panties, and he notices too, letting a moan escape his mouth as he sees the darkening spot and his fingers trace the edge of your panties.

“fuck, you’re so… wet”, he says, his voice filled with wonder.

it sends a thrill through you, knowing he’s discovering this part of you and you nod, biting your lip. 

“it’s because of you, jisung”, you whisper, your hand in his hair encouraging him.

he hoops his fingers into the sides of your panties, looking at you. you nod your head and lift your hips again, and he slides your panties down slowly, exposing your bare cunt to his gaze.

he stares for a moment, taking in the sight of your glistening lips, the way your clit peeks out, swollen and needy.

“god, y/n… you’re beautiful”, he breathes, the awe in his tone making your chest tighten and another wave of arousal leave your cunt.

he starts with his fingers, tracing them lightly along your inner thigh before brushing over your lips. you hum in approval, your hips shifting towards him.

“like that”, you moan, softly, “just… feel how wet i am for you”

he does, his fingertip dipping into your slickness, coating itself before circling your entrance. you moan quietly praising him.

“like this?”, he asks you in awe still.

“yes, jisung, that’s perfect, you’re doing so good, oh god” 

he eases one finger into your cunt, your walls clenching around him. he’s careful, watching your face for every reaction, and when you moan louder than before, his confidence grows, he adds a second finger after a moment, curling them slightly as he moves them in and out, the wet sounds of your arousal echoing in the room.

“does this feel good?”, he asks you, his free hand stroking your thigh soothingly.

“yeah, just a little faster now and… rub my clit with your thumb”

he does what you tell him, his thumb finding your clit and circling it as he keeps fingering you. your orgasm grows quickly, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach, and your praise him again, your words tumbling out between moans.

“just like that- oh god, jisung, it feels- fuck, so good”

your back arches, your hips rocking to meet his hand, and the sight of him so focused on you only makes you feel even more turned on.

then, without warning, he leans in, his mouth replacing his thumb on your clit. his tongue flicks out tentatively at first, tasting you, and then sudden wet heat makes you cry out, both of your hands tightening in his hair now.

“jisung- fuck, yes!”

the combination is overwhelming, his fingers still working inside you while his lips seal around your clit, sucking gently. he hums against you, the vibration sending jolts through your body and you can feel your cunt fluttering around his fingers, slick coating his hand as he devours you with growing enthusiasm.

“don’t stop”, you beg, your voice breaking, “please, jisung, right there- i’m so close”

he doesn’t stop. his tongue laps at you in broad, eager strokes, alternating with soft sucks that have you writhing beneath him. your praises turn to pleas as he pushes you higher. his free hand holds you steady as your body tenses as you finally come.

you come with a shattered moan of his name, waves of pleasure crashing over you as your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, pulsing against his mouth. he keeps going through it, lapping at your release, drawing out every shudder until you’re boneless, gasping for air. 

only then does he ease back, withdrawing his fingers and sucking them slowly, his lips glistening as he looks up at you with a shy, satisfied smile, your heart pounds, not just from the orgasm but from the love in his eyes as he looks at you. 

he crawls up your body, his eyes locked on yours. his lips find yours again, your tongues sliding together as you tast yourself on him. your hands roam his back, your fingers slipping under his t-shirt to push it upwards, urging him to lift his arms so you can take it off, his trousers and boxers following then.

he mirrors you, his hands sliding up your sides, his thumbs grazing the hem of your t-shirt before he tugs it over your head. he unhooks your bra with trembling fingers, sliding the straps down your shoulders. it falls away, leaving you breasts exposed, your nipples hardening under his stare, leaving you both completely naked now. 

he dips his head, his tongue flicking over one of your nipples drawing a gasp from your throat. your arch into him, your hand cradling the back of his head as he sucks harder, his teeth grazing just enough to sting sweetly.

“jisung”, you moan, the sound muffled against his curls.

he switches to the other breast, licking broad strokes across the underside, then nipping lightly at the nipple, making it throb. his free hand kneads the first one, rolling the damp nipple between his fingers, making your cunt clench around nothing. 

your hand drifts lower, wrapping around his cock, finding pre-cum already there, slicking your palm as you stroke him. he groans into your breast, his hips bucking into your touch.

“fuck, y/n… just like that”, he groans, lifting his head to capture your lips again, your moans blending together.

but after a few strokes, he stops your hand, pulling back to look at you, his chest heaving.

“wait, i… i need you. i can’t… i need to be inside you”, his voice is raw, pleading, his cocky twitching in your loose grip as he searches your face.

you pause, your heart swelling at the intensity in his words, but you need to be sure, this is his first time and you won’t rush him into anything. cupping his face, you search his eyes, your thumbs brushing his cheek.

“are you sure, jisung? we don’t have to if you’re not ready, this is-

he kisses you quickly to stop you before he nods, leaning into your touch, his hand covering yours on his face.

“i’m sure, more than sure. i trust you, y/n, and i love you”

the worlds tumble out soft and sincere, easing any doubt, and you smile, pulling him down for another kiss.

“i love you too”

he pecks your lip quickly before he shifts, reaching for the nightstand drawer, fumbling for a condom, “i should-”

“wait”, you say gently, stopping his hand, “i’m clean, and if you are too, we don’t need it. i want to feel you, all of you”

he feels the air leave his lungs, and he swallows, nodding his head quickly.

“y-yeah, me too. i’m clean, i mean. and well, i want to feel you too, and i-”

he can tell he’s rambling, so he closes his eyes, and breathes deeply before he opens them again and looks at you, smiling under him. that’s enough to calm him down. 

he positions himself between your legs again, his body covering yours, his forearms bracketing your head as he lines up, the tip of his cock brushing your entrance. you spread your thigh wider, guiding him with a hand on his hip.

“go slow”, you whisper, and he does, pushing in inch by inch, your cunt stretching around him, slick and welcoming. 

the fullness is incredible, a slow burn that makes you both gasp and moan into each other, his forehead dropping to yours as he bottoms out, buried deep.

“oh god, y/n… you’re so tight”, he says, holding still to let you adjust, his cock throbbing inside you.

you clench around him, drawing a whimper from his lips, and wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. he starts moving then, his hips rolling slowly at first but then gaining confidence with your moans. each slide in and out sends sparks through you, his pubic bone grinding against your clit with every press, and you kiss him through it.

after a few minutes, you push him into his back, moving on top of him so you’re straddling him without pulling out, his hands settling on your hips. you sit up slowly, taking him deeper and start riding him - lifting and sinking in a steady grind, your breasts bouncing with each movement. he watches you, mesmerised, one hand reaching out to your breast while the other grips your thigh, helping you move.

“you feel so good, oh fuck”, he says, his voice broken, “ so good around me, fuck i-i love this, i love you”

you lean down, kissing him deeply as you rock faster, your moans spilling into his mouth.

“i love you too, jisung. you’re doing so well, don’t stop, please, don’t stop”

the words spur him on, his hips thrusting up to meet yours, the slap of skin growing louder and wetter. when you’re close to your edge, you grab his hand and guide it between your bodies to your clit.

“touch me here, jisung, help me come with you”

his fingers circle your clit immediately, slick with your combined arousal, pressing just the right pressure as his cock keeps hitting the spot that makes you see stars.

your orgasm crashes through you, your cunt spasming hard around his cock as you cry out his name. he follows seconds later, a moan tearing from his throat as the thrusts up deep, spilling hot inside you, his fingers still working your clit to draw out your shared release. 

waves of pleasure pulse between you, your bodies locked together, trembling in the aftershocks until you collapse onto his chest, both of you panting. he wraps his arms around you, kissing your temple softly, the tenderness wrapping around you. 

for a moment, neither of you moves. your cheek is pressed to his chest, warm and damp with sweat, his heartbeat racing wildly under your ear, trying to catch up with everything that just happened. his arms tighten around you and you can feel the way he’s trembling but not from nerves - from everything, from you, from the rush that’s still buzzing through both your bodies, from how much he loves you.

his fingers trace slow, absentminded patterns along your back, up and down your spine, like he needs to keep touching you to make sure you’re there, like this isn’t some dream he’s going to wake up from. 

“hey”, he whispers, his voice hoarse and soft.

you him sleepily against his skin.

“are you okay?”, he asks you.

you smile a little. of course that’s the first thing he wants to know, make sure you’re okay. you light your head enough to look at him.

his hair is a mess, his cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen from all the kissing, and his eyes wide and so unbelievably soft it makes your chest ache.

“i’m perfect”, you say, brushing your thumb across his cheek, “and you?”

he laughs nervously, “i- yeah, i think so, i just… i didn’t mess up right, i wasn’t, like… bad or anything?”

you blink at him then laugh, soft and breathless.

“jisung, you were incredible”

his ears turn red instantly.

“no, but like- i just- i wanted you to feel good and”

you lean down and kiss him, shutting him up the only way you know how. when you pull back, you rest your forehead against his.

“it was amazing”, you whisper, “i felt safe, and loved, that’s all i ever need with you”

his expression breaks a little at that, and it melts like you just handed him the whole world.

“i love you, jisung”, you say.

he smiles at you, “i love you too, y/n”

you both lie there for another minute, just breathing each other in, your legs still tangled then he suddenly stiffens. 

“oh- wait- hold on”

you blink, “what?”

“i’ll be right back”

before you can ask anything else, he slips out of you and then slides out from under you, moving gently like you’re made of glass. the loss of his warmth makes you pout and he notices it.

“i’m not leaving”, he tells you, smiling, “just… two seconds”

you watch him leave the room and then you hear some drawers opening and finally the sink running. he comes back looking adorably serious, like he’s on a very important mission.

“okay”, he says softly, kneeling on the bed beside you, “let me help you”

your heart melts. he’s so careful and so gentle. he dabs the warm towel along your thigh, cleaning you up carefully. his touch is slow and respectful, his eye flicking up every few seconds to make sure you’re okay.

“too cold?”

“no”

“too much pressure”

“jisung”, you laugh softly, “relax, i’m okay”

he laughs lowly, embarrassed, “sorry, i just… wanna take care of you”

“i know”, you say.

and god, you do.

when he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and slides back under the covers with you, pulling you into his chest like he’s been gone for hours instead of minutes. you fit together so naturally it’s almost ridiculous - your leg thrown over his, his arm tucked under your neck, his other hand drawing circles on your waist, your hand tracing random shapes on his chest.

the laptop is still paused on the movie menu across the room, long forgotten now. you both stare at it for a second then burst into laughter.

“we really never watch anything, huh?”, you say.

“we’re terrible at movie dates”, he agrees.

you tilt your head up and he’s already looking at you, like you’re the only thing that exists, like he always does. you move closer to kiss him. just a small kiss, then another. and then another one. slow, sleepy kisses that make you both smile against each other’s lips.

“no one told me”, he says, brushing his nose against yours, “that being in love would feel like this, like… my chest’s too small for my heart or something”, he laughs quietly.

you smile, “and that’s good or bad?”

“that’s very good”

you tuck your face into his neck, breathing him in, “i didn’t think i’d ever feel safe like this with someone”

his hold tightens instantly, “you’re safe with me”, he says, “i’m not going anywhere, ever. you’re stuck with me now”

you laugh into his skin, “promise?”

“promise”

“even when i’m annoying”

“especially then”

“even when i steal your hoodies?

“those are yours now”

“even when i steal your lab notes?”

“i count on that already”

“even when i cry over dumb things?”

he kisses your hair, “then i’ll just hold you”

your throat tightens and you look up at him, you eyes shining.

“i really love you, han jisung”

his smile is small, shy, the same one from the very beginning, the one you fell for.

“i really love you too”, he whispers.

you stay like that for a long time - talking, laughing, stealing kisses between words, your fingers intertwined under the covers. slowly, you feel sleep pulling you under, tangled together in his bed, his lips brushing your forehead and then, you realise something.

you’re not afraid anymore.

not of being left, not of being alone.

because han’s right here with you.

and he’s not going anywhere.

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dividers by my darling @lariesographic 💖

the library

it had been a few months since you found out your boyfriend was spider-man.

a few months of processing. a few months of adjusting. a few months of realizing your academically gifted nerd was not only a secret superhero but also extremely smart in ways that made you want to file a complaint against the universe.

jisung designed his own suit and engineered half the tiny gadgets in his room from spare parts he borrowed from the university lab. and somehow still couldn’t remember where he left his airpods. somehow, you had also become his personal medic. he’d collapse onto your bed, half asleep, and let you clean him up, trusting you to handle it while he drifted off like nothing hurt.

you weren’t fully used to it—no one gets used to dating spider-man—but it wasn’t as crazy to you anymore. half the time he climbed through your window at 3 a.m. mumbling “baby i think the sewer mutant broke my rib” while you were brushing your teeth.

so yeah. you’d adjusted.

and not just to him. to the rest of it too.

weird robots weren’t rare anymore. property damage became so routine that your campus group chat now had a weekly “whose lecture hall did spider-man accidentally barricade this time?” poll. entire streets got blocked off because something exploded again. crime waves kept coming in bizarre batches. 

your city wasn’t the predictable, peaceful seoul you grew up with. everyone knew that now. and you knew it more than most.

most mornings, walking to your physics lecture felt like a coin toss.

maybe he’d be there. maybe he’d be dangling off a building three blocks away. maybe he’d be asleep on his couch with an ice pack taped to his ribs. you never knew, and weirdly, that stopped bothering you a while ago. you were used to it.

you pushed open the lecture hall doors and angled toward your usual row, already mentally preparing for the disappointment. it was fine if he wasn’t there. absolutely, totally fine. you’d sit. you’d take notes. you’d text him later something casual like hey did you survive today and he’d reply with a selfie from somewhere medically concerning.

then you looked up.

your seat. a familiar dusty backpack was dumped onto it as a territorial marker. there was an open notebook on the desk, half filled with notes. a pen between fingers. 

there he was.

jisung looked up at the exact same moment you did, and his face changed instantly. his eyes lit up. 

he scrambled immediately. fumbled with his stuff. yanked his bag off your chair, nearly dropped it, whispered a frantic sorry sorry like you’d caught him committing a crime instead of saving you a seat. you walked up the steps grinning to yourself.

you slid into the chair beside him, your tote landing at your feet.

he opened his mouth like he was about to say something. probably a lot of things. you could see it lining up behind his eyes already.

you didn’t give him the chance yet. you wrapped your arms around him, cheek pressing into his shoulder, like your body got there before your brain could remember all the reasons you were usually weird about PDA.

he froze for half a second.

then he let out a soft, surprised chuckle, sounding more pleased than he was trying to be, and slid his arm around you. he bent his head and pressed a kiss into your hair.

“i missed you too,” he said quietly.

“i didn’t know if you’d come,” you admitted.

he huffed a laugh under his breath. “y/n, i’m not skipping the lecture on curved spacetime.”

you pulled back just enough to look at him with a smile. “fair.”

you finally let go, tugging your notebook out of your tote. he watched you for a second longer than necessary, expression soft and a little guilty, then looked back down at his notes.

“you missed the last two,” you said, flipping to a fresh page. “we started lagrangians and generalized coordinates. it’s not forgiving if you fall behind.”

“yeah,” he said. “i noticed that when i realized my textbook notes just say ‘ask y/n’ with hearts beside it”

you glanced at him with your pen between your teeth. “wow. incredible study strategy.”

“hasn’t failed me yet,” he said, then hesitated. “but i do actually need help catching up.”

“mhm,” you said, uncapping your pen with your mouth. “we can do that tonight.”

he went quiet after that. 

you waited a beat, then another, before tilting your head. “…or is tonight full of duties?” 

he shook his head quickly. “no, no, tonight’s good. i was just thinking.”

you leaned your head into your hand and turned fully toward him, elbow on the armrest, giving him your complete and undivided attention.

he stalled immediately. his eyes flicked over your face like he forgot what language he spoke. the thin navy sweater you were wearing fit you in that unfair way that made you look so pretty and put together and completely distracting. his brain short-circuited.

he let out a small, nervous chuckle. you raised an eyebrow, amused.

he cleared his throat and tried again. “we just… haven’t really gotten to see each other much lately. like, properly. so i was wondering if you wanna go out tonight?”

“yes,” you said instantly. “we can go to that place near campus that only opens after eight, perfect for studying.”

he blinked. “no,” he said, laughing. “i mean, yes, eventually. but i meant like… dinner. somewhere nice.”

“oh,” you said, the word soft and surprised.

his smile turned teasing. “yeah. no textbooks. no laptops. just you and me.”

you swallowed, suddenly very aware of the way your heart had started beating faster. it had honestly been so long since you and jisung had gone out to dinner like that. not because he never wanted to—he had, especially in high school—but somewhere between university and spiderman duties bleeding into every corner of your time, your “dates” had turned into being together all the time instead. studying side by side. eating whatever was closest. 

“yes!” you blurted, a little too loud because the people in front of you turned around.

his eyes widened, amused. “yes?”

you nodded quickly, lowering your voice. “yes,” you mouthed.

his grin spread, bright and giddy, and he reached over, squeezing your hand once. you squeezed back, smiling down at your notes, trying and failing to focus as the lecture began.

mina was sprawled comfortably on your bed, shoes kicked off and your desk chair stolen for her bag. she always treated your place like a second home and showed up whenever she felt like it, especially because you had your own bathroom. you obviously didn’t mind. she was your best friend, and she always brought life into your room.

you tugged lightly at the hem of the top you just changed into.

mina looked up.

“oh my god,” she said. “you’re so hot i might actually bite you.”

you scrunched your nose. “thanks.”

the off shoulder white top was way nicer than anything you usually wore to class. paired with the black pleated skirt and boots. you’d bought the top for a conference months ago and then panicked last minute, convinced bare shoulders were somehow too much. only to show up and realize everyone else had theirs out like it was nothing. 

“yeah. he’s not surviving this.” she grinned, then tilted her head. “wait. are you matching?”

you blinked. “with him? i don’t know what he’s wearing.”

she rolled her eyes. “no. you. underneath.”

“oh,” you said, the realization hitting. you laughed. “oh. yes. of course i am.”

“good,” mina said, flopping back onto your bed. “because if this turns into anything like the last time seojun took me out…”

you groaned. “do not bring your feral boyfriend into my pre date nerves.”

she ignored you completely. “i’m serious. animal behavior. no decorum. zero shame. we were in public.”

you grabbed the nearest pillow and launched it at her. she laughed, muffled, tossing the pillow back at you.

then, one knock came. 

four more. a pause. another three.

mina blinked, sitting up. “who knocks like that,” she said flatly. “what a weirdo.”

“shut up.”

you crossed your room, palms suddenly warm, and reached for the door.

then you opened it.

jisug was there.

white button up, black tie. slacks sitting just right on his hips with a belt you absolutely noticed.

your brain lagged and so did his.

“you’re so beautiful, y/n,” he said softly, slipping out before he could stop it.

you smiled and stepped closer, one hand lifting to his jaw. you kissed him once, quick and warm. then he inhaled, lips parting, and he kissed you back. 

you pulled back. “hi.”

he smiled, a little dazed. “hi.” 

he brought his hand forward from behind his back.

the flowers came into view. small blue blooms tucked between red roses, dotted with tiny white buds. 

you gasped. “jisung.”

“too much?” he asked quickly. “i panicked a little. but it’s still romantic. i think.”

you laughed and kissed his cheek. “they’re perfect.”

you took the flowers from him carefully and stepped aside, already heading toward the counter to get a vase. he followed you in, watching you fuss with the stems. 

you filled the vase at your bathroom sink and set the flowers down on your desk, then paused.

you turned slowly. “jisung. these are very specific colors.”

he let out a quiet chuckle behind you.

before you could press him on it, mina wandered into the bathroom.

jisung groaned the second he saw her. “oh. of course you’re here.”

she snorted. “what a dick,” she said, then reached up and smacked the back of his head.

you laughed, watching them glare at each other, the bouquet bright on the counter and your heart feeling full.

“are you ready?” jisung asked, glancing at you.

you nodded, grabbing your bag and slipping your boots on. “yeah.”

mina waved a hand at both of you. “i’ll lock up, y/n” she said.

you both called goodbye at the same time and she shooed you out, laughing as the door closed behind you.

by the time dessert came out, the plates from dinner were long gone. you’d both been yapping nonstop. stories. jokes. tangents that spiraled into other tangents. a slice of cheesecake sat between you. you’d agreed to share it and immediately abandoned any sense of structure, forks crossing as you stole bites from opposite sides. 

at some point the conversations fizzled out. the noise of the restaurant softened into background hum. your fork hovered over the plate, then lowered without taking a bite.

you traced the edge of the plate with your fork. “do you ever think about what we’re supposed to do after we graduate?”

he blinked, surprised. 

then he leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling like the answer might be written there. “all the time.”

you looked up at him. “really.”

“yeah,” he said. “i try not to, but it sneaks up on me. like when i’m doing homework or… eating cheesecake.”

you smiled faintly.

he let out a quiet breath and shrugged a little, fingers absently nudging the edge of the plate. “i don’t really know what i want yet.”

you reached across the table without thinking, your fingers brushing the watch on his wrist. “that makes two of us.”

he tilted his head. “yeah?”

“i used to be so sure,” you admitted. “and now i’m studying all this stuff and realizing there’s so much out there.”

he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, eyes warm and earnest. “whatever you end up doing, you’re gonna be incredible at it. i know that.”

you smiled, the kind that crept in slowly and stayed. “don’t say that so confidently.”

he reached across the table anyway, fingers closing around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. he lifted your hand, pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“it’s true,” he said simply. “i know you.”

your chest warmed.

“do you think you’re gonna stay here?” he asked.

you glanced down at the plate again. at the smear of cheesecake. your mind did that thing it always did lately, flipping through images you never asked for. sirens echoing down main roads. buildings taped off. people whispering about moving somewhere quieter. safer. somewhere that didn’t make the news every other week.

everyone was thinking about leaving the city.

you’d heard it in lecture halls and cafés and half drunk conversations at parties. 

you took a breath.

“yeah,” you said. “i do.”

he stared at you, genuinely stunned. “you’re serious.”

you nodded. “i know it’s dangerous. I get first hand experience from you of telling me just how dangerous it is. i know it’s loud and unpredictable but this is my home.”

he shook his head a little, like he was trying to recalibrate. “most people can’t wait to get out.”

“i know,” you said. “that’s all anyone talks about.”

he looked down at your joined hands, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“you don’t ever wish it was safer?” he asked.

“sometimes,” you admitted. “when it’s so loud outside at night i can’t sleep.”

he nodded slowly, still not looking up. 

you squeezed his hand, a little tighter. “but… you’re here.”

his thumb stilled.

“you’re here,” you said again, softer because you’re getting into the topic of his identity. “and you’re protecting it.”

“y/n—”

“i know you can’t just leave,” you said, rushing a little now, nerves creeping in. “so if you’re here, then i don’t want to be anywhere else. i don’t want a future that doesn’t include this city if it means it doesn’t include you.”

the restaurant noise faded completely for him. “are you being serious right now?”

you nodded. “completely.”

his eyes searched your face, like he was trying to find the joke. when he didn’t, his voice came out carefully. “are you saying you wanna stay because of me?”

“i’m saying i’m staying with you,” you said. “wherever that actually ends up being.”

he swallowed hard. “you’re saying that like it’s… long term.”

you laughed quietly, nerves and excitement tangled together. “is that scary?”

“a little,” he said honestly. then his mouth curved into a stunned smile. “but also kind of amazing.” he paused, then said it, half joking and half not at all. “are you saying you wanna spend the rest of your life with me?”

you didn’t hesitate. “yeah. i am.”

he squeezed your hand again, excitement bubbling through him now. “so like. hypothetically.”

“mhm.”

“someday,” he said, trying and failing to sound casual, “would you want to get married.”

you smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. 

his grin went wide and giddy. “really.”

“really.”

he let out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it for years. “we used to joke about it all the time back in highschool. but i meant it.”

your chest tightened.

“i’m serious now,” he added quietly. “like… actually serious.”

you searched his face, then smiled, soft and steady. “me too.”

he hesitated, then laughed under his breath, nerves leaking through. “i’ll do it for real someday.”

you raised an eyebrow. “do what.”

“you know,” he said, cheeks warming. “proposing.”

“as long as you don’t do it during finals week.”

“i’d never.” he snorted. 

you smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. you finally picked up your fork again and took another bite of cheesecake. 

it tasted even sweeter than before.

you were starting to think the matching lingerie had definitely been the right call.

jisung’s door shut behind you with a soft click. his jacket was half-off his shoulders, but he hadn’t bothered with it before you were on him, pulling him in by the front of his shirt and kissing him like dinner had been a century ago. which, fair. your boyfriend was stupid hot. criminally unaware of it, too, which made him even hotter. 

his mouth crashed into yours as his dick jumped. he’d be lying if he said he’d hadn’t been semi bricked since he handed you those flowers three hours ago. his lips dragged slow across yours before returning hard again, like he couldn’t decide between savoring and starving. his hands found your waist fast, then moved down, pressing into the dip of your spine, dragging your hips flush to his with a low groan.

you reached for his tie without breaking the kiss, fingers curling into the loose knot. it was still done all neat from dinner, but that lasted maybe two more seconds. you tugged—harder than you meant to—and the soft whine that tore from him in response went straight to your core.

“y/n,” he breathed, lips brushing yours as his eyes flicked open just barely, “you’re unreal.”

you loosened the knot with one hand, sliding the silky fabric from his collar, your other hand already dragging down his chest, feeling the press of lean muscle under crisp cotton. you swear he was getting noticeably buffer by the day. you were starting to think all this neighborhood-saving, wall-crawling, car-lifting spidey business was doing you a favour. because every time he crashed through your window lately, that suit looked a little tighter.

he shrugged his jacket off with a bit too much urgency—nearly gotten stuck in one sleeve—and laughed against your mouth. 

you backed him up into his bedroom, both of you half-stumbling over the edge of the rug. his legs bumped the side of the bed, and you pressed forward until he dropped onto it with a soft oof, eyes wide, hair mussed already from your fingers. his chest rose and fell, the shirt a little wrinkled now, the top few buttons undone from your impatient hands.

“come here,” he murmured, voice hoarse.

you climbed into his lap without needing the invitation twice, hands braced on his shoulders, knees on either side of his hips, and his mouth found your throat instantly. warm lips dragged under your jaw, tongue dipping into the hollow behind your ear, and your fingers tangled in his hair like you’d been aching to touch him for hours.

you giggled as his nose nuzzled your neck like he was trying to live there, warm puffs of breath hitting just below your ear, and he groaned quietly when your fingers scraped his scalp just right. you were both straddling that gorgeous edge between desperation and softness, so tangled up in each other it was like you were breathing in sync. his lips brushed your jaw, your throat, lower, and then back up again like he couldn’t decide where to land.

“spidey,” you whispered, tugging at his hair gently to make him look at you.

he lifted his head immediately, flushed and glowing, hair sticking up in ridiculous directions, and he blinked at you. 

“yeah?” he said, and there was a smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

your fingers rested at the back of his neck, the other sliding to the open collar of his shirt. his tie still half-hanging, loosened by your earlier tug, and you glanced at it, then at him.

“i love you,” you said. it was probably the gazillionth time you said it to him since dinner. but it never lost its meaning.

“i love you too,” he said, without even hesitating. his smile deepened, gaze fixed on you like you were all he wanted to see. “so much, baby.”

his hand slipped under your top, fingers spreading wide against your back. he kissed you again like he was drinking you in. you moaned when he kissed you deeper, and he responded with a soft noise of his own, hips shifting under yours.

“god, you’re so pretty,” he whispered between kisses, voice breaking on the last word. his fingers threaded through your hair, then slid to your waist, holding you like he didn’t want to let go. “you always are. but tonight—fuck, y/n…”

you hummed against his mouth, tugging the tie the rest of the way off. he helped you with it, slipping it from around his neck and tossing it blindly toward the floor without ever taking his eyes off you.

“you like it?” you murmured, brushing your lips along his cheek, then back to his mouth. 

he groaned a little, pulling you tighter into his lap, and he nodded, like words weren’t even good enough. “i’ve been losing my mind since the second you opened the door. that top, your boots, i didn’t even know i had a thing for skirts and now i’m never gonna recover.”

you laughed, wrapping your arms tighter around his shoulders. 

you felt him breathe you in, his nose nudging your pulse point before he exhaled, voice barely audible. “god, i’m so in love with you.”

your hands found his hair again and he let you guide him, let you lean him back onto the bed, mouths never parting. he reached for your thighs again as you straddled him, both of you shifting on instinct, and you ground down onto him slowly, dragging a moan from his chest so sincere it made your head spin.

he threw his head back, throat exposed, the muscles of his neck flexing as he exhaled through gritted teeth. every time he did that, you had the urge to bite his adam’s apple which probably wasn’t standard behavior, but here you were. the sheer pressure of your body rolling against his cock had him panting already. every tiny shift of your hips made him harder, straining against the front of his slacks so painfully he couldn’t think straight.

you slowly began to unbutton the rest of his white shirt. the last few were still tucked into his slacks—neat, perfect, just like he was when he showed up at your door—but they didn’t stay that way. you tugged the last bit of fabric free from his waistband and spread the shirt open fully, your palms skimming down the now-exposed plane of his chest.

you stalled.

he looked so…different. not just hot. not just flushed and needy and panting under you with his chest rising in uneven, shivery breaths and sweat collecting along his collarbone. that part, yes. but it was more than that.

his shirt was open, collar spread beneath his shoulder blades, and the sleeves still cuffed neatly at his wrists. his slacks still sat on neatly his hips, belt still looped. he was just disheveled enough to hint at what you’d been doing. what you were about to do.

what a man.

“you’re looking at me weird,” he whispered, teasing and gentle.

you bit your lip. “just thinking.”

“about?”

you gave him a sly, secret smile, fingers grazing the dip of his stomach, feeling him tense under your touch. “how insanely hot you look right now.”

he laughed, warm and flustered and so in love.

but then your voice softened, lips brushing his jaw.

“and maybe…” another kiss, just under his ear. “…how i want this every day.” your nose bumped his. “how i want you.”

“you have me,” he echoed, voice rough.

then you smiled—just a little, like you couldn’t help it—and your hands slid up his chest again, over the sweat-warmed rise and fall of him. “but when you’re laying here, all dressed up with your shirt open like that…”

he swallowed hard.

“you look like you’re already my husband.”

he shuddered. visibly.

“holy fuck,” he whispered, head tilting back, mouth parted. “y/n.”

you kissed his throat, right where it bobbed with the way he swallowed again. “you do,” you whispered. “and i think i want to see you like this. every day. for years.”

he made a noise that wasn’t even a full word—more like a gasp fused with a groan—and his hips bucked up into you before he could stop them. you could feel the hard, desperate press of him through his slacks, right between your legs, throbbing hot against your still-laced center.

“baby, you can’t,” his eyes fluttered closed like he was trying not to completely unravel. “you can’t say shit like that while you’re still on top of me like this,”

“i’m just being honest,” you teased, rolling your hips the slightest bit, just to feel the way his breath hitched again. “i want you for good.”

he groaned, long and low, and gripped your hips like he was trying not to come from words alone.

“i’ve never been this turned on in my life,” he breathed. “you call me your husband again and i might not last.”

you leaned down, lips at the corner of his mouth.

“my husband,” you whispered, slow, savoring the sound. “han jisung.”

he whimpered.

and then his hands were at your back, fumbling but gentle. “can i take this off? please?”

you had no idea what he meant but you just nodded, dazed, ready for him to undress literally anything. 

he slid his hands beneath your nice top and eased it up, pausing once as it passed your shoulders, then tugging it gently off. he placed it neatly on the bedside table.

when he turned back to you, the sight knocked the breath out of him.

black lace. delicate, stunning, hugging every curve of your body and he didn’t even know you were wearing a set.

you reached down, and slid your skirt off your hips, letting it fall. 

he didn’t say anything at first. just stared like his brain was buffering.

his eyes dragged over your body like he didn’t know where to land. the black lace clung to your chest, your hips, soft and sheer in all the places that made his breath stutter. the kind of set that looked dainty at first glance—just a bra and panties, thin straps and delicate trim—but now, on you, it was dangerous.

then he moved and rolled you gently onto your back, hands never leaving your waist, lips brushing your shoulder as he shifted over you. he was on top, hovering, eyes dark and reverent, hair falling in front of his face as he looked down at you like you were all his.

“you wore this for me?”

you nodded, fingers brushing his jaw. 

“you’re so fucking perfect. i don’t wanna take it off—i really don’t.” his eyes dropped back to your chest, then lower, to the soft lace hugging your hips. 

his mouth trailed down your body like he was already mourning the loss of it. he kissed between the swell of your breasts, and his hands rose to the clasp of your bra. he undid it smoothly, reverently, and when it fell open—he sucked in a breath so sharp it cut the air.

“but i have to.”

you were completely bare to him now, chest rising, nipples flushed from the cool air, and he was already dipping down again, kissing between them first, then lower.

he kissed your ribs. your stomach. and when he reached the waistband of your panties—he looked up, eyes locked on yours as he hooked his fingers into the lace. he slid the fabric down your thighs, over your knees, down to your ankles. when he finally had them off, he tossed them aside and then he settled between your legs, eyes wide.

your legs were open, and your pussy glistened under the low lamplight, soaked from everything that had come before.

you gushed from the way he looked at you. literally. you could feel the slick build as his gaze settled between your legs, dark and awed. like the heat in his eyes alone could make you fall apart. 

“jisung,” you breathed. “please.”

his eyes shot up, like your voice alone dragged him from a trance. he blinked, cheeks flushed. 

“beg again,” he rasped.

you blinked down at him, breath catching. “please, jisung.”

he groaned and then he lowered his head, kissed your inner thigh, then again—closer, closer—until his mouth met your pussy with a soft kiss of his lips.

you gasped.

he kissed again, open and warm, then dragged his tongue through your folds in one long, unhurried lick that had your back arching off the mattress. he groaned again then he went back in, deeper this time, licking into you with hunger.

the taste of you was driving him crazy. when he moaned into your cunt again, it vibrated straight through your core.

“jisung—” you gasped, hips rolling against his face, hands flying to his hair as he buried himself deeper.

he started fucking you with his tongue. he reached up, hooked his arms around your thighs, and held you there. his mouth pressed flush to you, his nose nudging your clit just right every time he drove his tongue in, and you cried out, loud and high-pitched as your thighs closed instinctively around his head.

you knew you weren’t being quiet, but no one cared on his floor. you’d heard it all before—moans and thuds from behind paper-thin dorm walls coming from his floormates. 

if anything the thought that people might hear and know exactly what he was doing to you right now turned him on more. he groaned again at the sound of your cries, cock twitching hard in his slacks, aching to be inside you but too drunk on your taste to stop now.

he grinned against you. “you taste so fucking good,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “i could eat this pussy forever, baby.”

“jisung,” you gasped. “i’m gonna cum.”

your orgasm, curling up from your core and ripping through you. your back arched off the bed as your moan broke. he didn’t stop. not when you bucked against his mouth, not when your fingers clawed at his hair, not even when your legs trembled violently around his head.

“that’s it, baby,” he murmured against you, lips still brushing your clit, tongue gentler now and lapping strokes. “i’ve got you. just like that.”

you gasped, overstimulated, blissed-out, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as your thighs twitched around his shoulders.

he kissed the inside of your thigh again—softer this time—and lifted his head just enough to see your face.

“you okay?” he whispered, voice so gentle, so sweet, as his hands rubbed slow circles into your hips. “still with me?”

you nodded, dazed, hair sticking to your cheek. “mhm. i’m good. so good.”

you were completely bare while he was still fully dressed, save for the open shirt like he’d forgotten about it completely.

but not for long.

he leaned back onto his knees, pulling his shirt the rest of the way off as you watched it fall down his shoulders. then his fingers went to his belt—unbuckling it slow, metal clicking—and your mouth went dry watching it come loose.

he looked down at you, eyes dark but soft. you nodded, eyes wide. you didn’t even have to think.

you saw that familiar heart-shaped smile—the one that made him look like your sweet boyfriend again for half a second before he leaned forward, gripped both your wrists, and brought them gently up over your head.

you blinked at him, heart jumping, but didn’t resist. 

“trust me, baby?” he whispered.

“yeah,” you breathed.

he kissed your forehead and raised his hand when you heard a thwip.

and suddenly webbing bound your wrists and stuck you to the headboard above you. 

you tugged once. no give.

he rubbed the back of his neck, a little sheepish, a little proud, eyes flicking between your wrists and your face. “uh. yeah. it’s… it’s not going anywhere,” he said, trying to sound casual and failing. there was a smile tugging at his mouth, the kind that said he knew exactly how that looked. “still okay?”

you swallowed, heat pooling low in your stomach, and nodded. “more than okay.”

his jaw clenched. his eyes dropped to your spread, glistening pussy and then back up to your bound wrists—your body laid out for him with nothing but want in your voice. he’d seen you naked more times than he could count but he’s still in awe every time.

you squirmed beneath him, wrists tugging uselessly against the webbing, your thighs rubbing together. “please,” you gasped, breath hitching. 

your voice cracked around it and it sent a shiver down his spine. 

“fuck, y/n,” he groaned, eyes blown. he was moved aside to shove his slacks down, boxers with them, cock springing free, already leaking at the tip from how worked up you’d made him. he reached blindly to the top drawer of his nightstand, pulled out a condom, tore it open, rolled it on fast with shaking hands.

and then he was back over you.

one hand gripped your thigh. the other slid along your waist. he lined himself up, the thick head of his cock sliding through your slick folds.

and he moaned, head dropping to your shoulder. you whimpered. you felt the pressure of him right at your entrance. 

he pushed in and your breath caught in your throat as the stretch filled you. your wrists tugged instinctively at the webbing, muscles clenching with the sheer pressure of him pressing into your soaked, needy cunt.

“fuck,” jisung groaned into your neck, hips rolling forward until he bottomed out, his cock buried to the hilt. “you feel so good,”

you whimpered, already fluttering around him, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.

he pulled back just enough to thrust again, slower this time, a deep drag that left you gasping, arching up to chase more.

then his eyes locked onto your bound wrists.

his mouth curled into something dark and smug.

“you like being pinned, baby?” he rasped, voice thick with arousal.

you nodded fast, barely managing a moan as he fucked up into you again, making the webbing above your head pull taut with every movement.

“yeah?” his voice was low and rough now. “webbed to the fucking bed frame like one of my enemies. my villains.” his lips brushed your ear. “do i need to put you in your place?”

you whimpered, completely undone. jisung might seem like your average nerd but boy could he talk in bed when he wanted to.

“yes, jisung, go faster, please,”

his rhythm changed instantly—thrusts harder now, faster, his body pressing into yours. your bound wrists held you still, helpless beneath him, but your thighs clenched around his waist, your cries getting higher, every time he hit that perfect spot deep inside you.

but even through it, his voice softened, turned sweet again through the grit of his thrusts.

“you’ll never be one of them,” he panted, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then your mouth. “you’re too good for this world, baby. you hear me?”

you nodded, overwhelmed. “yes, yes, jisung—”

“my good girl,” he whispered, kissing you again. “so pretty. so perfect. you’re all mine.”

you pressed your face into his shoulder, words tumbling out between breaths. “don’t stop, please. i think i’m gonna cum.”

he nodded, barely like even he couldn’t manage words anymore. he started to hyperventilate, breath coming hot and fast against your ear, chest shuddering with the effort of holding himself together even as your thighs gripped him tighter.

“let go, baby. just let go.” he whispered, barely audible, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

you did.

your back arched beneath him as the climax tore through you, your legs locking tight around him. a sound ripped from your throat, your teeth clenched against the intensity of it. he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, spilling into the condom with a guttural groan that sounded like it’d been ripped from his chest.

his whole body shook as he came, forehead falling to your shoulder, mouth open, breath stuttering hard against your skin. he rode it out slow, hips rocking with the aftershocks.

he kissed you, his lips warm against yours, not frantic anymore. your breaths were still uneven, shaky from how hard you’d both come, but slowly, it evened out. his chest rose and fell in time with yours, your skin still sticky with sweat, the smell of sex hanging in the air.

he pulled out gently, carefully, his hips rolling back. you winced just slightly at the sensitivity, the drag of him leaving your body completely. he sat up, still over you, as he reached down to remove the condom, tying it off and tossing it into the small trash bin beside his desk. 

and then—

“fuck,” jisung muttered suddenly, pulling back just enough to blink up at your wrists. “fuck, y/n.”

you tilted your head.

he looked guilty. slightly panicked. “i—uh. i forgot something. kinda important.”

“what.”

“i can’t undo your wrists.”

you stared at him.

“the webs kinda need to dissolve on their own.” 

“what?!”

he winced. “it’s fine! it’s totally fine! they’re biodegradable—it just takes like two hours max. maybe ninety minutes if your skin’s warm enough—uhh, don’t look at me like that—”

“jisung.”

“i’m kidding,” he laughed, already rolling off the bed and grabbing something from the drawer beside it. “i have solvent.” he held up a sleek, pen-sized sprayer and wiggled it in the air. “synthesized it myself. reactive to the silk structure. breaks the polymer tension and reverts it to liquid phase.”

you blinked up at him, wrists still stuck above your head as he’s running his mouth.

“…jisung.”

“yeah?”

“shut up.”

he grinned. “yes, ma’am.”

and then he leaned over and sprayed with a faint hiss. the webbing slackened instantly, and your arms dropped, finally free. he caught one of your hands gently before it hit the mattress.

“welcome back,” he said, pressing a kiss to your knuckles like a dramatic prince.

you chuckled, then reached for his wrist and tugged gently. you nudged him in the ribs, then crawled up slowly into his lap, making him sit back against the headboard. he let you move him, watching you with hungry, wide eyes, his chest still bare, his lips still pink from kissing every inch of you.

he was hard again. already.

his stamina must’ve been a side effect to getting bitten. somewhere in that genetic mutation, his sex drive had dialed itself as well as the rest of him. his cock was flushed and you hadn’t even touched him yet.

your hand slipped between you, fingers curling around the length of him, warm and sticky from before, and aligned the head below your entrance.

“y/n,” he gasped, voice sharp with urgency. “wait, wait, baby, i’m not wearing a condom—”

you froze.

“right,” you said, blinking.

“yeah,” he said, still breathless, already halfway to going cross-eyed from how good it felt to almost be there.

“i’ll get one,” he mumbled, reaching toward the drawer again.

but for some reason, you stopped him. you put your hand on his chest and gently pressed him back enough to stop his reach. you didn’t even know why you asked it until it came out.

“…do you want to try without it?”

he stilled like a statue. blinking up at you like the words didn’t register.

you tilted your head. “would you? if i let you?”

his mouth opened—then closed—then opened again. “we’ve never—”

“i know.”

“i—fuck,” he whispered. “that’s not something i get to decide. that’s you. it’s always your call, baby.”

your whole body heated at the way he said it like he’d rather explode than make a single move without your say. you knew exactly how much he wanted this. you could sense it. but still, he held back.

you looked at him, lips parted, voice soft.

“i mean…”

you bit your lower lip and smiled—small, teasing, like you weren’t about to change everything with a few words.

“i already told you i want to marry you someday.”

his breath caught.

you continued, sliding your hands up his chest, your voice dangerously sweet. “so what’s the big deal if we just act like it just for tonight?”

his eyes widened, color rising high in his cheeks. his hands squeezed your thighs once—tightly—and he let out a shaky exhale.

“you ever think about it?” you murmured, mouth brushing his, teasing but deliberate. “how it would feel?”

his hips jolted at your words.

and then you felt it—a sudden, thick heat between your thighs as he choked on a noise and rutted into you once without meaning to. his cock slid between your folds and left his own mess on you.

he went still.

“oh my god, fuck, y/n, i’m so sorry,” he blurted out, voice cracking as he pulled back instinctively, hands scrambling like he wasn’t sure whether to hold you or move. “i didn’t mean to.”

you looked down at him, then between your thighs. you smiled.

“well,” you said, almost sing-song, tilting your head at him like you hadn’t just fried every neuron in his body. “you already got your cum on me.” you dragged your nails lightly over his shoulders, down his chest. “might as well finish the job.”

his eyes snapped back to yours.

you leaned closer, your mouth ghosting along his cheek, warm breath right against his ear. “do you want to fuck me raw, spidey?”

he looked like he was barely hanging on.

“what if—” his voice cracked. he swallowed hard. “what if you get pregnant?”

your smile was slow. dangerous.

“then you better pull out,” you whispered. “you’ve got super control, don’t you, spidey?”

he groaned and grabbed your hips with both hands, tight but trembling. his restraint cracked, your teasing catching up to him all at once.

“fuck, just get on, y/n,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

you took it as a sign to sink down onto him slowly because everything was different now.

his breath left him in one harsh, stuttering exhale. 

you could feel everything. every twitch, every throb. the slick slide of your body around his cock. the stretch. the shock of skin to skin. he was deeper than you remembered. hotter. you can’t believe you’ve been fucking him for the last year with the goddamn latex.

he was panting beneath you, “i won’t last,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

you let out a soft whimper and buried your face in his neck, overwhelmed by sensation. your whole body was shaking from the sheer intensity. he turned his head to kiss your temple. his fingers rubbed slow, soothing circles into your spine, even while his cock twitched hard inside you.

the moment you shifted your hips experimentally, the sensation shot up your spine like lightning. he exhaled sharp through his teeth, hips twitching once, and you both stilled.

you could feel him twitching inside you, hard and hot and bare.

“jesus,” he said under his breath, voice fraying. “y/n, i—”

“what?” you asked, but it came out like a whine.

his grip tightened. “if you keep moving like that, i’m gonna bust a web.”

you snorted, then winced because laughing while you were still filled to the brim with him didn’t help the sensitivity. “jisung.”

“no, i’m serious. like i have no defenses right now. you’re my kryptonite.”

“and you call yourself a superhero.” you breathed, biting your lip. 

“technically, i’m enhanced, not a mutant,” he muttered, eyes glassy with focus as he watched the way your body squeezed around him. “but i’m about to have a very human problem in like, ten seconds, so please don’t—fuck, don’t clench like that—”

 “what, like this?” you echoed, tilting your head just slightly.

and then you did it again.

you tightened around him, and his entire body shuddered like you’d shorted a circuit. his hands clenched on your hips, hard enough to bruise, but he didn’t stop you.

“oh my god, y/n,” he gasped, hips jerking helplessly. “what the hell did i ever do to you?”

you leaned forward, mouth ghosting over his, and whispered, “you webbed me to your bed.”

“worth it,” he groaned.

you lifted your hips slowly, feeling every inch of him drag along your walls, sticky and hot, no condom to dull it. and when you sank back down—harder this time, deeper—your breath stuttered out and his head dropped back with a broken sound.

he looked wrecked beneath you. sweaty hair clinging to his forehead, throat exposed, jaw tight with restraint. you knew him well enough to know what that meant—he was close already, and he was trying to hold off for you.

you couldn’t help it. that knowledge alone made your thighs clench tighter around his waist, made your pussy flutter around him as you rocked again, slow and deliberate.

you rode him like you’d forgotten how to be cocky.

your nails bit into his chest for balance, head bowed, and the softest whine escaped your lips with every motion. “j-jisung…”

his hands came up to your waist again, sliding to your ass, gripping you tight as he tried to help guide you—lift you, drop you back down. “that’s it, baby. just like that. you’re doing so fucking good. you’re so tight around me,”

you lifted your head and looked at him again, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed, your lips parted like you wanted to speak but forgot how. you moved again, rolling your hips in slow, deep circles, grinding your clit against the base of him, and his cock throbbed inside you. his hands flew to your waist again, trying to hold you still.

“breed me,” you whispered.

he went still as stone.

you said it again, slower this time, just to make sure he really heard it.

“don’t tempt me.” he gritted his teeth. his hips jerked once. “don’t fucking tempt me like that.”

“breed me, jisung.”

“you don’t,” he hissed, trying to convince himself more than you. “you’re just, fuck, you’re close, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“then pull out,” you challenged, looking him dead in the eyes. “go ahead. pull me off. if you can.”

he didn’t move.

didn’t even blink.

“this is some evil villain shit.” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, voice shaking. 

“then stop being a hero and fill me.”

he snapped.

his grip shifted, his hips slammed up into you hard, and the sound that tore from his throat was primal. he gritted his teeth as your body squeezed him like a vice, riding high on the edge of orgasm already, and his voice was wrecked when he spoke.

“you want me to breed this pussy? want me to cum in you and fuck it deep, fill you up and make sure it stays?”

you gasped, whole body clenching again. “yes, jisung please,”

“you want to walk around dripping with me for days?” he growled, snapping his hips up again. “you want my cum leaking out of you, knowing i could’ve gotten you pregnant?”

your voice was a high-pitched cry now, barely coherent. “please, i want it,”

“fuck, i’m close,” he grunted, thrusts losing rhythm. “you’re gonna make me cum,”

he shoved up into you once, twice—then held you down on him, cock buried to the hilt, and came so hard he saw stars. he gasped your name, voice cracking as he pulsed inside you, hot and thick, ropes of cum filling you in slow, deep waves.

it was the first time you felt him cum inside you. the moment he spilled, you gasped. the warmth flooded you so hard it felt like it reached your stomach.

it sent you over the edge as well, your orgasm crashing through your body like a tidal wave. you could feel it inside you, his cock still twitching as it throbbed with the final pulses of release. 

you were still gasping, forehead pressed to his. 

“i love you.”

“i love you too,” jisung said, voice low, raw, and certain. “i fucking love you.”

you leaned into him instinctively, pressing your mouth to his, your kiss slow and tender, laced with heat and awe, his breath still ragged against your skin.

“fuck y/n…” he ran both hands down your back “i just came inside you.” he blinked like the full realization hit him now that the fog of orgasm had lifted. 

you smiled. “again?” you said. “it doesn’t matter now that the damage’s already done.”

“oh, fuck you,” jisung laughed before flipping you and pressing you into the mattress. you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. he kissed you hard, voice wrecked against your lips. “you’re evil.”

“you love me,” you whispered, smiling.

his eyes met yours.

“i always will.”

the sunlight crept in slow and soft, casting gentle lines across tangled sheets. your body ached. the scent of him was still on your skin.

but the space where he’d been was empty. cold.

you reached out anyway, hand brushing nothing but the imprint he left behind.

you lay there for a moment, blinking against the light, letting the quiet settle in your chest. the city outside was already awake. distant traffic. a muffled horn. the city always came first for him.

and then—

BANG

the window slammed open and a loud thud echoed through his bedroom.

you jumped. “son of a—”

and then you saw him.

jisung stood beside you, hair wild. there was a coffee in one hand, a dessert bag crumpled in the other, and a box clenched between his teeth. he was in his spider-man suit up to his neck. he looked like he’d just run five blocks, fought a guy, and then sprinted through traffic. which, knowing him, he probably had.

you squinted.

“…what’s in your mouth?”

he crossed the room fast, yanked it out of his teeth, and dropped it onto the mattress beside you.

you stared at the box.

it was the morning-after pill.

he flopped dramatically onto the mattress, groaning like he’d been stabbed. “i meant to be back before you woke up,” he huffed. “i had to swing, like, six blocks. the pharmacy didn’t open till seven. and then some guy tried to mug a woman outside the deli and he threw a fucking rock at me, and obviously i couldn’t just—ugh, why is the city so much?”

you launched yourself onto him, grabbing his face with both hands and kissing him stupid.

“ow, ow, baby, i’m still bruised—”

“you absolute idiot,” you laughed, forehead pressed to his. “you didn’t have to!”

“i love you,” he mumbled through a smile, eyes fluttering shut. “and i brought coffee.”

you pulled back just enough to frown, glancing toward the still-open bedroom door. “and why the hell weren’t you wearing your mask when you came in? are you serious? anyone could’ve seen you, jisung!”

he blinked, still sprawled out, coffee somehow not spilled because of his spider reflexes. “i did! i totally did. i had it on. i just—took it off like… right before opening the window.”

you rolled your eyes and flopped sideways onto his chest, grabbing the slightly smushed plan b box. you pulled out the instructions, unfolded them with unnecessary drama, then cleared your throat.

“oooh,” you purred, fluttering your lashes. “levonorgestrel, 1.5 milligrams.” you glanced up at him and wiggled your brows.

jisung groaned. “please don’t dirty talk the plan b.”

but you were already flipping over the instructions, tongue between your teeth as you continued.

“should be taken within seventy-two hours after unprotected sex,” you whispered, emphasizing the words. “but the sooner, the most effective.”

his hand slid down his face.

“take one tablet by mouth as soon as possible,” you read, then opened wide and plopped it on your tongue, chasing it with a sip of the coffee. “there. clean-up crew’s arrived.” you tossed the wrapper in his garbage can and then stretched with a little satisfied hum, glancing over at him sprawled across the bed like he’d just fallen out of the sky.

which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth. 

“alright, spider-boy. out of the suit, medic’s here. let’s see what damage that rock did.”

“just say you want me out of the suit.”