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hiii. i’m back after a long hiatus. writing has been hard. hope you enjoy <3

specs: mingi x reader, award show, club, gentleman's club, intense flirting with multiple men, reader is a dancer at a club owned by hongjoong, confidence, subtle degradation, porn with plot, mingi knows what he wants, switching, oral, cunnilingus, riding on top, rough sex, afterparty, club dancing, lap dance, pet names/terms of degradation (“slut,” “baby,” “cocksleeve,” etc.), strangers to fucking, au where mingi is a solo rapper, seonghwa is a regular at the club, wooyoung does bottle service, yunho is a bartender, reader known as “seraf” (stripper name), smut starts a little over halfway through… let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 8280

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you could write two letters, one of love and one of hate, about the things you adore and despise about los angeles. 

rich men would be on both of them. 

the club is busier than normal tonight, likely due to the amount of high-profile individuals in town for the award show. this means more men, more eyes, more hands, and on the bright side, more money. bills will be covered for the next couple months.

as you step on the stage, your lips are downturned slightly under the red lights. your walk is slow and catlike, a prowl designed to reel the eyes over your body. the air is heavy with bar chatter and the reverberations of dying music. you can’t make out the expressions of your gathered patrons just yet, but you know you’re turning heads around the lounge.

before you mount the pole, you catch sight of hongjoong, your boss, escorting a particularly overdressed man to the row of chairs at the front of the stage—the first of the award show overflow to trickle in.

there’s a little game you play, where you dote the most attention on two men—the one closest to the stage, and the one farthest back. everyone in between will start vying eventually. 

your first victim is laughing at something hongjoong says. when he is seated directly in front of you, he smirks a little, drinking you in like a fine wine. even in the reflection of his ridiculous sunglasses, you can tell he’s pleased with the view. it’s all lace and silk tonight. black, as usual. you thought the frilly choker, more of a collar, was a bit much, but joong insisted the aesthetic would sell the night. he’s usually right.

the man in front of you certainly seems to like it. you’re posed on the pole, waiting for the music, and though you discreetly size him up, you don’t give him your obvious attention just yet. other men filter into the stage pit, but none are dressed quite as flashy.

the man joong had chosen to sit front row is wearing several expensive chains, upon one of which hangs a pendant with three large letters—an f, an x, and an n. the fur coat draped around his broad shoulders doesn't hide his sturdy frame, a dark satin shirt stretched across well-fed muscle. the shirt parts in an unbuttoned v down over his chiseled chest. several rings glint in the dim lights, along with the silver in his mouth when he grins at you. 

you’re not normally one to entertain wannabe rappers, but you give him a small smirk anyway. 

the music starts. you swing in a slow circle to start your routine, the one joong told you to save for expensive nights. you’re pretty sure he ups the cover charge when big events take place in town, but it never seems to affect turnout. people will always pay for the show you and the other girls put on. this venue is for upscale clients, tonight especially.

as you begin to dance, slow and sultry to start off, the night is just getting started for most patrons. sideways glances reveal a line forming outside the lounge, and those trickling in are dressed to the nines. many make their way to your stage as if entranced, others head straight for the gambling tables. there’s vices of all varieties here at club no1.

one of your favorite regulars, a slender man who drinks his gin with juice, settles in somewhere farther from the stage. he’s always around on weekends, always watching with those catlike eyes from a few seats back, never getting too close or saying anything. he seems only to come for the performances, never the gambling, and by all standards, behaves like a gentleman should. 

most importantly, he’s generous with his wallet. twice you’ve offered to escort him back to the private lounges, but both times he’s declined with a sheepish little smile that makes you want to eat him alive. 

he’s nothing like the man in front of you, who leans forward and draws the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to get a hungry look.

with one knee hooked around the metal, you arch off, extending a leg to elongate your position.

and... hold.

you’re grace and sin all at once, and the stage lights dance off the features on your face, over the contorts of your body, your hips a canvas of desire when you roll your body back up to the pole.

a handful of cash hits the stage.

men are moving closer now, depositing their currency at your feet like patron gifts while your hands caress the pole like it’s a lover. after a twisted leap in which you spin upside down , you even make your regular gentleman take a long sip of his drink from where he waits patient in his seat. 

as you settle on split thighs, your eyes find the man who is watching furthest from the stage. a little smirk, a small beckon is enough, and your heels twist into the next movement.

hongjoong hired you initially because of your ability to, in his own words, possess an audience. while other dancers rear cheers and hollers from excited watchers, your crowds are always hushed as if in reverence. the illusion only works if you keep crowd interaction fleeting and mysterious. on some nights you use a fan, but tonight the flowy material of your thigh-split skirt is enough.

the finishing move is one where you climb the pole in three graceful mounts, and then flutter down nice and slow until you’re laying on your back, arched to perfection, arms and hair splayed around your head while you blink at the lucky man in front of you. when the song does come to a close, all your attention fixes on him and his fur coat. 

he’s taken his glasses off. he’s not frowning, but he looks at you with some sort of seriousness. 

the look of a man who thinks the stripper could fall in love with him. it’s a pity, really.

you shouldn’t, but you hold his eyes when you get up, a submissive crawl back to your feet, and then you blow him a litle kiss before turning with a flourish and strutting back down the stage walk.

hongjoong is back there with a drink in each hand, pep-talking the new girl, who’s up next.

“you’ll do great, honey,” you assure her, caressing her slender forearms.

the two of you exchange a smile. she nods at you both before her ensemble begins. taking the cue, she raises her chin and waltzes out there.

your attention turns to hongjoong. he looks smug, knowing he left you out there with a starved man. your head shakes in resignation.

“who is he?” you sigh as he hands you a drink.

his lips curl at the edges in a little smirk of his own. he puts the second drink in your hand, which is never a good sign. “a musician.”

a bar lackey appears with the velvet bag which has your stage name stitched into it, your stage earnings inside. the glittering seraf folds as he places it in your hand. it’s heavy, as expected. 

you thank him and tuck it into your garter belt, turning back to hongjoong with another sigh.

“did you already offer him the private room?”

hongjoong fully grins. “baby, i don’t do your job for you.”

you roll your eyes and clink the two glasses together as if in cheers. 

he just chuckles, following as you push past him to the backstage lockers. you down one of the little glasses before you reach your own.

inside your locked cubby is a little mirror, your keys, your phone, and the club robe. the silk is black and matches most of your outfits. sometimes you wear it onto the floor with the shoulders draped down and the ribbon untied. tonight, you leave it in place, putting away the velvet cash bag and downing the other beverage in a few gulps. they’re not alcohol—rather, fruity drinks with electrolytes. hongjoong takes care of his girls.

“alright, i’ll go listen to his sound cloud in the private rooms for an hour,” you tease, casting hongjoong a reproachful glance on your way out into the main lounge.

it isn’t hard to spot your customer. he’s still in that fur coat, but he’s moved to the bar, boasting with broad gestures about something or other as other people dressed in award show attire listen.

thus begins your second performance of the night. 

your steps are measured as you head to the bar to set down your empty glasses, grateful for hongjoong’s foresight. 

you ask for an ice water from the bartender, a tall, handsome man you’ve grown fond of.

“thanks, yunho.” you slide him a couple bills you’d tucked away in your lace, but he pushes them back, folding his arms over the bar to lean closer.

“first dance was a hit,” he grins at you, eyes shining in admiration. “did hongjoong already assign you a companion to torture?”

you tilt your head microscopically to the right, and yunho’s eyes dart towards the man in fur.

he suppresses a chuckle, and even under the bar lights, you see his ears turn a darker shade. “fun.”

you almost snort in your drink. it makes a pleasant knock when you set it down. your smirk is unmistakable. “oh no—you think he’s hot.”

yunho flusters. “me? i—well, he’s not unattractive.”

you’re laughing when yunho gets a bit of a panicked look in his eyes. he whirls around, apparently to make someone else’s drink, and you’re about to playfully call him back to admit you’re right when a sweet, yet musky, almost tabacco-like scent overwhelms you. 

when you square with the person, you are pleased to see your nonchalant tactic has worked. it usually does. 

you size him up, tilting your head, and then smile sweetly, twirling your glass on the counter. “oh, my front row admirer,” you tease.

he’s looking down at you like a smitten man, offering his hand palm-up. when you place your fingers in his, he bows low to kiss the knuckles, and it takes everything in you not to laugh. these men think they’re so slick with their antics. 

“mingi,” he says, cutting straight to the chase. “and you are?”

“call me seraf,” you dip your head in return.

“oh, i knew you were an angel.”

half for show, you giggle. “i haven’t seen you here before.”

you usually don’t use such cheese-worthy lines, but something about this whole interaction feels painfully corny. 

“i’m from overseas,” he touches his chest just above where the chains hang, his towering frame leaning against the bar. “did you learn to dance here in the city?”

it’s not a question you normally get. you don’t like to talk about your life outside the club for a variety of reasons, but a few honest answers can’t be too harmful. you shake your head. “i’m from miami, baby.”

“ohh,” he nods, grinning. “i played a show there last summer. very hot. you miss it?”

you laugh. “sometimes. i like the west coast, though.”

“oh, yeah. it’s great here.”

yunho dips in, swallowing his nerves to address the man. “anything to drink for you and the lady?”

“oh, uh,” he points at your glass. “whatever she’s having.”

at this, you really laugh, a sound that makes the corners of his mouth perk up. “it’s just water, baby.”

“water and a—“ mingi looks at you. “you like soju?”

you shrug your shoulders. “i’ll try it.”

“just one bottle. you have the big ones? …yes, thank you.”

mingi’s eyes return to you, and you go in for your next move, letting your eyes trail very obviously down his front. hesitantly, you reach out towards the chains. some men are touchy about them, and you’ve learned that some will think so low of dancers that they assume you’re trying to steal, so it’s best to be careful what you touch.

“your chains are so flashy,” you note, allowing your voice to overflow with admiration.

he drinks it right up. “oh yeah? you like them?”

he places the big one with the letters in your fingers, moving closer, and you run your thumb over it, tilting your head. there are some smaller letters in between the big ones that you didn’t see before, all gilded in gold and diamonds.

“Fixon?” you ask with doe eyes, pronouncing it like “nixon.”

he laughs and shakes his head. “fix on, baby.”

oh, you’ve got him now. when they start returning the pet names, it only takes a drink or two before they ask for a private room.

just then, yunho sets his order on the counter.

as mingi pulls out a heavy, metallic credit card to pay for the soju, you uncap the bottle and pour his glass full, shooting yunho a grateful glance.

yunho winks and thanks the man, then hurries off to tend to other patrons.

mingi’s eyes are back on you.

“is it some sort of tagline?” you ask innocently. if you can get them talking about themselves, your work is halfway done.

“you could say that.”

“so mysterious,” you purr. you pour yourself half as much soju as was in his glass, then offer a cheers.

he accepts, raising his glass with another smile.

“what should we cheers to?” you ask him. “anything you’re out celebrating tonight?”

“maybe… this?” his smile widens almost imperceptibly. he pulls the edge of his coat aside, revealing a pocket within, weighed down by the presence of a shining golden statue. there’s no doubt it’s from the award show.

you’d act surprised even if you weren’t, but your awe is real this time. “oh my god! you won? which category?”

he closes his coat, glancing at the floor, although his hips and shoulders sway in a little victory dance. “new rapper.”

“to mr. fix on, then,” you raise your little cup, and he gladly joins you.

the alcohol is a pleasant, warm distraction from the heat in your cheeks. usually hongjoong brings you wealthy clients, but not rising stars. strangely, you feel you might have more common ground than you initially thought.

“you’re a performer, then,” you lean on one hip.

“yes. i love to perform,” he mirrors your posture, something you note with chagrin. 

you keep your eyes on him as you ask him about anything that will stroke his ego. “what’s the biggest stage you’ve played?”

“oh… probably… madison square.”

god, this job is so much easier when you don’t even have to act impressed. your appreciation is genuine when you hum.

“oh, so you’d floor us here then, huh?” you glance to the stage. he laughs, but doesn’t take his eyes off you. 

“no, no—you’d lose money,” he jokes. humble. sexy.

it’s time for the bait.

“should we go sit?” you point over your shoulder. “maybe you can audition for me. i’ll be the judge of your skills.” you playfully poke at the coat where his award hides underneath.

he’s absolutely charmed. he glances over his shoulder and gets the attention of a broad man in a suit, presumably some sort of personal security, gesturing vaguely in your direction. when he successfully relays his whereabouts, he takes the bottle and his glass from the bar and follows you over to the quieter vip section.

the bouncer at the rope lets you in with a nod, and you thank her quietly as you pass by. this elevated platform has access to the private rooms, a nice view of the stage, and its own bar, as well as chauffeurs waiting to supply bottle service. your friend wooyoung is among them, and starts over with a bottle of patrón, but you give him a look. 

he backs off, sticking his tongue out playfully. he has an affinity for stealing clients’ attention whether he tries to or not, and you’re not in the mood to fight for mingi’s eyes tonight.

“so you said new rapper,” you begin, gratefully handing him your cup to refill with soju. “but that can mean it’s your first year or your fifteenth in the industry. how long have you been at it?”

“going on year eight,” he nods. 

“mm.”

you each toss back a drink, and then you settle into the curved lounge cushions, leaning slightly towards him under the guise of hearing him better. 

“any hits i’d know?”

he unfurls one arm out behind you on the backrest, sighing into the dimness. “maybe… ‘autobahn,’ but my latest is one called ‘roar.’”

“give me a line,” you tease, grinning. it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had a patron perform for you.

“no,” his fingers gently skim your shoulder, almost teasing. “you don’t want to hear it.”

he’s right, of course, but his hesitation makes you want to goad him. 

you fix him with fluttering lashes. “awh, c’mon. you were watching me the whole time when i was down there, don’t i get something too?” 

strategically, you inch closer until your knee bumps his. you can’t help but notice how one of his thighs is spread far from the other.

he glances down as if registering your proximity, eyes taking their time on their way back to your face. he is handsome. his relaxed, confident nature is something you’d love to play with. maybe you’re even a bit grateful to hongjoong for pawning him off on you. the way he’s looking at you is either a strong performance on his part, or he really is considering risking it all for a club dancer. perfect clientele. easy money.

you twirl a piece of your hair, eyes squinting subtly in amusement. “what?”

“you are so pretty. i’m so serious.”

a man will say anything to get what he wants, but you’re good at getting what you want, too.

your head tilts back as you laugh. “you think so?”

“i know it’s your job, and it’s painful to me,” he sighs. his hand leaves your shoulder to prop his jaw instead. “but i get it. i do it too.”

“what do you mean?” you ask, daring to let your fingers drift to the other chains around his neck.

“a performer’s life,” he says, watching your hands caress the metal. “i can see it, you know—your act.”

your fingers still, just for a moment, but he catches the falter. when your eyes meet, your smile is gone. there is no disappointment in his expression, only understanding.

it’s rare a client will break this fourth wall with you, but it’s usually out of a deeper fantasy they hold to truly connect with the dancer they want for the night.

some of the girls here solicit after hours, making arrangements with patrons outside of the vip lounges. hongjoong doesn’t allow that sort of thing on club property, as the safety of his crew is hugely important to him. but everyone turns a blind eye to the affairs of employees off the clock.

you’ve never engaged with someone after your shift unless the patron was someone you could truly see yourself fucking out of enjoyment. it’s better to keep home and work life as separate as possible for your own safety.

but sometimes someone hot shows up and looks at you the way this man is looking at you right now, and you bend your own rules a little.

you sigh.

“it’s no fun if you acknowledge it.” a playful shove to his shoulder breaks the tension, and he laughs. 

“i’ll still play along for a private dance if you’re still going to offer me one.” he’s sporting a mischievous little smile now.

your eyes narrow. you glance at the bottle. “finish your soju. we’ll see.”

he takes that challenge with another cheers.

from here, conversation grows more natural. he tells you about the struggles of being in a foreign industry, and doesn’t lay off the flirting in the slightest.

“i think you could be my backup dancer,” he grins. “how much do you make a night? i’ll triple it.”

“even if you would, i couldn’t come along with you. i don’t like planes.” you fend him off, but you’re laughing.

he clutches his heart and leans back with closed eyes as if wounded. “i will drive you. we will have taxis for you to every show,” he counters. his jokes aren’t that funny, but you find yourself laughing anyway.

“do you want anything from this bar? wooyoung will help us. i have to get back on stage one more time, and then i can take you to my room in the back.”

he gazes at you fondly as you gesture vaguely to the bar and the private entrance beyond. with a sigh, he shakes his head, already pulling out his card. “i’ll need another drink to watch you dance one more time.”

“flattery will get you two more times,” you promise, then wave wooyoung over as you rise to your feet, stepping back into your performance facade with ease. “just let wooyoung know what you need, okay, baby?”

“can i watch you from here?” he glances at the stage, then up at you. 

fuck.

from this angle, his features are even more devastating. it’s going to be so easy to make money tonight.

“you can watch from wherever you want to,” you tease, giving him a once-over before making your way back down the platform stairs. 

you don’t have to look back to know his eyes are on you all the way back to the stage door. 

there’s no costume change tonight, but your second dance will be a bit livelier. a peak out the curtains shows your usual gentleman nursing his gin and juice, a loyal sight you decide you can focus on for this little show. the dancers have riled up the crowd by now, and you don’t particularly like to entertain the loud ones.

as you mount the stage, your handsome regular leans forward, seemingly pleased to see you again. you toss a little kiss in his direction, and as the jealous heads turn, you slowly drop your ass down in front of the pole, only rewarding those who are still watching. 

back on business, the rest of your routine is more sultry, a pattern of sharp and fluid movements meant to accentuate your legs and stomach. the sway of your hips is enough to have the men giving up their cash on hand, and some of them retreat to the atms for more.

by the time your heels click their way backstage, your skin has a sheen of moisture. joong is nowhere to be found—probably hustling the gambling tables—but another dancer helps you fix your hair before you head back out onto the bar floor.

your charming new rapper of the year is not in the vip lounge where you left him. 

disappointed, if only for little more than having to start fresh, you prowl back to yunho’s side of the bar and scan the patrons. 

there is an older man in an expensive suit nursing his beer alone. just as you are about to swoop in and ask if you can join him, a familiar face catches your eye—your handsome regular, apparently ordering another drink. like a magnet, you drift his way.

“busy tonight,” you comment, and he startles a little, adjusting his tie. 

when he sees that it’s just you, he smiles faintly, turning until his posture faces toward you in the crowded space. he says something, but it gets lost in the hum of other sounds, so you tilt your head and move a little closer, which only seems to fluster him more.

“i said your routine was good,” he repeats. his voice is soft in volume, tone, enunciation —in every way.

“which one?” you smile, not bothering to move away as you look up at him. you can practically see his pulse pounding in his throat. he’s always like this. it’s adorable.

he swallows. “i like the opening one.”

behind him, a man in award show attire—this gaudy, beaded suit jacket that looks heavier than his wallet probably is—jostles into him. you shoot a glare at the boisterous man and steady your regular’s arm. 

the touch of your fingers on his shirt seems only to worsen his state of nervousness. he takes a big drink of his gin and juice.

“don’t let this crowd push you around, starshine,” you tease, releasing his bicep. he’s standing a bit closer now and you can smell his cologne, a subtle scent that carries hints of jasmine. 

he opens his mouth to reply, but then a commotion breaks out and the beaded suit bumps him a second time, harder than before. his drink topples onto the counter.

you practically catch the stuttering man, but his glasses fall onto the floor and immediately get stepped on by another patron.

yunho’s attention is on the scene now, his sharp eyes intent on the rowdy one. a scuffle seems to have broken out. you stoop to pick up the fallen glasses. 

while pulling on his shirt, you gently guide your regular out of the fray. bar fights aren’t common here. hongjoong will be displeased.

as yunho’s low, condescending voice intervenes, you find the man a seat and place his broken glasses in front of him, glancing him up and down.

“you okay, honey?”

“i’m fine,” he looks more disappointed about his eyewear than anything else. “you?”

he’s sweet for asking. “i’m good,” you assure him, stroking his arm. “i’m gonna get you a new drink, alright? was it pineapple? stay right here.”

the scene seems to have been successfully deescalated, but you give the front of the bar a wide berth anyway, casting a distasteful look in the direction of the unruly men.

yunho is busy wiping up the spilled gin and juice, so another bartender reaches you first. you accept her help with thanks, then return to your regular. 

he mumbles his appreciation and reaches with shaky hands to withdraw his wallet. you’d accept cash from a customer under almost any circumstance here at the club, but this time you push his hands back, glancing around for hongjoong. 

“no, baby, we take care of our usuals here. i’m gonna find joong. he’ll want to know about your glasses, okay?”

the man looks flustered. “the customer service here is excellent,” he says.

you can’t help but laugh. you could quip a quick, it gets even better when you let us take you to the back. instead, you settle for, “you’re cute.”

hongjoong, drawn over by the loud noises, appears and slinks back behind the bar to get the rundown. when he zeroes in on the problem, he wastes no time in drawing the bedazzled man aside and having a quick chat.

he’s rarely seen without his signature little curved-at-the-corners smile, but right now, with his eyes darkened, there’s nothing sly or amused about his features. you wait until he’s finished speaking with the man to approach him.

“joong-ah.”

when his eyes find you, they soften. “something happen, seraf?”

you jerk your head towards your regular. “handsome’s glasses got crushed. he’s being very sweet about it, but i thought you’d want to know.”

hongjoong nods and follows you back to the little seated area. if anything, the man flusters more when you approach with hongjoong, and a flush crawls up his neck when they start speaking.

amused and endeared, you take your leave as hongjoong is offering the man compensation for his troubles. it’s rare the boss works the floor, but his damage control brings out a suave little side of him that rivals even the best of the floor girls. your charms aren’t needed here any longer. the regular is stammering as he speaks to your boss.

it’s past midnight now and you still have no one to take back to the private rooms. at a glance, the vip section is full of people occupied by other dancers or bottle servicers. the stage is rowdy with a group cabernet performance.

as a last resort, you decide to act as live bait. standing near the lounge might work.

your steps are measured and unbothered on your way across the club. as you lean over the railing that ropes off the tiered floors heading down to the stage, luck is on your side. a welcome and familiar figure joins you.

you feel his presence before you see him. lean and stocky. moves like he could buy the place.

“thought you’d run off.” you don’t even turn, a sly smile on your lips.

“and pass up the opportunity to see you one more time?”

the rapper of the year has taken off his fur coat. his sunglasses are also gone.

“i looked for you,” you move a little closer, tactfully pulling your eyes up and down his attire. “but i was looking for someone in an obnoxious gray coat.”

he grins. “it was too hot.”

“it’s about to be,” you promise.

this is your shot. you take his hand, and he heads willingly to the back rooms with you.

the hall is dim, and your preferred room is the size of a large closet, or maybe an office cubicle. it’s kind of corny, but each room is themed—one cyberpunk and dystopian, another beachy and wavy, a third rustic and western.

the one you pick hosts heavy red curtains and multiple mirrors. the lights cast a hazy glow onto an ornate plush chair.

your rapper takes his seat without question, leaning all the way back, stretching those broad shoulders out on the velvet.

the music that plays in this section of the club is slower, more sensual. you adjust your outfit in delicate tugs while you wait for the next song to start, and he watches your motions under heavy lidded eyes, fingers flexing on the clawed arms of the chair.

as the next song filters through the speakers, not quite drowning out the heavy bass on the main floor, you toss the edge of your skirt fabric aside to part it. 

you train your eyes on his lips as you prowl forward, each step measured. a dance you’re familiar with. a routine done a thousand times. 

there is a crisp bill between his fingers.

“is this for me?” you smirk, glancing down at it.

“all for you,” he confirms lowly.

you lift your knee to his lap, subtly nudging his thighs apart as you take the cash from his hand. when his legs are parted, you mount the chair overtop him, sliding the bill like a feather under his chin.

“i’ll collect this later,” you promise. “open up.”

his jaw drops just enough to slide the money between his teeth. he won’t need to do any talking anyway.

your arms circle those toned shoulders, resting across the back of the chair, your breath ghosting over the bill in his mouth. while your hips start to move, he shifts deeper into the seat, hands curling down the edges of the armrests.

the tendons in his neck dance under the dim lights for a fraction of a second. the sight pulls your lips into a smirk.

“you must be pretty used to having people all over you,” your murmur drifts over to his ear. “but if i somehow cross a line, just pull my hair, ‘kay?”

he grunts softly around the money in his mouth, a sound that elongates as your hips start to roll. there’s a growl to his tone that you find yourself wanting to draw out.

you press closer, your thighs slipping gradually wider, dragging your hips slowly up his lap. the tension seems to flood into his frame, only to fully release when your fingers move to his nape and into his hair.

the chair’s arms creak as his grip tightens. a little puff of laughter escapes you.

“you can touch me, you know,” you whisper. “i won’t tell.”

so his palms hesitantly lift to your thighs, gradually gliding to the angle of your hips. you slow the movements and bring them lower, brushing over the seam of his pants. it earns a quiet groan.

his reactions are so enjoyable that you almost lose track of your place in the song. it’s one you’ve given a lap dance to before—the playlist is only so long—but this would be the first client you’d given permission to touch you in a while.

before the chorus hits, you level your eyes with his, then look at his mouth, slowly leaning into to take the dollar bill between your own teeth. at the same time, you press down with your hips. there is a twitch of excitement between his legs as you do so, and you lift off immediately, but only to maneuver your legs to opposite sides, turned away from him now, in one fluid switch. your palms dig into the chair’s front edge for leverage, back arching, giving him a thorough view of the slope of your waist, the curve of your ass.

although you can no longer see his face, the breath he lets out says it all.

that sweet sound turns into a groan as you lower one palm to the floor, grinding nice and slow on his lap.

“holy fuck,” he mutters, rubbing your hips like he wants to move them himself. 

you almost want to let him.

before the idea can make you wet and ruin your costume, you’re back up, glancing over your shoulder with hooded eyes as you bounce out the remainder of the song.

he’s an obvious wreck. you take the money from your mouth and slide it under the lace decorating your tits.

when the song ends, you’re promptly to your feet, more than a little smug.

this is usually the part where you’d ask him if he liked that, if he wants another one before he leaves tonight. it is also sometimes the part where you have to explain that you don’t do other services.

but this man just looks at you, more than appreciative. 

“shit,” he sighs. “i need you on my dance team, baby.”

“oh, your backup dancers treat you like this, huh?” you smirk, and you want to sit on those broad thighs again, but you refrain. there are more words on your tongue, but you’re hesitant to say them.

when he sighs and pulls out his wallet, you push the sentence out before you can stop yourself.

“i have to work the rest of the night here, but i have time for an encore. later.” you punctuate the word.

he glances up in interest, shifting in his seat, trying to quell an obvious boner. “encore?” he asks.

“but only if you want,” you say dismissively, hoping he’ll understand.

the slow smile that spreads over his lips is more than knowing. “i like that. you need a ride after your shift?”

it’s stupid and dangerous to say yes. but you do it anyway.

“sure.” you move a little closer, tilting your head. “but if this is happening, i want to know what i’m in for.”

he leans forward, interest piqued. you let your lips get close to his. 

“your hotel have a suite?”

he breathes out. “big one.”

“i’ll meet you out back after closing, then.” 

his pants are fitting a little tight. he seems reluctant to get up.

“you can stay here as long as you need to,” you smirk. then you blow a kiss, a cheesy thing you always do, and he grins, watching you go. 

the rest of the shift passes uneventfully—but you do notice that your regular and your boss seem to be simultaneously missing in action. whatever that means.

several hours and a sports car later, you’re in the fluorescent lights of the lobby. mingi’s hand is on the small of your back as you step into the elevator. it’s 4am and he’s still a little tipsy, but the hotel is nice.

he warns you about an afterparty. you’re not quite prepared for the loud entourage in the hotel suite, but he guides you past the fray, mostly people too drunk to care, and the both of you are soon locked behind the bedroom door.

“there’s just one thing. you gotta sign this,” he says, procuring some sort of contract.

“oh, the notorious nda,” you hum, clicking the pen and bending down to sign. 

it’s pretty cut and paste—standard for these types of arrangements with anybody who’s somebody. nothing you haven’t seen before.

“i have rules too,” you say, turning around as he backs you up against the little desk. “first one is that i start on top.”

his teeth clamp onto his bottom lip.

“and second, no recording. i don’t do that.”

“no,” he shakes his head, palms marveling over your hips. “this is just for me.”

“good,” you hum. and then your fingers press into his chest and walk him back until he’s falling onto the mattress.

“i like these,” he murmurs, and immediately grabs onto your belt loops, his fingers tugging teasingly. you had changed out of the club outfit and thrown on some jeans that sit low and baggy. “i like how they fit you.”

the hotel lamps illuminate him much better than the club lights. his plump lips are yours for tasting. the shrinking space between you grows warmer while you kiss and let him frame your body with his hands.

“god, seraf…” he sighs.

“say it some more,” you hum, doing yourself the favor of unbuttoning what remains of his shirt.

your kiss decorates down the middle line of his body, and he gasps, a pretty sound followed by an obvious twitch in his trousers, just beneath your chin. 

“not yet,” he sighs, although his hips lift when your mouth cups over the seam.

you let him pull you up, and before you know it, he’s staring up at you like he’s never been so lucky in his life. his smirk is haughty—fitting for the rapper of the year.

“you wanna ride my tongue, baby?”

it’s rare a man can make you blush, but as you nod, you feel heat flare in your cheeks.

his fingers tenderly unwrap your clothes from your thighs, careful and intentional, and before long you’re slipping free of your bra, completely bare, and his arms are pulling your thighs into place on either side of his jaw as he lays back in the sheets.

outside, the afterparty rages on. blaring music hides the sounds you start to make—loud, by no intention of your own.

his tongue laves bliss beneath you.

“mingi,” you gasp, rutting your hips, and he encourages the movement with a low moan, gripping your thighs and tugging repeatedly, starved. 

before long, you can’t tell if he’s drooling or if you’re the one making a mess of his mouth. 

“fuck,” you bite your lip. “that’s enough. let me fuck you.”

his grin is slick, and he palms his lips as he shifts up, drinking in the way your thighs tremble.

“all yours,” he murmurs as you settle into place over him. then he lies back with a sigh, watching with that same heated anticipation that he’d displayed back at the club.

his clothes are halfway down his thighs, and you don’t bother with them an farther, breath already shallow enough when you feel the warm thickness of him underneath you. 

your cunt slides over it with ease, slippery and throbbing, your entire body burning up. mingi just watches with that lazy confidence, as if he knows already how good this will be.

gradually, you gather up your hips, giving one easing stroke with your palm to lift him taught, then hold steady to sink down, down.

“fuck,” you choke again, and your voice comes out a little breathless. it’s not that you’ve never fucked someone with a big dick. it’s just—the stretch is—

he breathes a laugh, caressing your hip bones. “okay?”

you nod, settling your features to fix him with a gaze equally assured. “and you?” 

as you ask, you give a little shove of your hips, satisfied at the way his lips part and his eyes dart to where you’re joined.

he mutters, “jesus christ, you’re fucking sexy.” 

and then you’re rolling your hips, letting yourself grow wetter, accommodating, until the obscene sound of skin against skin accompanies his gasps. 

making a handsome man lose his mind is one of your favorite pastimes. when his eyes roll, you grab his hands from where they cling onto your thighs and glide them over your skin, which is growing slick with sweat, to the heavy rise and fall of your chest.

“god, yes,” he groans, his hips bucking up, earning a sharp sound from you. “god, fuck me—ride it, fuck—“

his begging is so fucking pretty. as he pinches the soft curves of your breasts, you push your own palms into his hips and fuck him harder.

he writhes, and a sound cracks through that haughty exterior—a whimper.

you chase the friction that made him emit that noise, and soon he’s begging again, hands flying down to grip the sheets, searching for a tether to the bed.

“oh my god, oh fuck, oh please—oh seraf—“

his pleading has a gravely, low-spoken nature to it, tinged with the breathiness of desperation. you’re gasping for air, but you slam down harsher, faster, needing it almost as badly.

he endures a bit longer, that pretty mouth opening, before a grin overtakes it, and he’s breathing, “baby—baby, i don’t want to cum yet. slow down.”

so you ease into a gradual saunter, and he finds it in himself to uncurl his fingers from the sheets and guide your rolling hips again, head tilted back and eyes closed in ecstasy.

“god, yes…” he exhales, the tension easing from his body, slowly, easily, though not entirely. 

then, after a moment to gather his wits, his eyes flutter open to watch you move, to watch the dim lights reflecting on the curve of your stomach, the angles on your collarbones and breasts. 

“this okay?” he murmurs, taking one thumb and sliding it down to where you’re grinding nice and slow.

you manage to nod, swallowing a moan as he presses into your clit. that sultry grin returns to his expression.

“yeah, it’s alright?” he rubs slow circles. “yeah? mmh… you just got so tight. fuck, seraf.”

you want to devour him. you grit your teeth and try to push yourself closer, to take more—but your core aches at the effort to take him any deeper, and your bodies are set flush anyway.

the attempt earns a groan from his throat, and he closes his eyes, rewarding you with a firm press to that throbbing nerve above your entrance. it almost makes you choke.

“anything i shouldn’t say?” he asks with a sigh. you really should have had this conversation before you got on top of him, but the thoughtfulness is a nice reprieve from other people you’ve had on a mattress.

“not for you,” you find yourself replying, and you mean it. you’d let him fuck you almost any way he wanted right now. with the way he looks at you, he might.

he chews his round bottom lip, and his half-lidded eyes paint appreciative lines down over your body again. when you throb around him, he grins.

“are you an angel, seraf? or just a fucking slut?”

on another night, with someone else, you may have loathed the words. overused, uninspiring, and more for him than for you.

but right now, all you know is that you’re not an angel.

“what do you think?” you tease with a gentle bounce of your hips.

he sits up, allowing a glimpse of the toned nature of his frame, and his hand lifts away from where he’d been teasing you, cupping instead to your nape as he pulls your mouth to his. 

these kisses are hungry. you find your arms around his shoulders, clutching yourself close as your bodies move together. when your lips part, it’s all you can to do suck in a breath before he takes it away from you again. his name slips out of your mouth another time before he continues.

“i think,” he growls, rocking his hips up, effectively forcing a soft cry out of your throat, “that you’re a naughty. fucking. slut.”

he punctuates each gritted word with a punishing snap of his hips, pleased when you cry on each one.

you nod, murmuring agreement, feeling your stomach tremble slightly from the force. 

“yeah,” he sighs, stroking down your spine as he continues to fuck up into you. “that’s why you take it so well, right?”

you’re appalled. at him, for saying it, but more so at yourself—at how your body gushes over his words. you tremble out a whimper just as his hand returns to slide between the both of you, back to your sensitive clit, coaxing out a tightening pleasure that makes you whine again.

he doesn’t stop, but his eyes find yours, and his voice dips lower, more neutral. “still okay?”

all you can do is nod.

he nods with you, eyes glimmering. “lay down.”

you’re shifting to obey just as he slips an arm around your waist and turns over his hips, lowering you to the cool sheets. beside you, the other half of the bed is wet with sweat and everything he’s done to you so far. in the transition, his cock slips free, leaving your thighs damp, your body empty and squirming.

mingi is still for a moment, stroking a hand up your sides, kissing your neck, your shoulders, your jaw. the both of you slowly catch your breath. 

“you fuck like a pornstar,” you mutter, and he actually laughs.

“if music doesn’t work out, i’ll keep that in mind.”

when you seem to relax again, he presses his palm firm to the sheet next to your waist, hauls one of your thighs up around his waist, and drives into you with a harsh shove that makes you bite back a curse—not from the intense pressure, the subtle twinge of pain—from the way you immediately pulse on his length. 

he notices, too. he grins against your ear, not pausing for a second as he takes up a relentless pace. 

“so greedy, seraf…”

as if to tease, his thrusts grow partial and incomplete, just half as filling, devoiding you of being sated. his smirk turns feral when you whimper in protest.

you’re arching already when he demands, “touch yourself.”

you blink up at him for only a second before obeying, fingers dipping down to ease that pleasant ache.

“good,” he continues to only fill you halfway, watching your fingers work as if mesmerized. “such an obedient little slut.”

his mouth finds your ear. 

“would you like it if i spit on that pretty cunt? it’s already such a mess…”

your thighs clench up. “fuck—please—“

“alright, alright,” he sighs, his lips pulled wide with approval as he sits up, eyes raking down the length of your body. you must look beautifully pathetic, by the way his eyes darken.

mingi brushes away your hand, framing your hips with his palms. he slides his cock free until its swollen tip is notched just inside, another cruel taunt as your body’s need grows louder.

he bows his head and spits, smearing the warm saliva over your pulsing clit with the pad of his thumb.

if he had been inside, you may have been pushed to the brink of orgasm.

he doesn’t pause for a reaction. he drives back inside, sheathing himself deep, watching as your body pulls taught and a cry shatters from your lips. the sound is so obvious that you’re not entirely sure the music outside covers it up.

“pretty cocksleeve,” he muses, picking up a bruising pace.

you cling to the sheets, stuttering out his name, and he rewards by lifting your hips, angling them just so to pound up into a spot that makes your mind swim.

“m-mingi—!” you gasp, body trembling.

his breath is ragged. he’s confident, so confident that you’re close. “that’s it, baby... be a good slut. cum on my cock.”

his words are filthy, and yet somehow not as filthy as the way he starts to touch you.

you scream one more time, and he almost growls, his hips stuttering as you clamp tight on his length. the pleasure rips through you, sweetly, violently, and he follows suit, pumping his hips a handful of times before collapsing onto his elbows with a low, resonating groan.

the silence feels like it rings. at first the sounds of your mutual panting is muted, your senses overtaken by the sated hum of your body.

as you come back to yourself, he rolls to the side, and you welcome the coolness of the air that fills the space he’d just been. 

his fingers find yours, tracing to the inside of your wrist and twisting gentle shapes there.

“cross a line?” he pants.

“what?” your turn your head to look at him, watching his chest work to retain enough oxygen.

“did i cross a line? by calling you those things.”

a laugh bubbles up in your throat. you don’t answer him right away.

when your arms stop feeling like total jelly, you drag yourself up over him, nestling atop his hips again. you’re already imagining the other noises you want him to make while you’ve got him to yourself.

“if i didn’t like it,” you say, gently grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head. “you would know.”

he grins.

☆ tags: fluff, domestic, sfw, cute, mushy, corny, park seonghwa x reader, soft, gentle, genderless, ambiguous reader, NO smut, etc…

enjoy~~

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

you can always tell the day before it hits. your joints get all achey, your brain a little scattered, your body, overall, a little tired. with flare-ups, that's really just the beginning, so you preemptively call out of work (thank god for a boss that gets it) and make sure to swing by the pharmacy on the way home to stock up on prescription pain medication.

this time things are a little different than usual, though. you had arranged for your partner to come stay the night in your quaint little studio apartment—not unprecedented, but still exciting and relatively new for you, given you had only moved to the same city a couple months ago. he travels a lot for work, but it just happens that he has a day off between schedules, and you both want to make the most of it. so... of course your body picks this time to become bedridden. awesome.

canceling bums you out in a way you swear amplifies your bodily aches. as you dial him up, you stir your fizzy vitamin packet into some water.

"hey, you," he greets warmly. "i was just about to throw my stuff in a bag. how was work?"

"hwa," you interject regretfully. "i don't know if it's the best idea that you come over."

disappointment is evident in his tone. "what's wrong?"

"it's just another dumb flare-up. you don't want to see me when it hits, trust me."

his voice floods with amusement. "do you turn into a creature or something?"

you crack a dry smile. "practically."

you can almost hear the dull, repetitive thud of your headache as he thinks for a moment, filling the line with silence.

when he speaks, his voice is tentative. "can i plead rule 7?"

ah, the "rules." back when you had started dating—which was, what, almost a year ago now?—your type-a brain had justified the long distance by making a set of "rules," or little tenants, to keep yourself feeling like the relationship was a good idea. it seems silly looking back, especially after how far you've come personally and in the relationship too, but his memory of rule 7 warms your heart.

rule 7: asking if it's best to talk, comfort, or listen when the other is upset

"what do you mean? i'm not upset, paboya," you tease him, confused. "just sick."

"i am," he insists. "you're canceling our delightful evening together, and you're not sad?"

you can't help but giggle, though your ribs hurt already. "well... yes, about that, i'm sad."

"anyway," he continues, "i want to plead rule 7, and i'm picking listen, but in person."

"did something happen?" despite your depreciating state, you worry.

"yeah, my person is sick. you know how it is."

you're not sure if he's serious or if there's something else, but you hum in affirmation. "sounds dire."

"no, but seriously. can i come over?"

you hesitate, warring with yourself. it's not as if you're contagious, but you hate being perceived when you're sick like this. but if he's pleading rule 7, he might need you more than you need him right now. this idea alone is enough to convince you, and finally, you concede.

"...okay. i'll be in bed, so just let yourself in, 'kay?"

"see you soon, angel."

after the click, your weary hand drops to the pillow, and you sigh softly, your gut churning with a mild (turning medium) concern about whatever it is that he's upset about. could it be work? is his grandmother in the hospital again? either way, you mentally prepare yourself to be there for him, despite your declining energy. as such, you take a few gulps of the awful vitamin stuff, then let your body fall limp into your brand new queen-sized bed, and before you know it, you're asleep and someone is knocking softly on the studio apartment door, more out of politeness than anything.

he enters quietly, rustling with something.

"hey," you croak groggily, feeling somehow worse than before your brief nap.

"hi, baby," his voice is soft, and he sets something hard on the nightstand.

you turn over, rubbing your throbbing temple with one hand, expecting his water bottle or something, but you are taken aback by the presence of a small bouquet in a little glass jar.

"wh—huh?" you peer at him strangely, your brain still a bit foggy as you sit up. he moves closer, embracing you in greetings.

"i was going to bring them anyway before you called me," he explains. "but since this is basically your hospital bed for the next 24 hours... fitting, no?"

"psht. hospital bed..."

he's only half wrong, though. you grow warm as he plants a kiss on your cheek, and only as he's pulling away do you notice the plastic bag on the floor by his feet. he reaches for it, drifting over to your kitchen area.

"you didn't eat, did you?" he asks knowingly.

"not yet," you admit, laying back down on your side and fighting to keep your eyes open.

the instant soup bowls he pulls from the bag are your favorite flavor. maybe it's just an oncoming fever, but your face heats up a bit, wondering if it's coincidence or if he remembered.

"rule 7?" you inquire, reminding him why he came.

"yes," he responds, smiling to himself as he finds your electric kettle. "i'm choosing the 'listen' option, remember?"

you hum in agreement, closing your eyes to listen. but he doesn't speak.

you crack your eyes open to peer at him, to gauge his state, but he seems perfectly fine.

"was it heavy?" you prompt gently. maybe it's easier to suppress.

"huh?" he turns around, tilting his head.

"your thing. the upsetting thing."

he grins softly. "ah. there's nothing. i just knew you'd try to talk me out of coming over. i'm still using rule 7, though—i want to show you this audiobook i've been listening to."

though relieved that nothing's weighing on him, you groan out loud and roll over, pulling your blankets up over your shoulder. "paboya..."

with the water heating up, seonghwa meanders back to your bed and crawls in, wrapping his arms around the outside of the blanket you're in.

"how was practice?" you murmur.

he smiles softly. "normal. do you hurt already?"

you nod.

he hums sympathetically and brushes his fingers through your hair, wriggling closer. "how's the temperature? are you cold?"

"a little warm, actually. i feel a fever coming on."

"good thing you have a nurse now, huh?"

"nurse hwa," you tease, but then a wave of pain washes over you, and you wince. "everything hurts."

"i prescribe... plenty of rest." he kisses your temple. "i'll be right back."

you let your eyes close as he returns to the kitchen. you're drifting in and out of sleep, drawn back from the brink of exhaustion by a resounding ache in your whole body, by the time he returns to your side.

"sit up?" he requests gently, moving around some pillows.

you manage to lift yourself up before the pain really hits, and a whimper falls from your lips.

his expression is scrawled with worry. it's exactly why you didn't want him here.

"i'm fine," you promise, your attention drawn to the steam rising from his lap, where he holds the instant soup in both hands.

"will you let me feed you?"

your blush is unmistakable. "i'm not a child," you insist, reaching for the bowl, but he pulls it back, smiling softly.

"you're not," he agrees. "let me do it anyway."

you eye him for a moment, your arms folding over your stomach. suddenly, it growls. you sigh as his smile melts into a grin. "fine."

the chopsticks are steadier than you could manage on your own. you eat slowly, watching with subdued embarrassment as he gently blows on each bite before putting it to your lips.

when you want a sip of broth, you give him a small, warning glare before lifting the soup with your own hands, taking a slow gulp. he holds the bottom of the bowl with his palm, noting how your elbows and fingers tremble.

"scale of one to ten?" he murmurs. he means the pain.

"ten being... what, i'm dying?"

"sure," he smiles, but it doesn't reach his worried eyes.

you let him feed you another bite as you mull over the question. "mm. six."

his brows crease. "oh, angel."

"it's not that bad," you insist, but it's getting there. you're already so tired. "can we listen to your audiobook?"

he nods, setting aside the mostly-empty bowl and reaching for the remote. you settle back onto your bed, getting cozy, and watch him as he focuses on loading up the connection to his phone.

"i have the physical copy too," he says absently, clicking a cast button from his phone. "but it's a collection of letters that pierre berge wrote to the bereaved yves saint laurent, to sort of... say what he never said."

you hum appreciatively. "oh, am i going to cry?"

seonghwa tilts his head, his eyes finding yours. "possibly."

"did you?"

a shy smile pulls at his lips.

you grin, pulling the blankets aside invitingly. "you're a softie, seonghwa."

"and what if i am," he murmurs, settling down beside you. his arm slips under your waist, and he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. "you can sleep. don't stay up just to listen."

"we'll see." you let yourself relax as much as you're able.

soon, you're out like a light.

when you wake, it's because the pain medication has worn off. it's dark outside, and the audio book has long since ended. hwa is curled up beside you, sharing your warmth, his palm resting on the curve of your waist. his breaths are long and slow, indicating his deep slumber.

you try not to wake him as you move carefully out from under his touch. when your feet touch the floor on the other side of the bed, it's as if the majority of the pain wakes up with the rest of your body, tearing through you in waves. tears prick your eyes as you double over.

you try to stay silent, but the sobs rack through you, only half as violent as the hurt. this flare up is worse than recent ones. being alive is hellish when this happens.

after giving yourself a moment to cry, you prepare to get up and refill your glass of water.

before you can make it up off the mattress, a warm hand presses down gently on your shoulder.

"what do you need, angel?"

if your body wasn't bogged down by pain, the soft honey rasp would have put butterflies in your stomach.

"water," you croak. "i need to take more... medication..."

"lie here, baby."

his gentle touch helps you back to the pillows, and then his warmth disappears for a moment. you close your eyes and shiver, trying to let the pain take its course rather than allowing it to grip you through each wave.

he reappears with your cup, lifting it to your lips. "where's the bottle of pills?"

"nightstand," you croak, gratefully accepting the cool liquid.

he fishes out the orange tube and cracks it open. "how many?"

"just one."

when he places the pull on your lips, you take a thick swig of water to put it down.

and now, you wait.

it can take up to an hour for your body to fully utilize the medication. in the meantime, you'll be able to do little else but sit through the throbbing. seonghwa is acutely aware of your state. he takes up gently rubbing your shoulders, frowning worriedly.

"i'm sorry," you try to joke, though your head pounds. "i fell asleep before i could listen to any of the letters."

"just say you hate saint laurent and move on," he teases in return.

"i do think there are better labels," you retort softly.

"oh?" you can hear his smile in his voice, though you do not open your eyes.

you take another sip of water. "mhm."

"like...?"

"on you specifically, i mean."

"elaborate, please."

"songzio looked great on you."

"you think so?"

"obviously also isabel marant."

he laughs softly. "and what would you like to see me in next?"

you consider for a moment. "dior."

"oh, just that?"

you can't help it, you smile. "just christian dior."

"for you, i'll try." he leaves a tender kiss on your temple, and it's like the pain subsides on that half of your body for a moment.

you sigh softly, feeling exhaustion pull like increased gravity on your limbs. you lift one more long drink of water, then allow your body to give up a little.

"will you put this back, please?" you ask shakily, and you're not even done asking before his fingers brush over yours and take the cup away.

his brief lack of presence gives way to somewhat of a chill. when he returns, wrapping his arms around you, you suffice that his being there has warded off the need for an extra pain pill.

"thank you for coming," you murmur. "i want to listen to the book again when i'm not so sleepy, if that's okay."

"of course, angel," he whispers, pulling you back into his arms. he plants a warm kiss on your head. "i'll give you my own version, like a sneak peak, yeah?"

you hum softly, curious about what this means.

"it starts like a letter. to my shining star," he iterates, smiling against your ear. "i recall mornings with you in the dorm, sipping orange juice and eating pancakes—just the two of us, a perfect corner in this world."

you giggle softly, wincing a bit when the laughter hurts your head.

"and the next letter is about taking care of someone you love," he kisses on your shoulder once more, "and it goes like this: my poor angel, weighed by strife, needs no one to watch over them. but if they’ll let me, i'll help them relax..."

the serotonin helps speed up the process of the painkillers. soon, you're asleep again, lulled by the gentle pull of his fingers through your hair.

☆ 18+ only. MINORS, DO NOT ENGAGE.

☆ tags: seonghwa, park seonghwa is a bottom / switch, ateez after an award show, terms of endearment (i.e. angel, star, my love, pretty boy, good boy, etc.), seonghwa has a praise kink, nameless reader, strong language, consensual m/f sex, established relationship, award show becomes reward show, neediness, playing with ribbon, subtle teasing, subtle choke play (with said ribbon), gentle dom reader, l-word, mutual gratification, hand job, missionary, creampie (BUT USE PROTECTION IRL RAHH), aftercare, realistic au, open/implied continuation at ending

this is my first published work where seonghwa is a needy subby bottom ok please be nice to me ;-;

☆ word count: 5126

enjoy~

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

“so pretty,” you muse, stroking the man’s hair.

he blushes. “thank you.”

seonghwa isn’t looking at himself in the mirror, though. he’s looking at you.

your fingers trail down the side of his face to his coat, where thin tendrils hang from various anchor points.

“did your stylist pick out these ribbons personally, baby?”

your other hand skims the side of his neck, feeling his pulse jump as you move to stand in front of him. he swallows when you start unplucking the lace and silk pieces one by one.

“they were attached to the jacket before we went on stage,” he murmurs softly. “the others have them too.”

you select a few, sliding them carefully free of the stitchings and tucking them into your pocket. “they suit you. do you mind if i save some for later, star?”

as you ask, you caress the collar of his shirt, almost tugging. he won’t refuse, but if he did, you’d stop in an instant and refasten them to their original places.

he blinks up at you, eyes deep and trusting. “you can take some,” he says in a small voice.

you tuck his hair behind his ear, then tilt his chin up a bit. “good,” you murmur, lowering your mouth to hover above his.

you don’t kiss him, though—not even when his lips part and he breathes out a sweet, silent whine.

instead, you drag one nail down his skin to the dip between his collarbones. “…i want to, but my lipstick will stain. do you want a kiss somewhere else?”

his nod has barely lifted when the button is freed. a quiet, shaky whimper leaves his lips as you kneel down in front of his chair and work free a second button, and an even needier noise erupts when you spread open the fabric to place a kiss over the left side of his chest.

your mouth waters, yearning to trail more kisses across his skin, to decorate that pretty freckle between his collarbones, the underside of his throat, the indented shape of the corner of his lips—anything to draw those goosebumps out of hiding.

yet you refrain, taking care as you redress him, fingers smoothing the buttons flat after they’ve been pushed through the holes. the stolen ribbons hang out of the pocket of your slacks, almost escaping when you rise from the floor. you absently push them deeper.

it’s time to let him go.

the look he gives you from where he sits is more than pleading.

you laugh in order to repress your own desire, caressing the side of his face. when he leans into your touch, you can’t help from placing one soft kiss on his hair.

“enough, star. i’ll see you after dinner.”

he sighs, climbing tenderly from his chair. “i’ll come find you.”

“i’ll be waiting,” you promise, eyeing the remaining bows on his suit jacket. “well done tonight, star. you deserve every moment of this celebration, you know. enjoy it.”

your praise warms his ears. he slips his arms around you in a grateful embrace before you head for the exit.

a mere half hour later, he’s sitting with his knees tucked under a heavy white tablecloth, using his fork and knife to portion out bites of medium-rare sirloin. the tomato is all that’s left of the salad, pushed as far from the center of the plate as possible. a glass of red wine sits half-empty to the upper right.

in the seat beside him, san is curious. he eyes the jacket and its vacant holes, then examines the ribbons fastened around his own bicep.

“did your bows fall off?”

seonghwa nearly chokes. he quickly raises his glass of wine to those cherry lips and forces everything down before answering. “um. yeah. i think they got lost in the confetti on stage.”

san grins. “man. those confetti canons tonight—they got me.“ he shakes his head. “did you jump?”

seonghwa smiles bashfully at his food. “they always get me.”

“they got me too,” mingi chimes in on his other side, mouth full of steak. “you’d think they could make some sort of silencer…”

as the relaxed chatter at dinner carries on, the reprieve of having the group’s hard work pay off is evident at the table. just hours prior, ateez had performed a medley of their biggest hits, been recognized for their feats on live television, then had been presented with a heavy award for their efforts.

artist of the year.

the tall golden figure now rests beside the empty bottle of wine, glinting under the dining lights as if to promise that they’re all going to remember this night for years to come.

seonghwa finds himself looking at the award in silent contemplation. yunho’s outfit from the show had consisted of a bow or two around each wrist and one large ribbon around his waist, the latter of which has been tied around the base of the statue, matching the group’s concept. seonghwa’s eyes are fixed on that black bow, not unlike one of the many you had removed from his suit. while pride and gratitude overwhelm him, he feels something else in the pit of his stomach. a pleasant sort of nervousness.

plates are cleared, and then dessert is served. fittingly, it is ube cheesecake with little bow-like garnishes. at the head of the table, hongjoong is laughing, asking the managers if they had something to do with the decorations.

seonghwa swallows, his mouth watering for more reasons than one, now.

a sudden urgency possesses him. he aims to savor the cake, but finishes far before the others. as the heat rises in his chest, he decides he’d better go before the flush creeps any farther up his neck.

the others bid him good night, even though some of them look surprised at his departure. the second round of wine has just been brought to the table.

seonghwa dips his head in honest thanks and promises to touch base with everyone in the morning.

”i think i just need some sleep,” he smiles weakly.

hongjoong and jongho share a knowing look.

“have a good night, hyung,” yeosang calls after him.

the others mirror the sentiment in a chorus, but most of them are far too invested in alcohol and dessert to notice the speed with which seonghwa strides to the door. if he had a tail, it would be tucked between his legs.

you are waiting upstairs in the hotel suite, still in the two piece set you had worn to the award show, cuffs still buttoned, heels still strapped. earlier, you had let your hair down and opened a bottle of wine, but it sits mostly untouched on the coffee table in front of the couch you are lounging on.

whenever the boys win big or perform on a world stage, you like to scour the socials and screenshot the most exciting posts. seonghwa’s mother appreciates your hand-picked content, but you’ll focus on sending everything to the group chat later. it’s pretty late anyway.

besides—right now, your thumb hovers under a particularly crisp photo of seonghwa in the suit he wears this evening. the jacket is cropped to accentuate his waist, and there is a flare of fabric sewn into the hips of the suit pants. combined with the bows, and the subtle beading, it’s an outfit you’d regret ruining, were you to rip it off him in the way you truly want to. in the way he likes. in the way that makes him emit those sweet, sharp sounds underneath you.

the click of the lock drags your hungry gaze from your phone screen to the door. you leave your legs propped up on the couch cushions, dragging a hand through your hair.

seonghwa already looks a bit disheveled as he comes through the door, his hair tousled and breaths deep enough to betray the speed at which he hurried here.

“hello, my love,” his greeting is warm.

“hey, you.”

his shoes are off in an instant. as he approaches, the jacket slides off his shoulders and is cast on the bed like a layer he couldn’t wait to shed.

you sit up in amusement, placing your feet on the floor and patting the spot beside you.

seonghwa sinks down readily, quick to accept the kiss you offer. your lipstick leaves a red smudge on his mouth. you want to leave more.

for now, you card your fingers through his hair, taming the part. “dinner’s over already?”

the bashful look he gives his knees is quite telling. “sort of.”

“oh.” a slow smile spreads over your face. the hand in his hair smooths down to his nape. your voice drops to an octave that coaxes a shiver up his spine. “you were impatient.”

it’s a statement, not a question, but he nods to affirm it anyway, leaning into your touch.

you glance him over for a moment, drinking in the way his palms are pressed into his knees, which are angled towards you on the couch. and oh, those eyes. shining and begging. slowly lifting to find yours.

your nails gently graze over his skin, down the uppermost part of his spine and then back into his hair. you can practically see the groan rise up his throat. his lashes flutter.

just because he came right to you, because he’s worked so hard this year, because he won an award and he deserves to be celebrated, you don’t make him wait like you usually do.

without saying anything, you bend one knee up over his lap and extend your calf over his thighs. he knows what to do.

his eyes light up. almost immediately, hands rush to help pull your shoe farther onto his lap. he works gently to undo the clasp, then cradles your ankle in one palm while the other separates the heel from your foot.

you recline as his fingers skim down the length of your slacks to lift the other shoe. normally you wouldn’t have even worn the heels this late after the show, but the performance at hand is just little thing that he likes, and you’re happy to indulge him.

like everything he does, the way he sets your shoes onto the floor is full of careful intention. you half-consider rolling your ankle between his thighs and teasing him from where you rest on your elbows, but then you remember the little bows.

“thank you, baby.” the relief in your voice is genuine.

you take his chin in one hand as you rise to your feet, laying a kiss on his cheek. your other hand slips into your pocket and withdraws the rumpled set of ribbons, rolling the fibers between your thumb and forefinger at your side.

when he catches sight of the motion, his ears grow pink. he looks up at you with lips slightly parted.

“can you undo the first few buttons of your shirt for me?” you tilt your head.

without taking his eyes off yours, he fulfills the request, albeit with fumbling fingers.

“mmh,” you smile softly. “you’re being so good tonight.”

the praise sets off something that sears behind his eyes. his brows flicker closer together for an instant.

you nudge his knees apart and step between them, unfurling the handful of lace and satin and silk. allowing him to watch, you select a wider ribbon from the bunch, sliding it free with a slowness that he tracks with a heated gaze. the other ribbons are deposited to the side for now.

“oh, how cute,” you comment, reaching out to peel one side of his shirt away from his chest. “the kiss mark is still there. it didn’t stain your shirt, did it?”

as you lift the fabric further, some red lifts away along with it. seonghwa’s voice is nonexistent when he tries to speak, so he clears his throat to try again.

“i-it’s alright. i’ll wash it later.”

your touch lingers around the mark, tracing his collarbone above it, and a slow smirk spreads over your lips as you watch goosebumps rise on that side of his body.

“sensitive…?” you murmur.

his throat bobs in a swallow.

oh, he’s in the palm of your hand now.

you lift your fingers to his chin and tilt it back, then take the length of ribbon and pull it taught between both hands.

“i think i want to put this here,” you ponder aloud, slowly pressing the strip of fabric to his skin. “would that be okay, angel?”

his hands find the edges of the couch cushion and curl over the seams. the yes that he musters up is just a whisper.

his jaw tightens as you slip the silky material around the back of his neck, and you guide it up, then lower, settling on a spot just beneath his adam’s apple. with deliberate slowness, you secure the fabric in one knot and two perfect loops, eyes gleaming as his throat quivers beneath the material.

“so pretty,” you murmur for the second time that night.

“thank you,” he croaks.

he’s a mess. the way he’s looking at you, eyes never straying from your face, says everything his mouth doesn’t. you pry the fabric apart, perfecting the bow’s shape, then step back to admire your work.

your arms cross, and your tone sinks—still soft, but now commanding. “i think you need to lose the shirt.”

he shifts in his seat, prying his hands from the cushion beneath him to release the remaining buttons. as the material slides off his shoulders, pooling around him, you hum appreciatively. your eyes gradually drop to the strain of fabric growing between his thighs. he has always liked to be admired, but especially the way you do it.

you had intended to prolong the tying—to put the flimsier ribbons elsewhere, maybe on his wrists or in his hair. but as he sits before you, decorated with one wide stripe of fabric on his slender throat, you doubt he could look any prettier than he does right now.

he sees the shift in your expression. he’s holding his breath before you even step closer, before your fingers slip underneath the base of the bow, before you lean down to ghost the words against his ear.

“you should be very proud of yourself, seonghwa. you did so well this year. so well tonight.”

he can’t help it. he whimpers. your fingers give a little tug, persuading to the edge of the seat by the tie on his neck. he obeys immediately, hanging on your every word.

“can you tell me what you are?”

he swallows hard before whispering, “i’m your—i’m your good boy.”

“aand..?”

“your—your pretty boy…”

the praise floods into your tone. “mhm. that’s right. my sweet, pretty boy.”

he chokes, though you haven’t yet pulled the ribbon again. you place a warm kiss below his ear, and then another a bit lower, continuing south until you’re satisfied with the quake in his breath as he exhales.

gradually, you lift yourself back up to loom over him, smirking a little at how he’s shivering on the edge of his seat.

“go ahead,” you murmur, releasing the bow from your curled fingers. you jerk your head towards the bed.

he doesn’t need convincing. in a moment, he is hurrying obediently to the mattress. he sucks in a breath as he collapses onto the edge of the duvet, the color finally creeping up his neck at the sound of your pants hitting the floor.

you climb over his hips, easily unfastening the belt still notched there, but then your hands smooth up his torso, leaving little gasps to catch in his throat as they wander.

“would you be more comfortable against the pillows?” you ask, grabbing hold of the loose ends of the bow.

“i—i’m okay, it’s okay,” he breathes, watching helplessly as your bare thighs surround his hips.

when you settle yourself over his aching erection, he has to bite hard on his lip to refrain from making a sound.

you give a teasing pull on the ribbon around his neck, and his gaze flicks up to yours from where it has been agonizing over the black lace now pressing firm against his crotch.

“wh-hmm?” he asks, chest rising and falling a bit faster.

you smile, reaching to brush the hair from his eyes as you roll your hips. “i didn’t say anything, baby.”

the pressure of your motion drags a quiet, strangled noise from his throat. “f-fuck.”

“poor baby,” you hum, pressing one hand down in front of your hips, grinding gently against the bulge under your palm. “so sensitive…”

he’s trembling. when he starts to plea, you give the ribbon another small tug.

“p-please,” he gasps. “don’t tease me…”

beneath you, his knees widen, slotting your hips into his a bit more.

“you want these off?” you nod, grazing the zipper with your finger.

he nods along. “yes. y-yes. please.”

“yeah?” you continue to move your head up and down, watching his eyes glaze over as you drag apart the zipper.

if it were another night, you might have pushed him to the point of pathetic begging. waited until you watched the tears form in his eyes. but he’s been so good.

“take them off,” you instruct, lifting yourself up off his lap. he struggles to wriggle down his clothes, soft little sounds pinching out of his lungs as he shifts around, trying not to touch his throbbing cock.

he sinks onto his back with a shaky sigh when it’s finally in your hands. his pants are only at his knees, bundled up with his briefs, but that’s alright for now.

the tears spring to his eyes anyway as you stroke him nice and slow, giving him a sliver of relief from the tension.

“you poor thing,” you coo. “waiting all night to be tied up like a present… to be touched…”

he squeezes his eyes shut and whines, his hips lifting slightly beneath your own.

you click your tongue, gently pushing him down. “just relax. i’ll take care of you, angel.”

he nods, eyes still closed, brows close together.

“but just one thing.” you say softly, holding your palm over his chest. the opposite hand gives a little tug on the bow. “sit up, and spit.”

he complies, shifting onto his elbows. when the slickness of his saliva hits your skin, you drop it to his lap and curl your fingers around his stiff cock once again. as the slow, torturous strokes resume, he has to avert his eyes. he groans and lets his head fall back, an action which spurs another gentle tug of the ribbon.

“you can relax, but i want you to watch,” you relay calmly, relishing how hot his face gets at the sight of your fingers squeezing and spreading pleasure down his length.

you swirl your thumb over the tip, spreading around the bead of moisture indicating his arousal. his lips compress into a round shape, and then part in a gasp, his hips jolting.

from here, you start to pick up the pace, slotting your fist up and down in quick yet gentle passes.

“please,” he starts to murmur, almost mindlessly. “oh, mmh, fuck, please…”

“good boy,” you encourage. “feels good?”

“yes,” he almost sobs, thighs clenching.

when your wrist speeds up, he all but arches off the mattress, crying out sweetly.

“oh—oh, god, pleaseplease, i-i need—i need your…”

“a little more,” you murmur. “you can take a little more, right?”

he whines, but nods.

he’s on his best behavior. oh, you’ll treat him so well.

your hand glides off of him in one final motion, letting his aching length fall between his thighs, where it twitches helplessly. you lift your hips and begin to remove the buttons on your blouse. “lay back against the pillows, angel.”

with static for brain, he crawls backwards, squirming out of the last of his clothes. against the headboard, he wears just that singular black bow on his body now. combined with his flustered demeanor, you think you might eat him alive.

“oh, honey,” you soothe, fingernails tracing his knees as you follow him to the incline of pillows. the touch seems to send sparks up his spine. “you’re shaking.”

the kiss you place on his knee makes his body twitch. he lets out a soft, strangled noise.

“how many times can i kiss you before the lipstick wears off completely…?” you wonder aloud. and then you start to populate the middle of his thighs with red smudges, and you don’t stop until he’s panting.

“wait, please,” he mumbles weakly, fingers curling into the sheets. the plea comes just as you’re kissing the place where his hip meets his thigh. he’s trembling.

“what is it, angel?”

he swallows. “i don’t think i can… i don’t think i want…” as he struggles for words, his shaky fingers find your body, pulling you up from over his lower half.

“mmmnn,” you sympathize. “you don’t want my mouth.” as you say it, your are sliding off the last of your clothes.

he nods, then shakes his head, breathing unevenly. “yeah, i—no, please don’t—just not right now, please, i want…”

“hm?” you encourage, settling over his legs, which are now covered in lipstick. the sight seems to make him dizzy. he never looks for long.

“i—can i be inside you?” he chokes out.

you wrap the bow around your fingers two times over. “say please.”

the air leaves his lungs in a shaky puff as he feels your hips shift closer. “fuck. please. please, can i be inside you?”

drawing yourself closer, you lean down and let your words warm his mouth. “you can have whatever you want, seonghwa. you deserve it all.”

his breath is whimper-adjacent, but not quite there. only when you reach down to slot his cock against your heat does he let out a strangled sort of noise, a sound that draws into a pleading note as you bob your hips.

“can i—can i touch you?” it’s like he can’t get the words out fast enough, fingers lifting to your thighs, curling uselessly in the air.

“yes, baby.”

the confirmation is followed by a tight grip on your waist. it’s as if he is holding on tight rather than guiding you, but you still sink onto him the way you know he aches for as soon as his palms press to your skin.

his head falls back in a slew of quiet cries. he gasps when your hips roll, taking him deeper, and you focus on clenching just right.

his eyes are glossy when they finally open.

“oh my god.”

“you’re so needy tonight,” you murmur, trailing a finger over his lower belly.

he responds with an uneven whimper.

“you usually don’t beg for this so easily.” as you speak, you start to ride his hips with unhurried fervency. he struggles to focus on your words.

“st-star,” he chokes out. “m-mmh, fuck…”

the nickname, spoken in that depraved tone, makes your stomach constrict pleasantly. your own voice takes on a darker quality. “whose cock is this?”

“yours,” he mewls.

“that’s right.”

you reward him with a sudden swing of your hips, shoving him deeper. his head falls back, body arching, but you pull on the ribbon wound tight in your fingers.

“ngh—!”

his noise brings a wicked grin to your lips. you click your tongue, then offer a simple demand. “watch.”

he blinks the dizziness away, focusing on where your hips meet with a flustered sort of expression. you begin to thrust more quickly, pleased by the way his face seems to heat up even more.

“star,” he whimpers, his fingers flexing uselessly as they glide down your hips.

you keep the tension on the ribbon, but your other hand takes one of his and slides it over your breast. when the brush of his fingers makes your body tighten on him, he seems to melt, his red-kissed thighs squirming. but he stays where you want him.

“good boy,” you hum approval, slotting your hips in smaller but quicker thrusts.

this seems to nearly completely undo him. tears spring to his eyes as you ease your hips back, tilting in such a way as to squeeze the entirety of his cock. when your walls flutter, so do his soft cries.

“tell me again. what are you?” you tilt your head, suppressing a smile as his noises grow louder.

“i’m your good boy, i’m your good boy—“ he whimpers it like a mantra, his stomach clenching as he struggles to sit still. when you pick up the pace, the words scramble on his tongue. “i’m your g-hhn, gh—ngh—ah—!”

“my good boy,” you nod, both hands on his waist now, holding him in place as you fuck him in that torturous way that has him arching off the mattress. “you want some more?”

“more, mm-hmm, please,” he nods desperately. but he’s not quite ready for the harsher thrusts. he chokes on a moan.

he feels fucking incredible. with each roll of your hips, you can feel your own pleasure intensify. his cock, flushed and slick, throbs as your thumbs put gentle pressure on his abdomen. you fuck him faster.

he all but writhes. “oh my god—baby, s-slow down, or i’m gonna—”

“oh, you’re gonna come for me?” you smirk, not slowing in the slightest. if anything, your hips lift less but slam harder, punching the breath from his lungs.

a pretty tear squeezes from his eyes as he cries out towards the ceiling. “oh, oh, ngh—a-ah!”

“you know what i want from you?” you pant. “i want you to feel good, baby. can you come for me?”

he sobs softly, his hips pushing up off the sheets. his fingers are shaking.

you relent briefly, but only to allow him to suck in a breath before you crash down over him again. his yell is of pure feeling, a step below bliss, and he’s squirming now, but your thighs have him trapped right where he needs to be.

“god, you feel so good, seonghwa,” you groan, canting your hips at a steady pace, almost bruising. “if you keep making those pretty noises, i might come for you.”

“oh, please,” he exhales, completely flushed, his chest heaving. “please, baby, oh, i need to feel it—ngh…”

“you know how,” you whisper.

he sucks in a shaky breath like he’s going to cry, but readily slips his fingers to rub his trembling thumb against your clit, watching with watering eyes as you slow down to a steady saunter overtop him.

“that’s it,” you breathe, collecting a handful of his hair. the bow wilts against his slender throat

he whimpers, being sure to keep the pad of his thumb in direct pace with your hips.

“that’s it,” you sigh, watching his lips part. “touching it so nice… taking it so good… filling me so well…”

he’s melting into a puddle, his face burning bright, but he nods along like a lovesick puppy.

you continue, “and you deserve to feel good, baby. so good. who’s my good boy?”

“me,” he croaks.

“uh-huhh. louder. tell me again.”

his breath catches as you start to move quicker again, grinding against his thumb. “i-i’m your good, sweet b-boy.”

“and you’re going to come?”

his brows knit as he nods frantically, his touch slipping a bit. “y-yes, baby. oh, please.”

“good.” your fingers clamp together, pulling his hair. his hips thrust up as he cries out. you take it as a sign to start bouncing on his lap, wrenching sticky noises from between the two of you as he struggles to maintain any semblance of composure.

your hands fly to the bow, quickly jerking it free just to tighten the original knot, which makes him gasp. you pull, taking care to not let it shrink too tight—but the effect is immediate. he’s sobbing as his hips stutter. you know the sounds he’s making all too well.

it sends you over the edge before you can regrasp the ribbon, and the clenching of your orgasm makes his pupils dilate.

one last whimper seeps from clenched teeth before his eyes are shut tight and his body is arching off the bed for the final time. he was already going to come, but your own body’s reaction has plucked a particularly rapturous chord. your peak of pleasure is always his undoing.

“fuck yes,” you seethe, nasty thoughts flowing from your mouth. “give it to me. let my pussy drink it.”

and as your hips roll downwards in one last forceful shove, his fingers fly to your thighs to hold on, his whole body contracting.

a shattered cry erupts from seonghwa’s mouth. your name is on the next syllable, but the rest falls into mindless rambling as sobs rack his chest.

you watch it wash over him in hungry awe, the pleasure contorting his features beautifully. when it’s over, he’s so weak that his whimpers are just breaths.

“shhh,” you soothe, immediately dropping to kiss away the lingering tears. your grip on his hair turns to gentle caressing as you ride out the rest of his pleasure, grinding into him in time with the aftershocks that make him shiver.

he lifts his palms to still your hips, and a wrecked sort of moan coats his voice. “holy fuck…”

you smile softly and place a kiss on his swollen lips. then, without pulling away, you whisper, “i love you.”

he musters a shaky whine, a sound that barely carries above his breath.

“you okay?” you lift yourself up, being sure to keep your hips still.

he nods, his eyes fluttering shut.

like this, he’s perfect. that pretty flush accompanies his satisfied state like a sleepy glow. you push your fingers through his hair, admiring him from above.

eventually, his eyes crack open. he sighs deeply, contentedly.

“let’s clean up,” he mumbles, sitting up with surprising ease, one arm sliding under your ass.

you are taken aback as he swings his legs to the edge of the bed and hauls you up with him, that sleepy satisfaction on his face morphing into a soft smirk.

he walks slow, taking his time as he carries you to the open shower door, not even bothering with the lights.

you sigh as the glass slides shut, shifting your thighs to hug his waist a bit better. “haven’t had enough?”

his mouth finds yours as the facet squeaks to life.

“not even close,” he breathes against your tongue, grinding into your hips.

your back hits the tile, a convenient place for him to prop you. his cock twitches, already growing hard again from where he’s still buried inside.

“now… have you ever been fucked by an honorary artist of the year?”

Put bluntly, Park Seonghwa was good at sex. 

He had always been diligent with his affections whenever there was someone part of his life that he felt inclined to properly dote on. There had been girlfriends, of course—back when he was just starting out at university, when he had the time and emotional availability to invest in something special. As graduate school wrapped its fingers around his neck in an academic chokehold, however, he found himself losing people, and became lonelier, instead seeking out clear, concise arrangements, sometimes recurring or regular, in which he versed himself well with boundaries, rules, and his own vivacious appetites. He knew himself well, and took pride in the way he learned the limits and desires of those he took to bed. He knew what he liked and how to look for it in someone.

The bedroom, in all senses, was his domain. Whether it be an arranged hotel room or someone’s studio layout, he always navigated such spaces meant for pleasure and rest with careful precision, and took pride in the balancing act he had mastered of his own pleasures catered to the delights of lovers. It was in these spaces he had been able to show a particularly cunning and careful facet of his demeanor. With proper discussion, it was very possible for him to enjoy himself in a darker kind of fantasy. 

Seonghwa’s sensual techniques mirrored that of his work on pen and paper—methodical, intentional, private, and controlled.

Standing now outside the grand glass museum entrance, however, he feels more than uncomfortable with his impulses.

Park can see his reflection and the glow of passing cars on the street behind him, streaks of blue and amber in the gathering darkness painted in a wash by the wetness of rain. Damn this city and its penchant for precipitation. Umbrellas surround him, opening up to prepare for the next barrage. He can feel the first drops on his head already. If he doesn’t go inside soon, he’s going to be drenched—and then, he may as well just turn around and go home…

From the sidewalk, he can clearly see a glimpse of the first canvas—set on a glass easel in the lobby, lights shining down on it like some sort of beacon. It’s one he hasn’t seen before, but he can tell it’s hers just from the breathtaking use of color, depicting light and darkness over the image of a murky pond, swirls of pink and beige indicating the presence of a woman’s warm body wrapped in plants under the water.

His suit begins to feel tight on his body as his heart rate spikes. Her work has this effect on him, not because of its subject content, but because he can see where she moved on the surface of the canvas—where the paintbrush was, and where her hand must have been, how those deep eyes must have been concentrating on each stroke.

Past the welcoming painting, in direct line of sight, is a pyramid of champagne flutes. He tells himself if he can make it to the first sip, he can make it through the evening of pompous art hounds. 

He’d better hurry, though—the rain is picking up.

Steeling himself with a breath, he follows some straggling patrons through the doors, dodging closing umbrellas while shaking the droplets from his coat.

Inside, soft music plays, a peaceful accompaniment to the rumble of reverent discussion. One quick glance around makes Park exhale in relief—Estelle must be deeper inside already. At least he doesn’t have to see her yet.

As he skirts around the crowd of expensive perfume and designer dress, he snags a pamphlet from the welcome desk and flicks through it while he makes his way toward the refreshments table.

Wordy garbage about the museum's patrons makes him skip the first few pages and their lists of museum contributors, and several more turns of paper only yield the logos of company sponsorships. Park closes his fingers around a readied glass of champagne and raises it for his first sip. The brochure has a section highlighting the museum’s main collections upstairs. A frown possesses his mouth before he flips another page, and then—ah. There she is.

At almost the back of the little booklet, a picture shows her turned away from the camera, one arm lifted as she fixes the final touches on a painting of herself. It is a self portrait that captures the amused, curious squint of her eyes, the delicate curve of her lips. Such a creative little way to have her headshot beside the paragraph introducing her work to the world. Seonghwa’s lips lift in a smile.

He moves out of the way as more attendees crowd the champagne table, and his feet carry him absently to a quiet corner near the closed museum gift shop as he takes in the excerpt.

Estelle is a young, local student in her final year of undergraduate studies. Her work inspects the depths of femininity as if it were divine, imploring the techniques of impressionism and drawing from the emotional wells of her own lived experiences. 

To his left, a gentleman in a tailored sweater hums and shows the pamphlet to his friend, another wealthy patron in an obnoxious suit meant to look like Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

“Impressionism,” remarks the first man, tapping the page smartly.

“Ahh,” the second nods. “I was suspecting as much.”

Park takes a lengthy sip of champagne. It’s going to be a long night.

Pretentious people have begun to fill the lobby, an impressive turnout for a Tuesday night, and some filter through into the gallery while others mingle near the entrance. The volume levels increase gradually until the joyous chatter is at it’s maximum. Park spies a handful of recognizable faces, and at most offers a smile, but quickly looks away each time to make it clear he’s disinterested in conversation.

The bustling turnout is interrupted by a calm voice on a microphone, speaking over the crowd as it hushes.

“Good evening, everyone.” 

Attendees in the lobby start to move towards the source, into the gallery’s first room. Seonghwa shuffles forward, sweeping the crowd with his gaze. There’s no sign of Estelle, but an older woman in a silvery gown stands in front of a different painting, this one almost covering the whole wall. It’s a serene backdrop depicting a grassy hillside bathed in the blue of dusk, and a riverbed, at the brink of which lies a naked woman dragging her fingers through the passing wake. 

“I’d like to welcome each of you firsthand to our wonderful exhibition tonight, hosted by the city’s very own arts council in our lovely local space in this historical museum setting. I am Dia Kapoor, lead curator here at the SAM. It’s not every day we have the opportunity to highlight local artists with this degree of expertise, and especially not ones young enough to be my granddaughter.”

The woman smiles as a chorus of soft laughter murmurs up.

“Before I introduce our young master, I’d like to take a moment to thank our invaluable patrons and supporters, who have made it possible for the city’s arts coalition…”

Seonghwa’s eyes drift lazily over the crowd as he downs the last of the champagne. He hesitates at first, and then decides he’s not feeling warm enough yet, and slips silently out into the lobby to find another glass.

When he returns, the speech isn’t quite over, and Dia Kapoor is still listing names of people who probably only contributed to get some sort of tax cut. Despite his disdain, he joins the polite applause when she’s done glazing the pretentious folk.

“With that, I would love to introduce our little star. She’s an undergraduate in her final year of fine arts studies, born in the capitol hill district, and a recent recipient of the Young Masters Scholarship for her impressive collection of portraits. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce...”

Seonghwa’s heartbeat slows all the way down as he finally spots her—a swath of satin draped over a slender form, hair pulled back into a relaxed knot on her nape, decorated by a hairpiece that seems to glitter with dangling crystal details under the museum lights. Her smile is beaming, her cheeks flushed and eyes dancing as she turns and gives a small bow to the room full of people.

She accepts a polite hug from Dia, who passes the mic into her hands before stepping down and joining in on the applause that greets her.

Estelle laughs softly, her posture tense but upright, free hand smoothing down her dress as if to ease out the nerves. Her own resemblance to the women in her paintings is hard to miss, and in the gorgeous fabric hugging her chest, draping her waist and hips, falling to her feet, she matches their visage as if she had stepped out of one of the paintings herself.

He’s never seen her quite like this. Done up, as it were. Her eyelids glimmer with a fine dust that catches the lights, and her lips are coated in something that makes Seonghwa’s mouth water. He hardly remembers to move, feeling almost deaf to the world as he rushes out a final few claps along with everyone else before the room falls quiet again.

“Hello, everyone, I’m Estelle,” she says softly.

Seonghwa lets out a soft, silent breath. 

“It’s great to be here. Thank you Dia, for the lovely introduction, thank you to the museum sponsors, and to my wonderful mentors—and of course, thank you to each of you for showing up to support my creative endeavors.”

She pauses, smiling as she sees several people nod their heads in approval. 

The alcohol is definitely warm in Seonghwa’s belly now. He must look a little stupid, as the first rush hits his head, staring from the back of the crowd, a dazed idiot with stars in his eyes.

She’s up there, conducting a group of rich people like it’s nothing. She’d be damn good speaking to a lecture hall, with the captivating nature of her voice, albeit her appearance is a little distracting—or perhaps a factor of motivation to listen in. Or maybe it’s the champagne.

It’s definitely the champagne. Seonghwa glances around for a place to deposit his half empty glass. It’s not that he’s a lightweight, it’s just he hasn’t eaten anything since lunch and he’s a little high strung from the last minute decision to attend. He shouldn’t have come, not if he’s just going to stand here thinking foolish things about how good she looks or how her melodic voice carries over a crowd.

He’s mentally cursing himself as he ducks from the room, quietly thanking an attendant back in the lobby who offers to take his glass. 

When he reenters the room, she’s explaining the piece behind her on the wall.

“…Really, in spirit, the sapphic nature of the piece is a reflection of the—“

Seonghwa is looking at the painting, admiring the details, the color choices, the craftsmanship, when she stutters. His eyes flick back to her, listening intently, but suddenly the room seems to shrink to half its size when he finds himself looking directly into her widened eyes.

“Um. A reflection…” she recovers quickly, blinking several times and glancing at other people instead, “of the ways in which feminine figures have been quietly admired for centuries.”

She gestures behind her, regaining her smile.

“Thus, I give you… my first solo show, In the Reeds.” 

A round of applause follows, and guests surge forward into the exhibition, a handful crowding around Estelle herself.

Seonghwa filters past, hands sliding into his pockets. He avoids looking at Estelle as he goes, allowing his gaze instead to wander from wall to wall, admiring the gallery along with everyone else. He feels way too hot in his suit jacket, and twice starts to stray back toward the exit, making endless mental excuses to leave now, before spotting another painting he’s never seen before, each time ending up in front of the work and admiring the hell out of it.

Estelle is watching him migrate around the exhibition, frustrated herself to be caught up in polite engagements with patrons and investors—conversations she should be over the moon about. All she wants is to slip away and get a word in with Park.

Dia, by her side, executes flawless networking discussion, casually bringing up Estelle’s content turnover and reliability, along with how pleasant it’s been to work with her.

“If you like these, you should see her forest collection,” Dia teases, and the handful of city aristocrats coo their admiration.

Estelle’s cheeks hurt from laughing and smiling and uttering thanks. Eventually, she has enough. She touches Dia’s arm. 

“You know, I might walk around a bit before the hour’s up,” she says softly.

“Of course!” Dia beams. “That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Dia,” Estelle nods, truly grateful, already turning to walk away.

It takes a bit of wandering, but she finds him in the back of the gallery looking at one of her smaller works.

In the painting, which is only the size of a notebook, water swells over the curve of a hand.

She joins him silently, at first not sure what to say.

He feels a presence, of course, and then a familiar scent hits his nose and he swallows hard. 

“Well done,” he utters, voice soft and low and sincere.

She doesn’t acknowledge the praise, even if it twists pleasantly in her gut. “You came.”

“You asked.” 

She glances at him, noting his stiff posture. “The champagne is imported. Want to try some?”

He can’t of course admit that he’s a glass and a half deep, so he just nods, turning to stroll back through the crowds, this time by her side.

“Are you stuck here until nine?” he asks conversationally as they walk, daring to look at her. He notes the way people glance at her as they walk and makes a conscious effort to appear more relaxed at her side. It’s not like anyone knows what he’s thinking. He’s just here as her supportive professor.

She sighs. “Yes. The next hour will feel like five.” 

Two more glasses of champagne are procured. When he finally turns to her, she is surprised to see him offer a small smile, lifting his glass. “To your certain post-graduation success.”

She’s not sure she’s ever smiled at him in the way that she does now. She lets their glasses clink, and then savors a slow sip.

“Walk me through,” he smirks. “Pretend I’m an investor.” He doesn’t know why he’s bidding for more time with her in such a space, just that she looks more comfortable now than she did with Dia and the potential patrons. It stirs a strange feeling in his chest.

She sighs, glancing around, and her eyes settle on a tall, elongated painting meant to look like a flowing tapestry. “This way, then,” she motions, flashing a playful, show-worthy smile.

Seonghwa almost snorts, but follows her without hesitation back into the room full of attendees. 

As she talks, he starts to realize something has shifted. Perhaps it’s that they’re closer in age to each other than almost everyone else in the room, or perhaps it’s just being off-campus that has lifted some sort of tension. Seonghwa is inclined to continue blaming the champagne, but he forgets entirely about the glass in his hand as he listens to her give playful pitches. She’s truly unlike the other undergraduate students he works with—has definitely found her place as a creator, at the very least. It’s refreshing, given the swarms of passionate burnouts he encounters on the regular. 

Estelle is surprised to find herself enjoying the evening. Twice, she earns a laugh from him, a sound she’s never heard, unless you count the dry, sarcastic excuse of a noise he emits when he’s fed up.

As the hour draws to a close, people begin to make their goodbyes. Estelle finds herself being drawn away to entertain individuals who spout praises, each time expecting the professor to drift off, to take the excuse of her distraction to leave. At every chance, however, he’s instead hovering nearby at the next painting, pretending to admire it once again while he listens to her navigate polite yet shallow conversations.

Eventually, only a handful of non-employees remain. She glances to where Seonghwa is taking in the wall-sized masterpiece, her eyes lingering for a moment on the way his suit frames his shoulders. 

She steps a bit closer to ask the question on her mind. 

“Why’d you come?”

A bit of resignation passes over his features, soon replaced with a smirk. “To support my student,” he says, the answer far too mechanical to not be rehearsed.

She holds his eyes, and swears a bit of amusement flashes there, but only once. At last, she shakes her head, a smile pulling at her mouth. “Are you doing anything after this?”

Seonghwa’s cocky expression drops. “What?”

Estelle’s eyes squint in amusement. “Are you doing anyth—“

“I heard you,” he blurts, frowning.

Just then, Dia calls out, saving the both of them from the dangerous conversation.

Estelle gives him one last look, then turns to join the remaining people in the lobby, including the museum attendants, who have begun to clean up after their guests.

Seonghwa takes a shuddering breath and tosses back the champagne, then goes to deposit his glass back in the lobby. He nods his thanks to the nearest attendant, then straightens his jacket and makes his way outside.

It has stopped raining, but the misty air hits him like a wall of ice, and he exhales roughly as his hands slide into his pockets. Should have brought a coat.

A few stragglers make their way hurriedly to cabs on the curb and down the sidewalk to their own vehicles. Seonghwa vaguely wonders if Estelle has a ride home, or where home even is, for her. Then he chides himself for the consideration. She’s a student.

“Goodnight!” Dia’s cheerful voice pulls him from his thoughts. “We’ll run up the totals first thing in the morning, and I’ll give you a call. Well done, truly—you were great out there, Estelle.”

Estelle is beside herself. “I’m so grateful! I’ll swing by to help with everything first thing.”

“Not even necessary, hon. Get out of here, go celebrate!”

Seonghwa turns to catch sight of Estelle embracing the woman, exchanging an ecstatic thank-you-and-goodbye before breaking away and starting down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. 

Her hand comes up to her forehead as she peers toward the clouds, low-hanging and reflecting the peachy glow of the city. Then she wraps her arms around herseld, dips her head, and lets out a laugh, a sound of utter joy, before starting down the street at a half-jog in her little heels.

Seonghwa’s heart twists pleasantly at the noise. He at first hesitates, then curses and breaks off into a run after her. “Estelle—wait!”

She spins around in surprise, pausing mid-stride to allow him to catch up. 

“I thought you left,” she blinks.

“Do you need a ride?” He blurts it without thinking. 

She stares at him for a moment. When she opens her mouth, he quickly interjects.

“Or at least let me get you a cab. You look like you’re freezing.”

A smile breaks out over those cherry lips. “I’m housesitting for a friend. His place is just a short bus ride away.” She pauses, glancing at her shoes, and then at him. “Are you parked nearby?”

“Yes,” he says, a little too quickly. He then slides off his suit jacket and, in a modest flourish, drapes it over her bare shoulders.

She’s flustered, but nods. “O-okay.”

He nods back. “Okay. Um, yeah.” He points. “This way.”

He finds his hand at the small of her back, but as they start walking, he quickly lets it fall, sliding it into the pocket of his trousers. 

She takes note of his hunched shoulders. He’s cold. The observation makes the gesture feel that much warmer, and she feels a little dizzy inhaling the faint scent of cologne clinging to the suit jacket. 

“Quite a turnout,” he comments, mostly to appease the growing tension.

“Yeah,” she breathes, walling back an onslaught of emotions. The night has gone overwhelmingly well. “Dia’s a magician, that way.”

“How do you know her?”

“She taught a class on printmaking my freshman year, before she got this job.”

Seonghwa hums. “I’d leave teaching for a curator job too.”

Estelle laughs. “Is teaching not your passion?”

He bristles, not expecting the conversation to turn to him. “I—well, I love it, but…”

“You have a soothing voice,” she murmurs. “One you can’t help but listen to.”

As Seonghwa hoists open the door to the parking garage, he is surprised to find her avoiding his eyes, her cheeks tinted pink. He decides to ignore it, for now, but then quietly wonders what he can do to make the color deeper. Several ideas come to mind.

Once they reach his car, Estelle has to swallow back a choked noise. It’s nice. She recovers as he fumbles in his pocket for his keys, a bit of panic flashing across his face when he doesn’t find them in his pants.

She stifles a laugh, sliding the jacket from her shoulders and holding it out to him, giving the garment a shake that reveals the soft clink of metal inside its pocket.

He exhales, eyes darting to hers as a smile lifts one side of his mouth. When he finally fishes out the key fob, he steps to the passenger side and lifts open her door. 

“Such a gentleman,” she teases as she slides onto the leather seat.

There is a moment of silence after he shuts the door, in which she feels like her heart is about to thud out through her ears. Holy shit. His car is nice. She’s in his car.

But the moment is brief, and soon he’s swinging into place behind the wheel, passing her his phone. 

“Put in the address,” he commands softly.

She types fluidly, fingers flying over the keys. Glancing sideways at him, she then baits, “Don’t you know how unethical Apple is as a corporation?”

“Oh, and Samsung is much better, I’m sure,” he smirks, buckling his seatbelt. The map pulls up on the car’s dash screen a moment after he presses start. 

The purr of the engine is almost silent, and Estelle navigates smoothly to another app on his phone, holding the device closer as she types away, her heart rate increasing.

“Looking for something?” he raises an eyebrow, reaching for his phone.

“There,” she declares, shoving it into his hands. She’s opened a music app.

His frown softens. It’s obvious it wasn’t the only thing she was doing—she thinks she’s sly, but he can see the little indicator at the top of the screen giving her away—she’d had his messages open. She must have texted herself, as a way of putting herself in his phone. 

He smirks and pushes the device back into her hands, feigning ignorance. “Want to DJ, huh? Go for it.”

“Oh, don’t put that on me.”

He smirks, navigating the car up through the concrete maze towards the street. “I’m okay with silence.”

She sighs and stares at the screen, then reluctantly types something in.

As the first notes start to play, Seonghwa hums and leans back in his seat, his smirk broadening.

The sound makes Estelle’s stomach turn over. “What?” she asks flatly.

“Is this something you’re playing because you think I’ll like it, or because you like it?”

She hesitates. “Why can’t it be both?”

He laughs softly, twisting the wheel to pull out into the open road. Rain patters softly on the windshield. 

Estelle sighs softly, staring out the passenger window for a while. As they near the section of the city her friend lives in, she finds herself forming more questions. The expensive car was a surprise, and she wonders what else she can discover about him. “What side of the city do you live on?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and keeps his tone measured when he does. “I don’t live in the city.”

“You commute?”

“Mhm.”

“From where? Bellevue?”

He laughs. “Wrong direction.”

“Sammamish?”

A shake of his head makes her fold her arms. 

“Tacoma?”

He’s amused. “I take the ferry sometimes.”

Her eyes widen. “Nuh uh. Bainbridge?”

His silent smile confirms the guess.

She gapes. “How the hell do you afford property on Bainbridge? As a professor, no less?”

He winces. Suddenly, the questions are a lot less appealing. “Got lucky,” he mutters softly.

But she keeps pressing. “Rich parents?”

His hands tighten on the wheel. His laugh is bitter and flat. “No.”

She falters. 

The street is mostly empty when they pull up, but Estelle points out a garage entrance, which Seonghwa gratefully directs the vehicle towards.

The hum of the engine dies as Park turns off the car, leaving them in utter silence.

Several beats pass. Estelle is hesitant to get out, feeling a strange tension in the car. 

“Will you be in class this week?” he asks, his voice much lower than necessary.

She nods, finding a breath. “Yeah.”

He gestures vaguely upwards, toward the building above them. “Your friend… are they a student also?”

“He graduated last year,” she says, then follows with, “his place is pretty nice. If you, um.”

He blinks, stunned she’d dare. “Um?” he prompts, not sure if he’s impressed at her gall or judgmental of her unspoken offer to bring a stranger into someone else’s home. Still, the thought is like bait. Hook, line, and…

“You want to come see it?”

…Sinker.

He looks at her, assessing with lips thinned into a line. He knows how this goes. He should say no.

“You can say no,” she folds her arms, looking back with clear anxiety in her features, despite how she tries to hide it.

He glances her face over, up and down for a moment. “Sure.”

Before rationale can intervene, he’s climbing out of the car and following her to the elevator, the carlock echoing a chirp through the parking garage as if to bid them both a good night.

She stands on the opposite side of the elevator, which he finds entirely too amusing. His own hands slide into his pockets as he watches hers tremble a little on the floor buttons.

“How long are you housesitting for?” he asks calmly, feeling something sinister curl in his gut.

“Just the week.” She swallows. “He’s in… Los Angeles, I think? Maybe Anaheim.”

“For work?”

She nods, awkwardly rubbing her arm. 

He almost laughs. It’s like all the confidence left her the moment she stepped out of the car. A bit of silver glints on her wrist, a bracelet he’d caught sight of earlier in the evening, now a good excuse to touch her. He reaches out to gently grab her palm, making a sigh at how cold her skin is. He pretends to admire the bracelet on her wrist, his fingers tracing an enticing web down the curve of her knuckles.

“This is pretty.”

Against her will, goosebumps rise all the way up her arm.

“It was a gift,” she mutters, swallowing thickly.

The elevator dings to announce their arrival, and Park smirks as he watches her gain an ounce of conviction, her fingers closing down around his. She pulls him toward the apartment door. With each step, Seonghwa’s impulses grow heavier, his eyes darker and more weighted.

It’s nice inside the rented space, albeit relatively nondescript. Minimal. Definitely the home of a bachelor who’s never around. The furniture is all impersonal, like it was included in the lease, but the apartment has these gorgeous floor to ceiling windows to make up for it.

Estelle is already slipping into the kitchen, releasing his fingers to instead lift up a bottle of wine. Her gaze finds his, hopeful and questioning, like her wobbly little smile.

Seonghwa slides off his jacket with an amused glint in his eye, draping the garment on the back of a barstool. “At least show me around first,” he chastises, his tone playful.

Estelle huffs and sets down the bottle. “Fine. Follow me.”

Her nerves start to simmer to a manageable state as she leads him through the kitchen and succeeding open living room, but then he starts to roll up his sleeves, peering around with minimal interest, and she suddenly can’t stop thinking about his exposed forearms.

“Kitchen, living room, dining space… first bathroom’s next to the laundry, down that way…” she gestures across the room, then heads the opposite direction, down a hallway. “He has his own little office space in here,” she pauses, flicking on the lights.

Seonghwa suddenly understands how she had self-justified inviting him into the apartment, for reasons other than the achingly obvious. On the desk against the far side of the room are blueprints of some kind, detailing the interior of a tower. They are not unlike his own drawings.

“Your friend’s an architect,” Seonghwa raises his brows, not moving from the doorway. Adjacent to the drafting table is also an expensive-looking gaming setup, with obnoxious, colorful LEDs. “And… a gamer?”

“He’s in Socal working on a site for Sony right now,” Estelle nods. “I’m here a lot lately because he leaves so often.” 

A strange feeling tugs at Seonghwa’s gut. He narrows his eyes. “You must be pretty close.”

She shrugs and turns off the lights, moving on down the hallway.

The evasion of the subject does not go unnoticed. Park’s jaw twitches, an unnamed feeling stirring in his gut. 

“Closet, balcony, second bathroom… and…”

There’s an open door that she ducks into, not bothering to turn on the light this time. The city gleams from a large window on the wall farthest from the hall, illuminating the space just enough.

Seonghwa follows her quietly inside, vaguely aware of a couple other things in the room—the dim silhouette of a dresser, a door which enters into a deep closet, a full-length mirror, a king size bed—but his eyes are on her. 

Estelle stands in front of the window, silhouette outlined by the glow of the downtown skyline. The air stills and turns warm just behind her, the only indication of his closeness in the quiet of the room.

She exhales slowly. 

He considers leaving, but the thought is little more than a sorry excuse to quell his dying voice of reason.

“Estelle,” he murmurs, and feels strangely satisfied when her shoulders tense. As if to soothe her worries, his fingertips brush the hair from the nape of her neck. A rush of weakness floods his body at the scent of her perfume.

She hardly breathes as her hair is moved over one shoulder, pulse racing now. She was going to say something about the city out the window, about the clouds or the evening or the rain or anything, but the thought has vacated her mind now, along with any other rational notion.

“You did well tonight.”

There it is. His praise. Warm enough to pool in her lower belly.

He continues, “You should be proud of yourself.”

Seonghwa narrowly avoids letting out the strangled noise clawing its way up his throat as his fingers finally skim the seams of the dress that’s been driving him batshit all evening. Finding themselves on her waist, his hands slide fervently down the slope of her hips, pausing there, and then he lets out a shaky breath and lowers his mouth to her ear.

“I… really like this dress on you, Estelle.” Park pauses. “It’s pretty.”

The statement is innocent enough on its own, but his mouth is hot against her lobe. Estelle sputters a weak laugh.

He can feel the way her stomach constricts against his fingertips, and can’t help smiling. When she puts both hands to the back of her dress, fingers fixing onto the zipper, his heart begins to thud.

“Let me,” he insists softly, acting on impulse now.

She can feel the coolness of the air as the zipper glides quietly down, her hands clenching uselessly at her sides.

Seonghwa drinks in the curve of her spine for a moment, itching to reach under the fabric and shell it away from her body, but instead he puts his palms calmly back over her hips on the outside of the satin.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, his voice a little more gruff than before.

At this, she hesitates.

When she seems reluctant, he lifts the weight of his palms from her hips, skimming the touch lightly up her ribs, tracing invisible patterns while the tip of his nose grazes her earlobe. His voice comes out softer, a little broken. “Please.”

His every touch is meant to soothe, but it just makes her feel taut with tension. Slowly, and with measured breaths, Estelle turns, keeping her eyes lowered. 

His head ducks to speak just over her mouth. “Can I help you take this off?”

“You’re asking?” she chokes out. This is not how she thought this would go.

“I’m asking,” he confirms, something warm in his tone.

She nods, grabbing at the dress where it bunches heavy on her hips for a moment. His touch is feather light, coaxing the satin cords from the slope of her shoulders, gliding the fabric down and away from where it hugs the swell of her breasts. She’s breathing heavier, and his eyes drink in the rise and fall of her chest, taking his time in allowing the dress to drape below her waist. Briefly, his tongue flicks out to run over his lower lip. There’s nothing underneath the top of the dress, leaving her skin fully exposed. She’s a vision.

Gentle thumbs wedge between her skin and the remaining layers of the dress, sliding it down until it clings to her hips. 

He meets her eyes and holds the stare, as if making room for her to object while his hands ease the elastic of her underwear over her thighs. Clinging to the weight of the dress, soon all her clothes fall.

As they hit the floor, her jaw clenches briefly. He doesn’t hide the way his eyes path out her skin, the same way an artist reads a subject before beginning to draw. With a tiny breath, she regains her nerve and reaches up to grasp his tie.

Park allows her to undress him while his palms wrap around her waist, not gripping, just touching. When he gets impatient, they tighten slightly to pull her closer.

The motion makes her breath hitch. She swallows, unable to look at his half-lidded gaze. Instead she asks softly, “Did you know any people at the reception?”

His pulse quickens as she frees the knot in the tie and moves to his shirt buttons, not missing the way her fingers fumble. She’s nervous. Talking about the show, at a moment like this. It’s adorable. 

He doesn’t have any interest in discussing art hounds around the city, but answers her anyway. “I knew some of them.”

As his hands slip down over her hips, her teeth sink into her lip, and he has to bite back a frustrated noise.

Silent now, she continues to take apart his clothes. She shifts from one foot to the other as his skin is slowly revealed, face warming at the defined lines of his torso. Around his neck, gradually being revealed under each button, is a silver chain, at the end of which rests a solid star pendant. She eyes it with interest, fingers skimming briefly over the metal as his shirt comes fully apart.

He forces his own hands to lift from where they touch her, peeling the garment from his toned shoulders. His lips curl in amusement at the way she stares at the necklace. 

“I like stars,” he supplies, then unbuckles his belt.

Her face floods with color at the clink of metal. She steps back and allows the edge of the bed to meet the back of her knees, then sinks down slowly. With a voice just above a whisper, she says, “My name means star.”

He laughs, unable to keep the fondness from his tone. “I know. So does mine, dove.”

The pet name is foreign and much softer than any she’d expect. The whole exchange, really, is much gentler than she had anticipated.

She finds her fingers curling into the sheets as he parts her knees with his own. The button of his slacks is freed, and then each tooth of his zipper causes an excruciating silence to build.

Her heart starts to thud in her ears. “Seonghwa,” she swallows.

The edge in her voice makes his movements falter. He pauses in removing his clothes and lifts his fingers to her neck, gliding his thumb underneath her jaw to tilt her head up, searching her expression. 

“Something wrong?”

He asks it quietly, those thoughtful eyes regarding her with careful patience. He’s wondering if it’s all too real for her now. There’s an element of their whole dynamic that doesn’t exist here, in the confines of a space that doesn’t belong to them, away from potential intruders, far from the tension of the academic atmosphere. If she doesn’t want this, he’d understand. 

But she stares up at him with a deepening blush, clenching her fingers into the duvet on either side of her hips. “Why are you being so… gentle?”

He tilts his head, caressing the curve of her jaw, the slope of her throat. “Do you want me to stop?”

Estelle flusters. “N-not necessarily. I just—usually you grab me. Push me around. I thought that when we were alone, you’d be… doing… more of that.”

He hums, picking up one of her knees to drag her closer to the edge of the bed, a subtle reminder that he’s fully capable of having her however he wants.

“I will if you want.” A pause, and a smirk. “I’d enjoy making you squirm... but we’ll go at your pace.”

Her words come a little too quickly. “It’s fine. This is nice.”

But her certainty trails off as he leans closer, his nose grazing the side of her neck. Seonghwa’s lips graze the dip between her throat and shoulder in the ghost of a kiss, and then a little higher, as his warm palms slide back over her body, one curling around her waist and the other under her thigh. 

She’s a little dizzy when his mouth finds hers, heavy and hot-breathed. 

“I’m going to take my time,” he half-groans, suddenly hoisting her closer, up off the mattress as it dips under the weight of his knees. “But I can still be rough with you, if you want.”

He hoists her easily to the pillows before his hips sink down between her thighs. His mouth crashes against hers, this time more insistent.

A small whimper slips from her throat, and he swallows it like a man starved. His kisses grow desperate and weighted until she has a thorough taste of his tongue. He was already hard when he climbed on top of her, and now he’s having a hard time not grinding into her hips, laid out so pretty beneath his own. 

“Estelle,” he whispers, tearing away to take ragged breaths. “I need you to say this is okay. I will not do this unless you tell me, out loud, that you’re okay with this.”

“Please,” she blurts, tensing up underneath him, hands grabbing at his belt loops like she’s afraid he’s going to pull away. “It’s okay. Please.”

The subtle shift of her thighs around his own makes him groan, his head dropping to her shoulder as he clenches his teeth. “We can stop at any point.”

“Green,” she pleads, squirming a little against his hardened cock. “God, don’t stop.”

He exhales slowly against her skin. She wants this. She’s begging for it. He’s practically powerless to stop now. 

It’s as if a switch flips.

His fingers flex against her waist, and then drag harshly to her hips, pinning her down with a shove.

“Fine,” he grits, lifting to catch her mouth with his own. He taps her thighs with two fingers and growls onto her tongue, “Wider.”

She arches into his touch and does as she’s told, gasping as he jerks down his remaining clothes in one impatient tug. Where she expects his swollen cock to land, though, his fingers curl instead, making her gasp.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he utters, kissing his way down her neck. “Have you been thinking about me since the reception?”

Her hips stutter as his fingers swirl the moisture between her legs.

“I-I uh—“ she garbles, but he doesn’t wait for an answer.

“I’d be willing to bet you’ve thought of me like this at least since you last brought those drawings to my office. Am I right?”

She lets out a gasp as he shoves one finger inside. “Oh–oh my god–“

“Answer me,” he scolds, dissatisfied with her reaction. He sets a brooding pace with the tip of his finger.

Her lashes flutter as she struggles to keep up with the sudden bobbing of his wrist. “Y-yes,” she chokes, voice full of breath. “M-many times.”

He hums, curling his finger as he draws it back, almost leaving her entirely empty, only to add a second digit. She starts to moan, but then the pad of his thumb presses harshly into the swelling bud of her clit, and she cries out instead.

His voice darkens, calm and dangerous. “Do you touch yourself to those thoughts?”

The question implores a straightforward yes or no, yet she struggles to respond, panting out a weak whine.

Disappointed, he lifts his thumb from her sensitive nub. His palm starts to smack her slippery cunt, fingers doting pressure deeper inside yet depriving the friction from where she really wants it.

“Yes,” she gasps out, writhing.

It’s the answer he wanted, so he slows down, as if to allow her to catch her breath. He can tell he’s awakened a plethora of sensations just by the way her thighs try to close, her back arching off the sheets. Her poor body is clenching on his fingers already. 

“That’s very naughty, thinking of your professor like that.”

He drags himself up into a sitting position to watch the way her body contorts just from the touch of his fingers. It’s beautifully pathetic. With a sigh, he withdraws his fingers and leans back, eyes grazing over what a mess she is already.

She shudders at the emptiness, a conflicted expression washing over her features. He twirls shapes into her thigh with her own slick.

Park’s smirk is taunting. “Show me.”

Her eyes find his, hazy and blinking. “Wh-what?”

“Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me.”

At first she swallows, a refusal making its way to mind, but obedience wins over. She inches her fingers down her stomach, every move full of hesitation.

He tracks the slow crawl of a movement, his palm easing up her thigh and tracing shapes, admiring the swell of her hips.

“It’s alright, I think about you too, ” he admits. “Go on, show me what feels good.”

Her hand slowly sinks between her thighs, and as she begins to touch that poor, pink slit, she has to fight to keep her knees open, trembling a little under his scrutiny. “You… you do…?”

His eyes fill with heat as he watches her fingers work, paying close attention to the rhythms and patterns in her touch.

“Good,” he avoids her question, tilting his hip to one side, propping himself up on the sheets by his elbow.

“What do you think about?” she asks, all in a breath. She’s not going to let this go.

He sighs, lifting his hand to tease and caress her breasts while she continues to pleasure herself. “You really want to know?”

Her stomach clenches at the sensation. She nods and whimpers, hips squirming.

Seonghwa hesitates, then shakes his head. Curious thing. His eyes find hers, calm but piercing. 

“Sometimes I imagine you’re bent over the desk in my office. Or on my lap in a chair. Other times… I think of you like this. On your back, a bit of a mess already.” 

The way his voice carries is akin to his lecturing drawl. She’s never going to be able to act normal in his class again.

Her little movements grow more intentional as she pictures each setting. A small mewl escapes her throat.

“Only, in these fantasies,  you’d be in my bed.” His lips curl into a smirk. “Pliant, needy, soaking wet… among… other things.”

Her breathing has grown imbalanced. Having seen enough, he gently guides her wrist out from between her thighs to rest in the pillows on the side of her head. The other soon joins it.

Estelle feels like she can’t think. Under the spell of his slow and intentional actions, she exhales briefly. “Other things…?”

Park’s smirk is wide, creasing on one side. His body lifts slowly back over hers, like he’s decided he’s had enough waiting.

Her pupils dilate as his fingers move to curl down around his stiff, aching cock, the simple touch making him twitch. He drags his fist up and down the length slowly, twice over, before lowering his hips and pushing her thighs so far they stretch almost unpleasantly.

Seonghwa’s words come out as a sigh, so close now that his breath is warm against her ear. “I’d tie your wrists. Maybe your thighs, too. Have you bound up against the headboard, spread out just like this, so you couldn’t do anything but watch.”

She shudders, and in turn, he chuckles softly, reaching down to notch his throbbing tip at her entrance. 

The contact makes her entire body constrict. Another quiet laugh of his fans out across her skin, and then he’s kissing along the side of her neck, his other hand curling over hers where it lies helplessly against the pillow. Once their fingers are threaded tightly, he exhales, giving them a squeeze.

“Your drawings…” Seonghwa sighs. “At the beginning, they made me upset. It felt like you could see straight into what I wanted to do to you. But when I realized you were curious…” he trails off, chuckling darkly.

She bites back a whimper.

“Arch your back, Estelle.”

He says it without room for argument, and she listens as if prompted by second nature.

“Good girl.”

There is no hesitation in his sinking thrust. She takes him in easily, slick with arousal as she is, but it doesn’t stop the sweet little cry that bursts from her mouth. Her body clamps down around him, fluttering at the sensation.

He groans deep and low. A heat washes over her as she watches his eyes close and a vein pulse on his throat. His hips push into hers without drawing back, forcing her to adjust to the feeling of being stretched.

For a moment, it’s just the two of them breathing before Seonghwa’s resolve completely crumbles. 

“Fuck,” he growls, rolling his hips.

She chokes on air at the movement, thighs trying in vain to close.

He musters a weak grin, completely lost to the way she feels, wrapped tight around him, her legs trying to shut out the sensation.

“You’d be completely bound,” he continues, speaking in no more than a gravelly whisper. “All you could do was take whatever I give you…”

He recedes slowly, then stuffs her again with a decided shove that makes her body tighten in a steeper arch. 

“…And feel. Every. Fucking. Inch.”

His hips snap with each word. At each punishing thrust, she emits a choked and desperate sound. 

“Seonghwa,” she pants after regaining a bit of breath, eyes wide and dazed.

He doesn’t stop or slow, overcome with a sense of possession. Those slender hands brace on her inner thigh, pinning her open as he pumps his hips at a steady pace.

“H-hwa,” she chokes out. “F-fuck. Holy fuck…”  

Her rapidly-devolving composure only feeds into his need to have her falling apart completely for him. Every time his name comes out of those red-bitten lips, he swears he’s reaching a new tier of obsession.

“You’re taking it so good, angel,” he purrs, hips stuttering with the effort to stay buried, fighting the chase of friction.

Her lips shake, just like her thighs. He forces her knees farther apart and a sound like a sob tears up her throat.

Seonghwa grins. “Think you can take it a bit faster? Yeah?”

She has no time to gather thoughts or speak. The next moment, he is sliding a hand up to her throat.

“I won’t squeeze,” he promises, wrapping those slender fingers underneath her jaw.

She musters a choked whimper. “You can.”

The permission makes his eyes flash dangerously. “God, you’re just asking for it, aren’t you?”

His hips settle into a slow saunter, but don’t stop as he tests out a gentle compression.

She gasps pleasantly, color flooding her face. The flush is so pretty it makes him groan. He closes his fingers a little more—as far as he’s comfortable with.

When he starts to roll his hips again, her eyes roll back, and it’s like he’s a divine witness. 

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he grits, slamming his cock into her tight heat a bit faster. The wet slap of skin permeates the air with a sweet, filthy scent. With teeth clenching, his words grow a bit manic. “God, you’re taking it so good. So fucking good. So wet, honey. So tight. Tell me how it feels, angel, tell me how much you needed this.”

She’s panting, struggling for air. The corners of her eyes sting with tears.

“It—it feels so good,” she chokes out. “This—this is what I needed, I—your cock, fff-mmmh, p-please, please, faster—“

He loses pace as his hips blindly chase her request, warring with his own building pleasure as he listens to her broken and needy words.

Her little cries grow more urgent, and in response, his fingers squeeze on her throat a bit tighter. When he feels her needy cunt start to clench up, he urges himself to stop taking her so recklessly.

With a groan, he rights himself, forcibly slowing down.

As the pace falters and his hips meet her own, calm and holding steady, she actually sobs. Her body clenches, twice, a ghost of an orgasm that only leaves her more frustrated.

“Were you going to come?” he asks, his tone dangerously low.

She swallows, then nods. 

He sighs. Gentle hands scoop her waist up as his hips recede, to which she protests weakly. When he leaves her completely empty, she can feel her own arousal dripping out, and the aching need to be filled again makes her squirm.

“Hwa,” she pleads, and the nickname ruins him.

“Shhh.”

“Please,” she insists. 

A soft, tender kiss silences her. He tugs up until her abdomen is arched against his chest, lips disconnecting so he can kiss between her breasts. 

“You’re going to tell me next time you’re close,” he murmurs, his fingers finding her wrists as if to ensure they are still where he put them.

Estelle nods dizzily, her stomach tensing as the cold metal of his star pendant grazes over her belly. 

His thumbs caress each of her wrists with beguiling pressure, and it’s as if he has to force himself to pull away from her skin, a ragged sigh falling from his lips. He lifts himself up to stare down at her, drinking in the mess he’s made so far with a bit of fondness. Her lips are parted, a blush dusting her cheekbones, legs shaking minutely. 

Seonghwa sucks on his bottom lip as he takes in the state of her dripping pussy, using his thumb and forefinger to spread open her folds before sinking two fingers into her body, up to the bottom knuckle. He doesn’t move yet, just observes.

A delighted hum purrs from his throat when her thighs close around his wrist, her whimper rippling into the humidity between them.

“Oh,” he coos. “So sensitive.”

She’s squirming. It’s sinful.

“Seonghwa,” she pleads again, lifting her hips, eyes unfocused and needy.

He leans back on his haunches and gently pins her hips back into the mattress, tutting softly.

“Oh, you want something else?” he tilts his head, eyes glinting.

She opens her trembling lips, then shuts them and turns away.

“I see,” he narrows his eyes, withdrawing his fingers with a sharp tug. “Well, if you’re not going to tell me… I’ll just have to assume.” 

Before she can form another coherent thought, he’s crawling down the mattress, his warm shoulders pushing up on the back of her thighs, his arms dragging her hips down toward himself. 

Her little mewl of surprise makes him smirk, and then she’s begging him to wait, the word never fully forming on her lips.

“W-w, w-mmh, wai—“

A gasp replaces the request as his tongue slides tip-down through her tender folds, wobbling torturously on her clit. When her whole body seems to bend up like a twig about to snap, he sinks down into her aching cunt with a decisive lap, finally earning a disheveled cry. It only urges him on.

“Mmhm,” he praises, tongue curling into that tender nerve. 

It’s white-hot bliss.

Estelle’s hips buck, and she manages to stutter out, “H-holy fuck—“

But then she makes the mistake of threading her fingers into his hair. 

He stops altogether, lifting away with a filthy, sopping noise. She’s trembling when he lurches forward to pin her wrists back by her head. 

“You don’t get to touch me,” he growls, eyes raking down her expression of surprise and arousal. “You’re going to lay here and take what I give you, and keep your hands where I put them while you make those pretty sounds. Understand?”

She nods, lashes fluttering.

His expression softens a fraction. “Good.” 

The air between them seems to settle as he drinks in her expression. She dares not move, chest rising and falling quickly but faintly. After a moment, he shifts to sit up again, and his voice comes out dark and gentle.

“Turn over for me.”

She freezes for a breath, but the irritation that flickers in his eyes spurs her to motion, and she instantly tilts her hips over. She settles carefully onto her chest in the sheets, which are warm from her body, and soon he’s between her tucked knees. 

His palms find her hips, dragging her down the pillows just a tad, until the back of her thighs meet his lap. His hands rub appreciatively, almost possessively over her waist, her hips, her ass. 

“Green?” he asks quietly.

The word is a trembling sigh. “Green.”

“Then be good and keep your hands right there, where I can see them.”

She curls her fingers into the pillow that muffles her breath now, arching obediently when he lifts up her hips. 

This time he takes his time coaxing his cock back into her slick heat, praising softly at each little hitch and moan.

“Take it, take it,” he purrs once she starts clenching, impeding the slow drag deeper. 

Estelle feels like she’s going to unravel before he even starts to fuck her again.

“Juuuuust like that,” Seonghwa encourages. He exhales when his swollen cock finally bottoms out.

It’s as if she can’t get enough oxygen. As if her world is narrowing down to the feel of being full of his cock.

He fervently holds her hips down, making her take every twitch, feel every pulse.

“I want to try something that I think will feel good.” As he speaks, his fingers begin to stroke her thigh in languid shapes. “Can you sit up for me, angel?”

Estelle at first struggles to lift herself up, elbows like jelly, but he leans down until his chest is against her back and locks an arm around her ribs, his other hand settling into the pillows over hers. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, pressing a sweltering kiss to her nape.

She moans, and his forearm snakes away from her waist, fingers splayed over her stomach. He brings his hips down and tests a slow thrust , but seems to dislike the angle, and tugs her up towards him a little more until her fingertips can just barely reach the mattress. 

“Sit back,” he utters, restraint evident in his voice. “You don’t have to hold yourself up, just… yes, exactly like that, baby.” 

She’s upright now, hands braced on her thighs, his knees between her own. His fingers are splayed over her skin, pressing lightly as if to steady her, cock throbbing at the new angle. 

The sensation can only be described as full, stretched thin over his aching length. A small gasp bubbles up her throat as he pushes up into her. In an attempt to take him deeper, she arches her hips and lurches forward, one hand landing between his knees.

He groans, his hips gyrating as if on their own. “Holy fuck, you’re so tight. Can you take me like this?”

“Green,” she musters.

Seonghwa’s hands curve up over her breasts, thumbs swirling over her peaked nipples as he starts to fuck up into her. “Good,” he groans, his voice taking on a strained, breathy growl. 

When his fingers slip down and find the slippery bud of her clit, she swears she sees stars.

“Seonghwa,” she yelps, his name no more than a plea.

He’s obsessed. 

“Oh,” is all he can pant out, his hips snapping faster, each harrowing press up into her body punching the air from his lungs. “Oh, angel…”

The brokenness of his voice has her quickly losing focus. The bed seems to fall out from under her. She vaguely remembers his command to tell him when she’s close, but she can barely muster the words for it. All the teasing and repetition has her whining out in need.

“I—I’m—“ 

“Yes,” he encourages. His head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut, and then he’s ducking to suck hungry kisses into the side of her neck. “Come. Come for me.”

Her obedience surprises even herself. With a shattered cry, she shivers into an orgasm on his cock, so merciless that the world whites out around her.

Only when he has her whimpering and falling apart on his lap does he allow himself to chase release. The aftermath of her climax leaves her body quaking and weak, putty in his hands, effortlessly pliant to the demands of his pleasure. 

Somewhat dizzily, she manages to lift herself on shaky thighs and give him a better angle to fuck, the moisture completely covering his lap now, and more seeping down from between her thighs. It’s a mess.

Despite having reached the threshold of her own pleasure, each time he hits that spot that made her come, she feels like her vision is blurring at the edges and she’s being pulled back under the surface of bliss.

“Oh my god,” he pants, gripping her hips for leverage. “D-do you mind if I—?”

He’s asking. Again. She would laugh if she weren’t completely gone.

“If you don’t come inside me, I’m not showing up to class this week,” she manages. 

This does something feral to him. 

“You’re gonna be in my fucking class,” he pants, gritting his teeth and pumping harder. His fingers find her hair and give a tug to tilt her head back, his mouth against her ear again. “And you’re going to take everything I give you. Every drop.”

She gasps as he suddenly shoves her down into the pillows, the hand in her hair holding her down. Even in his roughness, there is a certain care—as if there is a limit to the level of control he will exert. As he begins pounding at a punishing pace, her soft wails reignite, and he knows he’s far too gone to stop. A state of intensity brings him to a desperate chase, and when it’s all at once too much, he buries himself deep into her throbbing cunt, making a sound he’s never heard before.

Estelle is panting, lashes fluttering at the cry he gives while his hips stutter in place. When he’s finished, his hand untangles from her hair, palm soothing over the spot, the same gentleness with which his other hand strokes her hip where he had grabbed her so tight that she is more than bound to bruise.

“Estelle,” he whispers, panting. “Oh my god, baby…”

She’s about to sit up when his body hits the mattress beside her, and then he’s pulling her shivering form into his arms, tucking her to his chest.

It’s… intimate. Warm.

Her head swims. When she gains the wherewithal to look at him, his eyes are closed, features more relaxed than she’s ever seen them. 

Eventually those dark eyes open, and as he finds her staring at his face, the corners of his pretty mouth crease in amusement. 

“You okay, star?” he asks softly, cradling her nape, his thumb moving mindlessly.

The nickname spurs something that fizzes fondly in her chest. She nods, too dumbstruck to say anything, and he just breathes out a soft little laugh at her expression.

Seonghwa plants a soft kiss to her forehead, pulling her closer. An uncertain sort of possessiveness churns now in his stomach. Already, his mind is replaying the sounds and sensations, the feeling of finally, finally doing to her a fraction of what he’s been brooding about. 

A cruel and foreboding thought occurs to him as he feels her relax in his embrace: how is he supposed to carry on like normal now? 

Even in the calm of an afterglow, depravity curls like a thorn. As Estelle’s breathing evens out, exhausted and satisfied, Park wrestles with another unfolding, tormenting notion. 

This has just been a taste. What should have sated the overwhelming urge to be at the forefront of her fantasy has only morphed into something cunning and determined.

Despite this, his hands move soothingly over her skin, the affection lulling her to sleep. He can wait, at least for now, before taking her apart again. 

“You did so well,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. “At your show, and then here with me… so, so perfect…”

She’s overwhelmed with the affirmations, but too sleepy to resist them. Warm, content, and giddy at their proximity, she easily drifts off, humming sweetly as his fingernails graze over her back.

Seonghwa stays awake for a while, gradually adjusting each of their limbs until he is able to pull the covers up over the both of them.

Although he knows he shouldn’t, he allows the jealousy to be combatted by a satisfying sort of realization—that she was screaming his name in some other man’s bed. He nuzzles into her hair and closes his eyes, content to stay like this for a long time. 

In the morning, though, she wakes up under the duvet completely alone. 

THIS WORK IS NSFW. 18+ ONLY.

tags: fem!reader, masc!seonghwa, seonghwa x reader, in which seonghwa is a camboy, mutual self gratification, slight voyeurism, suggestive language, fanbase, being a fan, classic p!rn tropes but not exactly, accidental meeting, delivery driver, nice car, being pissed off but still wanting him so bad, not actual sex, but maybe next time???, open ending

word count: 4722

part 1 of …?

THIS WAS DIRECTLY INSPIRED BY A MUCH SIMILAR WORK BY @tenelkadjowrites CALLED “Attention.”

(s/n: Lyla, your writing is always amazing and I hope you’re doing well. thank you for sharing your work with us even if for a short time <3)

enjoy ~

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

long and rough.

that’s how it was going for you. which would be great if you were talking about sex, but unfortunately, it was defining your day as a whole.

new upstairs neighbors have rendered your sleep routine a nightmare. work has been exhausting and unrewarding. you have dinner plans with friends tonight, but your car has a flat tire, so you’re running late, standing alone and waiting for the bus in the pouring rain. no umbrella. no rainboots. just a coat, four hours of sleep, and a dream.

suddenly, dirty water drenches your front as a black sports car barrels past the curb, veering too close to the sidewalk on which you’ve been waiting for the bus.

you sputter, nearly retching onto the concrete as you double back and away from the edge of the road. the rain continues to beat down.

you were cold before, but now it’s the kind that seeps into your bones. what’s worse, although you’re refusing to think too hard about it, is that you’ve now had a thorough, unpleasant taste of the street via the liquid that was lodged into your nose. 

great. now you’ll definitely be late in meeting up with everyone.

as you trudge the handful of paces back into the main lobby of your apartment, you hear your phone ding with a familiar noise that makes your stomach flutter amidst the misery of being drenched in cold water.

you hurriedly withdraw the device from the back of your jeans, grateful it hadn’t been in one of the front pockets where it definitely would have gotten soaked.

a familiar green icon boasts an announcement from a user you know well: star98.

you wait for the elevator doors to close around you before you open it, as if the privacy of the metal will better hide your guilty pleasure. 

tapping the icon takes you to his page, where a new announcement waits. 

going live in a few hours ^^

you sigh and pocket your phone, looking up at the floor numbers. you probably won’t get to watch his stream today unless he’s somehow still live after you get home from dinner with friends.

back upstairs, you remove your soggy shoes before even entering the apartment, and your clothes come off just inside the door.

as you head to change, you decide to hop in the shower for a quick rinse in warmer water, since you’re already soaked. as you’re toweling yourself off, another notification pings from where your phone sits on the counter. 

this time, it’s a photo only available to subscribers. you tap a little too quickly, and then almost drop your phone when the content loads. 

star98 likes teasing his followers with suggestive imagery. you’re admittedly the perfect target audience for this kind of content, and have been tempted to screengrab some of his pictures before. today is no exception. 

just like you, he seems to have just gotten out of a shower. the phone is in his hands, skillfully aiming the picture at a wiped gap in the foggy mirror, only revealing his naked torso and the torturous slope of his lower belly and hips. 

he’s toned in a lithe way that really grinds your gears. if you were to carve a man from stone, you’d make him look like this guy.

the fog carefully obscures his face, except his lips, which are quirked into that familiar, taunting smirk. no one on the channel has ever seen above that. he maintains his identity well, and although his eyes are always hidden, subscribers will likely get to see his bottom half later tonight.

you exhale a long breath as you put the phone away, feeling silly for agonizing over a nude that at least a hundred other people will see, if they haven’t already. 

you don’t even want to check the comments on the upload—no doubt already full of pick-me sponsor gifts and clever jokes meant to bait him into interacting. he likes to respond to the funny stuff with praise and the flirty stuff by flirting harder.

the banter is entertaining until you find yourself parasocializing. a little daydream never hurts, right? besides, you don’t even need to interact with him, because his whole channel is full of horny subscribers thinking the exact same thing, only they’re willing to comment.

sure enough, another notification signals that he’s replied to someone already. you’re not sure what the other person said, but his response is on par with the usual charm.

are you sure? i take very hot showers, jagi.

god. what you’d give to shower with someone that pretty.

if you’re going to go anywhere tonight, you’ve got to silence these damn notifications.

switching to silent mode, you toss your phone onto your bed and start the harrowing task of picking a new outfit. the one you had been wearing before, the one that had been ruined by that asshole in the sports car, had taken you far too long to select. you have a tendency to agonize over being perceived, and your every decision quickly devolves into guess after second guess.

by the time you put on a dress that feels good on your skin (but will no doubt leave you freezing later in the night), you feel like you want to cry. your stomach growls, only worsening your mood.

“fuck it,” you mutter. 

you’ve hit your limit. it’s been a difficult week. your friends will forgive you for the rain check—they’d better, given that it’s actually raining.

you send a text to the group chat to let them know you won’t make it, flopping onto the couch and bitterly opening up a delivery app. everyone else was going out for italian. you aren’t going to deprave yourself of enjoying something yummy just because the rest of your day went poorly.

as soon as the soup and lasagna combo is on the way, you tug your heavy waffle blanket off the back of the couch and curl up in its cocoon, listening to the thunderstorm outside. it’s really pouring, now. you’re feeling a little better about your decision to stay home, albeit a little guilty for flaking on your friends.

it was hard enough to make and keep friends over the last decade, so you give yourself a hard time for not always showing up. a part of you knows you shouldn’t be so abrasive on yourself—you’ve landed a calm group of understanding people. they don’t fight with each other, everyone’s funny and welcoming, and so far no one in the friend group has decided to date, which is a huge bonus in your eyes. feeling lonely isn’t new to you, but you think you’re finally in a place where you’ve begun to settle in with a group of genuine friends that you’ll have for a long time. it’s a nice feeling.

which is why you’re wrestling with yourself about not going. guiltily, you pick up your phone to switch notifications back on. your lovely friends have replied with heart emojis and well wishes and apologies that you’re missing out. one promises to pick you up next time. a small smile reflects the warmth in your heart. 

see, it’s fine.

plus, your food is here.

you hop up off the couch to meet the delivery driver, some dude named “hwa,” at your front door. 

he’s a tall man, typing a message on his phone when you answer. a beanie is perched over his damp, silver hair. the bag he passes you is speckled with raindrops. you feel a little bad for making someone endure the storm outside just to bring you some lasagna, but he doesn’t seem upset at all, his lips tucked into a bit of a smirk.

he glances up, meeting your eyes with his own, dark but warm. something about his voice strikes you as familiar, but you don’t quite place it. 

“hey. apartment 1117?” 

when he leans back to get a good look at the number above the door, you catch yourself staring at his hand, half-covered by his oversized sweater sleeve. something feels off. hesitantly, you reach out to take the plastic bag dangling from his fingers.

“thanks,” you mutter, and at the same time, his other hand lifts to send whatever he had been typing into his phone.

“no probl—“

in your pocket, the ping of that streaming app makes his eyes flick to yours, flooding with amused recognition. 

his fingers close around the bag, not allowing you to take it just yet.

a flare of awkward panic overtakes you as you realize he isn’t letting go. 

he types something else without looking at his screen, instead glancing you up and down with building amusement, taking in your bare feet, the dress you had meant to go out in, your just-dried hair. when his eyes return to yours, his thumb drops onto his screen again.

another ping goes off on your stupid app.

it takes you a moment, but soon, color is flooding your face. you jerk the food from his outstretched hand, and his laugh echoes into the empty hallway as you slam the door shut. 

for a moment, you stare in shock at the door in front of you, heart pounding to catch up with what had just happened. 

there’s no fucking way.

when you peer into the peephole, the hallway is empty, so you sink one shoulder into the door, managing a shaky sigh. he’s gone. thank god.

the food is soon discarded on the counter as you fumble to take out your phone, to check the messages—

sure enough, you have many new notifications from star98. the latest two are timestamped for just one minute ago, matching the timing of the pings.

you should know by now i like the compliments. haha

he must have been replying to some more comments on his shower picture. the next message is what really puts the nail in the coffin.

1117

confused responses are already flooding the replies, wondering if he made a typo or was giving a little hint about his channel. all you can do is stare. actually, you could delete your profile and uninstall the app and never look back, too.

but then you receive a banner from your delivery app, notifying you that you are being connected to your driver for updates on your order. it lists the number at which they will contact you. he must not have confirmed the delivery yet.

moments later, a text comes through from that very number.

just wanted to say thanks for subscribing. as you can see, it’s not my main gig, so I really appreciate it. enjoy the food 🩶

then, the delivery app tells you cheerily that “your food has arrived!” and includes a link to a proof-of-dropoff photo.

you almost don’t want to open it. 

you rate him five stars and make sure the tip has already been added, then haul your takeout to the living room. you’re only three or four spoonfuls into the warm soup when curiosity gets the best of you and you open the app again, wondering what he possibly could have sent, since it surely wasn’t any pictures of the food that had already disappeared behind the door you slammed in his face. it’s probably just a blurry photo of the hallway. perhaps it is another shirtless picture, the depraved side of your brain hopes.

when you finally bully yourself into feeling silly about making such a big deal of it, you click the blue hyperlink to find that it is a picture of him after all. the link takes you to a selfie he took in front of his car with the beanie pulled down over his eyes, his tongue protruding playfully, one hand raised in a peace sign. 

for the first time, you screenshot his picture. you hope he won’t get in trouble with his job for this.

and then, giddy and pushing your luck, you open up your messages and type out several variations of a response. 

thank you!!!!|

thanks~|

tysm! have a good night <3|

thanks. see you later 🤭|

but all of them feel like they’re ghostwritten by the people who flood his chats on the regular, so you just backspace and throw your phone to the other side of the couch. his fanservice is getting way too close for comfort.

unluckily for you, that isn’t the end of it. 

after happily distracting yourself with a belly full of lasagna and soup, you move to the cozy comfort of your bed and wrap up in your favorite weighted blanket, listening to the rain pelt the window in steady sheets. the wind starts to howl, setting somewhat of a spooky atmosphere, so you turn on a tv show for background noise while you let yourself doomscroll.

upstairs, your rowdy neighbors seem to have come home. luckily, it’s friday, which means that even if they make a ton of noise like they did the night before, you’ll be able to sleep in tomorrow morning. plus, the sounds of the storm for the most part outweigh that of the creaking and thudding on their third story floorboards.

the day seems to finally allow you to rest. cocooned in the gathering warmth under your blankets, you find yourself wandering to the photos app and admiring the screenshot from earlier. you’ll probably end up deleting it eventually —it’s not like you’ll be sharing it anywhere, and it’s kind of weird to have a guy you don’t even know in your phone. just for fun, though, you open your messages and set it to his contact picture. 

in doing so, you notice something that hadn’t crossed your mind before.

the vehicle in the selfie is a sleek black sports car. as you zoom in on the driver’s side window, the tinted glass makes it hard to tell, but you’re pretty certain you recognize the logo on the wheel. your heart sinks. you frown and save the cropped image of his contact picture, fingers flying to the keyboard.

i think you got me wet earlier. 

your text is accusatory, but as you realize the double entendre, you furiously send a follow up one. 

as you type, his response bubble appears, making you panic and type faster.

with the car from your delivery photo, i mean. i was standing at the bus stop and someone driving the same black miata splashed me with a puddle.

luckily, you get the second message out before he can reply.

the typing bubble disappears. 

you wait several moments, but nothing else happens. 

your accusation is admittedly a bit ridiculous, so you shouldn’t be disappointed, but you are. you had half-hoped for him to either argue or apologize. 

you’re settling back into your comfortable doomscroll when the streaming app announces that he’s gone live. of course. you had forgotten, he had planned to go live tonight.

it takes all of ten seconds and an internal fight with yourself before you open the degenerate app and load up the stream.

he’s in the damn car. his surroundings are too dark to make out his location, and the beanie is pulled down over his eyes. he’s adjusted the seat to its farthest position, giving the camera a good look at his thighs and the way his waist curves with the recline of the seat. one arm is draped just offscreen over the gear shift, and the other is propped against the little ledge of the driver side window, his fingers messing with his bottom lip already, which of course, is drawn to one side in that tantalizing fucking smirk.

“hello,” he greets fondly, softly. 

just the sound of his voice makes your body respond. you pull the weighted blanket up to your nose, glowering at the screen.

“wet night tonight,” he teases, reaching over to tap the glass. “been raining all day long.”

he peers through the beanie into the chat as it starts to populate, reaching up to rub his thumb over his bottom lip again. 

“yes,” he smiles, moving to pick up the phone. “it’s my car. still paying it off, but it’s the little things, right?”

he flips the camera, giving his audience a good view of his long legs and the shining mazda symbol on the wheel. his hand caresses the outer rim as he takes a deep breath and lets it out slow.

“mhm. it can go pretty fast.”

he must be reading the chat again, picking the thirsty comments to respond to. you almost open it up to type something pointed, but remain petty enough to keep your fingers to yourself for now.

“you’d think i would be smooth, but i’m actually pretty rough,” he says, amused. “…driving, i mean.”

he puts the phone back against the dash and turns the camera back around, clearing his throat and adjusting to get comfortable in his seat. 

“no, i don’t hit curbs,” he laughs. then he smirks a little. “sometimes i get close, though. too close.”

you feel like he’s taunting you directly, you just can’t prove it.

his smirk widens as the watchers continue to chatter in the feed. “oh, you ask so nicely.” he pinches his lip. “ but i might get in trouble if i were to do that for you now, don’t you think? i live in a city, so it’s not like i’m parked anywhere private.”

the praise in the chat is getting to him, though. you can tell by the way he squirms and adjusts himself in his seat. how in the hell are those hands, the ones that now skim over the seam of his jeans, the same ones that delivered your takeout just a couple hours ago?

his breath is getting a little shorter, and that smirk won’t go away. he keeps playfully steering the conversation into lighter places as the outline of his cock grows more apparent.

“so much flirting today,” he muses with a grin, tapping his lip with his forefinger. “i didn’t realize you’d like my car so much.”

he then sighs, reaching for his belt. the action makes your lower belly clench with excitement, even though you’re still beside yourself with irritation. maybe it hadn’t been him, who hit the puddle on the corner. maybe someone else had careened past you and made you swallow a gallon of streetwater. 

but how many people in your area could possibly drive a black mazda miata? you already know he was delivering food in the area.

you grit your teeth as you slip your hand between your thighs, cupping your palm over the building heat.

he’s always slow on these streams, talking while he teases off bits of his clothing. tonight especially, he seems hesitant to remove anything.

“i’m in a parked car. you’re going to get me in trouble,” he whispers, grinning under that stupid hat obscuring his pretty face. it’s the same wide pull of his lips he had fixed you with when he figured you out on your doorstep earlier. now that you know what his eyes look like, you can’t get the image of his face out of your head. how had you not realized it when he was right in front of you? you’d touched yourself to the visuals of his mouth parting and his hands grabbing at himself more times than you could count. enough times to burn their shapes and lines into your memory. even worse, the rest of his face altogether was even more breathtaking. god, you had a thing for gorgeous men.

especially gorgeous men making soft sounds as they unbutton their jeans.

his whimper comes with a lip bite. you’re aching to start rubbing your fingers back and forth, but it’s more fun if you wait until he’s got himself in his hands. he’s not going to make it easy tonight, though.

“i have a silly question,” he tilts his head back, slowly pulling that zipper down, tooth by agonizing tooth. “maybe you guys can help me. there’s this user on the channel i’m looking for who left me a nice message earlier, but all i know is that they’re associated with a number… aish, what was it…?”

your throat goes dry even before he says it.

“i think it’s one-one-one, seven.”

he grins and leans closer as the chat filters in their responses, but the smile soon fades into a dissatisfied smirk, and he leans back.

you almost feel bad for letting him down, but there’s no way in hell you’d ever type in the chat, especially not now.

“can’t find them,” he says softly, offering a shrug. “oh, well. maybe they’re not on tonight. too bad…” 

his hand slides into his jeans, and he lets out a tight groan, his wrist flicking down the waistband of his boxers. his hips lift to accommodate his shifting clothes. your heart rate stutters.

the sight of his cock always makes your clothes feel a little tight. as his hand makes the first stroke, giving everyone a nice preview of how he plans to spend the rest of the stream, a shattered sigh escapes his throat.

“i’ll try it,” he whimpers. “but this car stream isn’t going to be a regular thing, okay?”

your thighs squeeze closer as he lifts his hips to grind his length into his palm, a subdued noise bubbling up his throat. he gyrates into his circled fist for a moment before it seems to become too much, and then he’s lifting his palm to his lips, spitting thickly.

you finally let your hand move, imagining what it might feel like to have him spit on your own fingers before you touch yourself. the idea makes your thighs part.m under the weight of the blanket.

every pass of his hand makes a slick, filthy sound now. his head falls back against the reclined head rest in a moan as he pinches his thumb gently over the head of his throbbing cock, a tiny glint from the reflection of the streetlights revealing the way he spreads his own precum over the swollen surface before bobbing his wrist a bit more. 

your breaths turn to soft pants as you work your own wrist in time with his. you imagine the cold leather pressing into your knees, how you’d probably brace yourself on the door, or maybe the wheel—

“oh, fuck,” he gasps, the veins in his neck protruding as he arches against the seat, hips canting up into his hand now as ragged breaths shake his chest. he gives a desperate little cry and rips up the hem of his shirt to shove it in his mouth, giving a nice, contoured view of his abdomen in the dim light as he continues to slam his palm down the length of his pleading erection.

“s-so naughty… in the car, no less…?” he grits out from between his shirt threads, giving a weakened smile as he continues to ruin himself.

the sight of his stomach contracting makes the breath leave your lungs. you curl your fingers deeper, the waistband of your underwear straining on your wrist now as you ruthlessly keep tempo. 

he releases the shirt between his teeth as he gasps for air, and it stays bunched up over his sternum without falling to obscure his belly. 

“oh,” he whimpers, the sound so sweet, so intoxicating. a shudder passes over him as he slows down, chest heaving, fingers a little shaky as he sets a gentler pace. in doing so, he regains his breath, and gathers up a watery smirk as the rain picks up against the windshield, drowning out the softer noises.

“rain’s started up again. guess i’ll have to be louder for you, huh?” he groans, melting back into the seat as he keeps that languid pace. 

you bite the edge of your blanket, whimpering softly as the rain pounds down against your own window. 

“you ever had sex while it’s raining?” he pants. “god, it’s so good. especially when the sheets are cold—and you—“ he chokes on his own words as he grips himself a little harder, straining to keep it slow. “just take your time—ohh, mmh…”

it sounds heavenly. your fingers are slick and messy up to the knuckles now. you whimper along, letting your hips shift up a bit into your palm, enjoying the friction.

the rain slows, but a clap of thunder briefly illuminates the scene in the car as if in broad daylight for a split second, as it also does in your own bedroom.

he offers a sheepish smile. “should i stop…?”

as he gradually eases his grip on his cock, the measures of his strokes grow even slower, and shorter too, until he’s just squeezing the tip nice and slow. 

his tongue glides over his bottom lip, as if to prepare a sheen for his teeth to latch onto, followed by a low, impatient groan. he seems to be reading the chat, but it’s hard to tell.

“you don’t want me to stop,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth creasing a little. “oh, you’re not done yet?” his laughter rings out, then fades into a soothing whisper as the raindrops slow to the occasional patter. “can’t have that, can we…?”

your body aches for more, so when he spits down onto his length and starts to rub along his cock with more urgency, you squirm and let out a soft sound, eagerly picking up a pace in which you start to lose yourself. letting him control the pace from beyond the screen always brings you right up to your sweltering edge.

your head drops to the pillow as his whispers continue, and you only raise your head to look at him one last time when he mutters a string of curses and makes the leather squeak from squirming so much. 

“oh fuck, oh god… feels so good, i… ngh, ah-mmh—fuck, please, mmh, please—“ his desperate tone turns to mindless pleading, and you can hear the wet quickness with which he strokes himself, his cock no doubt throbbing and about to spill.

you fuck yourself faster, letting the sensations and the sounds carry you right over. 

he barks out one final, “fuck!” and snaps his hips up into his hand, the other flying to stifle the flow from making a mess all over his car.

as his hips settle, he pants into the quiet of the cab for several moments, tenderly spreading his release all over his raw, flushed cock, shaking a little from how sensitive he must feel.

“oh my god,” he pants, offering a shaky smile. “ah. fuck. that was so nice. thank you.”

he exhales low and sweet, then laughs.

“now i have to figure out how to clean up this fucking mess...”

his laugh is a little breathless, but good-natured at his predicament. as you lay recovering from your own orgasm, you roll onto your side, taking the screen with you. he’s reaching into the center console, withdrawing some napkins and a package of wet wipes, all the while being awfully careful not to make more of a mess.

he hums out a contented sigh. “alright, you’re a bad influence. that could have ended very poorly.” 

as he playfully chastises the chat, he’s smiling. he readjusts himself, putting all his clothes back in place. when he picks up the phone again, he holds it a little closer, readjusting his cap where it rode up over the slope of his nose a bit. 

“hmmm,” he hums, offering a small smile, too warm to be a smirk. “alright, i’ll go now. stay inside and warm, if it’s cold where you are. take care of yourself. sleep tight.”

he gives a little kiss to his fingers, then covers the camera with them, one last little service for the evening. the stream closes on that black screen.

you lay staring at it, wondering how much you really still needed this subscription now that you’d ran into the guy. maybe this should be the last time you indulge in the little fantasy. 

as you’re closing the app, letting the afterglow weigh down your wrist onto the pillow, your phone screen lights up with one last notification.

did that fix things, or should i bring you more italian food sometime to make up for it? 

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Estelle tugs her skirt a little farther down her thighs, crossing her legs in the stiff desk chair.

It’s been a full six days since she last saw him, and buried deep in the confines of her sketchbook, one for each evening, are six fresh sketches. After drawing him once, in person, she had been able to analyze his features for long enough to replicate him from any angle.

The sketches she’s made since then vary in expression and position. They are the type of drawings extracted from the depraved loneliness of nighttime, the hungry utterings of fantasy. Drawings of the sort she didn’t dare open up in public.

Seonghwa is oblivious to them. He looks focused as he drones on about early nineteenth century modernism something or other, skillfully avoiding Estelle’s hawk-like gaze. She has been trying to catch his eyes since the beginning of class, and grows more frustrated at each deliberately missed opportunity. She vividly recalls the sensation of the fabric of his trousers, chafing against her inner thighs. The smell of his closeness, like cedar with hints of tobacco and honey, the heavy heat of his gaze… but now those same eyes evade her.

She leans back in her seat, stretches. She parts her pretty thighs in hopes of a glance. Plays with her hair. Nothing she does grabs his attention.

Irritated, she flicks her 6b pencil gently off the edge of the desk, watching the professor’s face as the pencil rolls across the room.

The sound of wood rolling over concrete makes his jaw twitch. The pencil sops against his shoe, and he finishes his sentence before he finally shifts to look blankly towards its origin, right at his student in the front row. His mouth creases judgmentally, and he allows her to absorb his placid demeanor before he stoops to retrieve the utensil.

It couldn’t be more clear that his interest is depleted, or at the very least, set aside.

Her heart is in her throat when he gently places the pencil back on her desk. She shrinks in her chair a bit, feeling a little more than foolish for her vying behavior. As he moves on, hardly giving her another pass for the rest of class, she remains reserved and silent.

At dismissal, Estelle tries not to feel disappointed when she makes it all the way out the door without him stopping her. She’s not really sure what she had hoped for–a request for another meeting, some sort of scolding remark? Whatever the case, Seonghwa does not seem keen on furthering their interactions. It puts a foreboding pit in her stomach.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

The next day, Professor Park is sitting at his desk, head in one hand, eyes closed, tapping the end of his pen against the arm of the chair. Normally he would be grading, but today he has time to work on his own project—the makings of a large, spiraling cathedral, mostly impractical, but quite the sight on his gridded page.

A vital aspect to his creative process is time. Minutes to sit, to think. To envision. Occasionally his thoughts stray to other things, but the practice for him is akin to one of meditation. Silence is preferable, peace is mandatory.

When he is fully relaxed, he opens his eyes, leans forward, and starts marking points of intersection on the paper’s surface.

A knock interrupts him, jostling him so abruptly from thought that his pen narrowly misses making an incorrect mark on the page. Swearing under his breath, he adjusts his glasses and sets the tool aside.

The time is six and forty-three. He isn’t expecting anyone today, but still has over two hours before the designated office time ends. Perhaps it is a student. He hopes for any but one.

When he answers the door, it is just the custodian. Park lets out a miniscule breath of relief, greeting the woman politely. She informs him of the changing schedule—how vacuuming will be done on Fridays now instead of Mondays. Park assures her that the sound will be no problem, thanks her for her hard work, then closes himself back in his office.

Just as he sinks back into his chair, another knock sounds.

He rises again, this time less calm, his sketch graph practically glaring at him from where it sits unfinished. When he jerks open the door, he plasters the same polite smile, about to ask the custodian if there was something else, but his gaze meets the eyes of the last person he wants to see.

His smile plummets, and his gaze flattens like his voice. “Can I help you, Estelle?”

She practically flinches at his unamused demeanor. “I…” her breath dies out, giving away her lack of confidence. “I was hoping you had time to review my progress.”

She must have come straight upstairs from the studio. She’s not wearing a dress this time. Instead, she’s sporting this oversized shortsleeved button-down serving as a paint smock. Little twisted strands of frayed denim peek out underneath, presumably from a pair of shorts. Her hair is tied back, with messy strands framing her face. Her wrists and forearms have traces of color on them. In fact, most of her clothes are smeared with the oil paints too—stains that will never come out.

Park has the insatiable urge to rip the ruined smock off her hesitant figure. He keeps his expression neutral, stepping to the side and huffing an irritated sigh.

She scuttles in, retreating to the leather couch. It’s a miracle her sketchbook doesn’t brush the splotches of paint on her body and become just as ruined.

The professor’s jaw twitches, the idea of oil paint getting all over his leather office couch causing a traffic jam in his brain, but he bites his tongue.

She peers interestedly at his desk. “You’re working on something?”

He hastily rolls up the page, tucking it neatly into a poster tube, which shortly joins the array of others like it in the corner behind the desk.

“You want my feedback on your sketches,” he says, and it’s not a question.

“Right.” She doesn’t move for a second, her eyes dropping to the floor.

He watches her with a calmness bordering on impatience.

She swallows, staring at the book in her lap. Just as Park is about to say something about how he’d rather be working than waiting around, she stands up, lifts the sketchbook, and dumps its loose contents onto his desk. Six leaflets flutter out in disarray.

He makes a quiet, irritated sound, hands braced wide to keep the pages from fluttering off the sides of the desk. When he registers the images, he allows his gaze to flick from one to the next, a silence stretching out to bask in the uncomfortable air between them.

Estelle sinks into her seat, messing with her fingers. She bites that damn lip, and Park mirrors her position on his own chair. He almost doesn’t want to touch the drawings. Instead, he presses his fingers to his temples.

Six drawings, each sporting his visage, stare up at him. In one, he holds a rope in his teeth. In another, his head is leaned back and hips perched on the edge of a flimsy conference chair. In yet another, his body is twisted at the waist in some sort of snakelike posture, his eyes heavy-lidded and dangerous.

None of them are overtly explicit, but each of them carry undertones of something dark and intimate.

This situation is unprecedented for Park. He’s had his fair share of women pining for him, but never so advertly. He almost feels bad, having somehow spurred these actions from this poor, unassuming girl.

Her audacity should mean bravery, but strangely, it doesn’t seem to indicate that at all. She’s clearly nervous.

She presses her knees together and sets her fingers over them, waiting for any kind of reaction. The gesture indicates meekness, but to Seonghwa, it just looks more and more like a silver platter.

With a gaze dark as deep water, he rises from his desk. Her heavy lashes lift in surprise, watching him circle towards her, but instead of approaching, he crosses to the door.

He hoists it open, talking through his teeth. “You should leave.”

She looks crestfallen. Confused. Maybe even surprised.

After a beat of silence, she rises, not even bothering to grab her papers. The shameful exit she makes is dead quiet. It feels to Park like she should be able to hear his own heartbeat, which only gets louder as he shuts the door behind her.

Traipsing back to his desk, he lets out a ragged breath, tearing off his glasses. Both palms grab the edge of the wood so tightly that it begins to leave clean lines in his skin, indents of barely-withheld reckless intentions.

After a moment, the unease in his gut settles, and he is able to release the tension in his mind long enough to retrieve the damn sketch he had been working on before. He spreads it out overtop the indicative drawings she had left behind, deliberately covering them as to pretend they’re not even there.

But if he’s completely honest with himself, the idea alone of the pages tortures him, never mind that they’ve been left in his workspace.

She had been thinking about him. All week.

Before he can stop himself, he’s withdrawing his laptop from its sleeve in the desk drawer, opening it up to type out a simple email. The cursor blinks at the end of the simple sentence, as if daring him to send it.

These drawings are largely inappropriate.|

He works his jaw for a moment, then deletes a couple words and types more.

These drawings are unsatisfactory at best. If you have time next week, I would like to go over them with you in detail. Also, please do not come to my office without arranging a meeting time again.|

He hits send, sighing as he leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. A few moments of peace ensue.

Then, a quiet ping announces a new email. He adjusts his position in the chair, frowning when he sees it’s from her.

My apologies, Professor. I tried to email you beforehand. Why don’t we review them now? I am down in the undergrad studio. It would be no problem for me to drop by.

Irritation flares in his mind. It feels like she’s leaving a paper trail to explain away their interactions outside of class. He knows he shouldn’t encourage this behavior.

Unfortunately, I am busy at the moment. Please access the link in the syllabus to schedule a time with me next week.

But as soon as he sends it, he feels something antsy and possessive flaring somewhere deep within.

He huffs, shutting his laptop and carefully sliding her sketches out from underneath the blueprint page.

Leaving his suit jacket behind, he grabs his keys and swiftly exits the office, rushing to lock the door behind him.

Downstairs, Estelle has the undergraduate studio door wide open. Park strolls in, shutting it softly. Luckily, she seems to be the only student here after hours.

She looks up from her easel, surprise registering on her features. A blush shortly follows. As she starts to swing those pretty legs down from her stool, he stops her.

“Don’t get up.”

He stays where he is across the room, rubbing his eyes underneath his spectacles. After a moment, he loosely brandishes her drawings. “What are you doing, Estelle?”

His words come out exasperated, almost broken. She remains silent, not sure what to say, or if he even wants the truth.

“You… you cannot think about me like this,” he mutters, and as he says it, he slowly approaches, looking through the pages in his hands. “I could—I could lose my job. You could get expelled.”

She watches, wide-eyed, as he stops in front of her, holding out her work. Swallowing thickly, she reaches out to take the papers.

He doesn’t immediately let go of them. His eyes harden as he speaks. “Tell me you understand the potential consequences.”

There is a beat of silence.

“Yeah. I understand,” she mutters.

“Good.” He releases the papers, but doesn’t move, letting out a pent up breath.

Estelle deposits the drawings on the desk beside her without breaking his gaze. “Seonghwa,” she starts, her voice soft.

He bristles, just barely. His pulse quickens at the way his name sounds on her tongue.

She continues, “Let me visit you. Once a week. During office hours or otherwise.”

His scoff comes as a blow. “Are you that desperate for attention?”

She glowers back at him. “You came onto me, not the other way around.”

His hands flex at his sides. “You don’t want what you think you do,” he hisses.

At that, she goes quiet for a moment. Her voice is small when she asks, “What do you mean?”

He sucks in a breath, taking a step closer. He’s almost pleased when she recoils, both of her hands lifting to grip the edges of the stool as she moves her weight back.

He swivels his gaze upwards to her painting, completely ignoring the flustered girl in front of him. “Estelle…”

She feels her breath turn cold as his eyes move down the tall canvas. He takes in the beautiful strokes of muted blues, soft purples, sated grays… a colorful backsplash from which emerges a serene willow-rounded lakeside. His gaze calms as it descends until it lands at last on the artist at the bottom, her cheeks flushed a pale pink that pairs wonderfully with her choice of colors.

“Everything about you is fucking infuriating,” he says calmly, taking a tiny step closer. “You certainly seem to know what I want to do to you, and what you want done to you. And it wouldn’t be so terrible if you weren’t so goddamn willing.”

He doesn’t touch her, but she still trembles a little.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he growls.

“Like what?” She attempts a frown, but she’s far too flushed for it to be believable. He almost laughs.

“Like you’re waiting for me to devour you.”

He leans down, curling his fingers around the edges of her seat, his thumbs loosely brushing her thighs. A bubble of satisfaction rises in his gut when her breathing slows.

“Oh, Estelle… you have all these drawings, yet you don’t seem to know what to do with yourself, do you?”

She swallows. “I…”

Intrigue passes over Seonghwa’s expression. “You’ve never tried that sort of thing, have you? With all the fun little toys you draw?”

She is silent as a mouse.

He narrows his eyes. “Well. Are you curious?”

She’s all color, now.

He smirks and straightens up, leaning back on his hip. “Get up,” he jerks his head towards the next desk over, its surface clear of paint and paper.

Estelle nearly wobbles on her feet. She moves to the empty desk and stands facing him, with her hands behind her, clutching the desk edge as if it will steady her.

His fingers are on his tie, which he jerks free in one clean motion, holding it taut in both hands. “Turn around.”

She does, slowly, then inhales sharply as she is shoved forward, her hips meeting the edge of the desk a bit harshly. The smooth fabric of his tie twists tightly around her wrists. With each wrap, she can feel her heartbeat quicken.

“You’ve drawn this one,” he murmurs, and his breath is hot on her shoulder. When he’s done securing the makeshift binding, he moves closer, putting his hands on her hips. “Something your drawings don’t touch on, though, is something I take very seriously. You know of traffic lights, yes?”

Her brow creases in confusion. “Traffic lights? What does that have to do with—“

She gasps as his palm presses harshly into her back, shoving her down over the desk.

“If that was too much, you’d tell me, ‘red.’”

Color floods her face again. “Green, then,” she squeaks out.

“You catch on quick, dove.”

Park steps closer, his hips pinning hers, and that’s when the vulnerable nature of her position starts to really sink into her pretty little head. He grins as she exhales shakily.

“What if someone walks in?” Estelle asks, her eyes lifting to the door.

“You should have thought about that before you showed me those drawings, don’t you think?”

His hands caress her hips, lifting the paint smock, itching to push it higher. For now, he grips onto her jean shorts and gives a playful tug up on the center belt loop, smirking when she gasps quietly. “Maybe I could show you a different position for each office hour you book, hmm?”

She lets out an embarrassing sound as he rolls his hips, the denim feeling far too tight on her body.

“Look at you, so helpless and pathetic,” he mutters. “Lucky for us, they’ve arranged to do the vacuuming on Fridays from now on. Soon, you can be as loud as you need to. No one will hear you.”

She squeaks in surprise as he tugs her hips again, making enough room to unbutton her shorts.

“Green?” he grits, his blood running hot as his fingertips brush her lacy underwear.

“Green,” she confirms, almost whining out the word. The sound goes straight to his head.

Outside, the custodian turns on a vacuum that echoes down the halls and stairways. Excellent timing. And yet… something stops him.

Seonghwa takes a deep breath, letting it out slow. His fingers withdraw from the open flap of her shorts, returning to her hips. Estelle is panting softly, her heart hammering in her chest, but her breathing slows as he wedges two fingers into the makeshift binding and pulls it free from her wrists.

“I won’t—“ he clenches his fists and sighs, almost a growl. “This is not the time or the place.”

Maybe it’s the fluorescents, or the citrus cleaning agent they use on these concrete floors. He pinches the front of his shirt and tries to waft some air over his torso, taking a measured step back. His brain feels foggy. His body nearly aches.

Estelle straightens up shakily, peering nervously over her shoulder, her cheeks aflame.

Park looks agitated. He won’t look at her, adjusting his glasses. “You—you make this so fucking difficult,” he mutters.

She bristles, tugging her paint smock back over her exposed lower belly. “W-wait—Is something wrong?”

Seonghwa laughs, the sound dry and boneless. “Is something wrong…”

She just stares at him, still clutching onto her clothes.

“I’m not going to fuck a student in the undergraduate studio,” he grits out as he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. God, what were you thinking…”

She’s not sure if he’s talking to her, or himself. She swallows, feeling embarrassed. “Seonghwa,” she says faintly.

He sighs and looks up at her, not irritated, just tired. “Yes, Estelle?”

She hesitates. Then, with trembling fingers, she turns and reaches into her bag on the floor by her painting, withdrawing a piece of printed cardstock. She silently holds it out to him.

A sliver of intrigue invades his expression. He takes the flyer without touching her, maintaining a pace or so of distance.

It’s for an exhibition opening downtown. The reception is Tuesday evening.

Park peers up at her with a raised brow. “You want me to come with you to a show opening?”

“It’s mine,” she mumbles, the blush that had receded now returning to her face. “It’s customary to invite a professor or two.”

He swallows, looking back at the flyer.

“You can say no,” she says quickly.

He wants to roll his eyes, but he refrains. “I—I’ll think about it.” He slides the flyer unpromisingly into his pocket. “Good night, Estelle.”

He makes his leave hastily. Luckily, no one seems to be lurking in the fine arts building other than the two of them and the custodial crew, giving him the opportunity to be alone in the stairwell for a moment, breathing heavily into his hands. Once back in the safe and quiet of his office, he paces in agitation, rubbing his neck, tousling his fingers through his hair, trying to stay calm.

“What are you doing?” he groans, palming his eyes.

The stupid flyer pokes his thigh in his pocket, its cardboard edge sharp and annoying. He almost fucked her on someone else’s desk, and she’s inviting him to her fucking art show.

The idea is too ridiculous to even entertain. Park withdraws the card and throws it directly into the trash.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

dinner sits cold on the table. you’re curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, staring bleary-eyed at the drama on the television. it’s just on for background noise at this point. something to make the house feel less empty.

it was two hours ago that you got the call that his flight had been delayed, that he’d be home later than expected, maybe early tomorrow morning. it was unfortunate timing, but this isn’t what had you in tears.

your makeup smudges and lipstained wine glass are a testament to the tabloids that headlined almost a full

hour ago. they feature his hand on the small of some girl’s back, leaning too close in a dimly-lit restaurant, timestamped for several months ago. it would have been around the time he was working on set overseas. normally, you would give him the benefit of the doubt—nothing like this had happened before. he was attentive, loving, kind. the perfect partner. but the pictures align with the time you caught him messaging someone labeled “ana” last spring, the week before he left for filming. a scandalous picture had popped up on his notifications while you were borrowing his laptop. he had apologized, shown you the messages, and allegedly cut things off. he swore he never met her, and never planned to. you wonder now if he knows that you know, if he’s even seen the headlines giving him away.

the articles don’t know her name, but she has hair like yours, a body like yours. you sip your wine and swallow over the lump in your throat as you contemplate the likelihood of this being a misunderstanding. something in your gut tells you it’s not. you had tried and failed to forget the naked girl from his messages, tried to erase from your mind how much she resembled you. even if it wasn’t someone else, a third woman entirely… at the very least, he has a type. it makes you want to shed your skin.

time blurs, and although you don’t mean to doze off, eventually you find yourself being woken by the sound of a car pulling up the driveway. as you regain your miserable wherewithal, you find the wine glass tilting haphazardly in your wrist. you straighten up, and the front door opens.

your stomach clenches. you set down the wine, its glass clinking guiltily against your engagement ring.

your hands subconsciously pull the robe tighter around your body as you cross the room to greet him, mentally chastising yourself for forgetting to change out of the lacy set underneath, which you had put on before the gut-wrenching news even surfaced. now you feel ridiculous. used.

he’s grinning, and he has flowers, which brush against your hair as he pulls you against his toned frame. the sight is gut wrenching.

“oh my god,” he sighs, peppering your temple with kisses as his whole body relaxes in your presence. “i missed you. sorry i’m late.”

“not your fault,” you feel stiff and alien in his arms, but you give him a squeeze, unable to fight your own selfish need for comfort. his embrace has a strange relief washing over you in spite of everything. he still smells and feels more like home than anywhere else in the world. the ache in your chest intensifies.

immediately, he can tell something’s off. after all, no one knows you better than he does.

his gentle hand finds the nape of your neck, and he pulls back to peer into your red-rimmed eyes. “baby, hey,” he tilts his head, the best listener. “what’s wrong?”

somehow, you smile. “just… exhausted. i missed you. are you hungry?”

before you can cry, you spin around to lead the march into the kitchen.

“starving,” he sighs, for now accepting your explanation. he follows you, still holding the bouquet.

“those are beautiful,” you say cheerily, overdoing it a little as you pull down a vase from the cupboard to stick them in. “where did you get flowers so late? aren’t all the shops closed?”

they’re your favorites, too. you wonder how many times he’s brought your favorite flowers home after his infidelity. as you fill the vase with water and slide the stems down the ceramic neck, their pleasant smell makes your chest constrict.

he takes his jacket off and hangs it on one of the chairs, carrying both your bowls of rice and meat to the microwave. “i have my ways,” he says mischievously. “agh, jagi—were you watching that new drama without me?”

“it’s boring,” you assure him, even though you’re not really sure. it’s not like you could pay attention to any of it. you bite your tongue, sinking down into the seat across from his, placing the vase in the middle of the table.

he returns with your bowl first, setting its steaming contents in front of you. you stare at the reheated food, your heart beginning to pound in its cage, making your veins ache with foreboding anticipation. you can’t keep this up. you have to say something.

when he sits down on the other side of the flowers, his utensils clink against the bowl for a moment as he scarfs his food in silence. the flowers that hide you from his view offer you a moment of privacy that brings your facade crumbling to bits.

his hands look so familiar against the bowl and the chopsticks—hands you’ve held and been held by. it’s hard to imagine they’ve been elsewhere intimate.

you try to lift a bite of food to your trembling lips before it gets cold again, but then the first tear slides down your cheek, and you give up.

he notices you put the food back down and leans around the flowers to ask if it needs more time in the warmer. when he sees your face, though, his own falls.

“san,” you take a shuddering breath, pinching your chopsticks tighter as your hands start to shake. your voice shrinks impossibly small. “i know about her.”

instantly, his chair is grinding back over the kitchen floor as he stands up and rounds the small table.

“hey, hey…” he pulls out your chair and gently lifts you into his arms.

your hands remain limp at your sides as the first sob shakes your chest.

he dares ask, “what do you mean?”

you almost want to push him away, but your forehead falls into his chest. “i’m not fucking stupid,” you sob. then, bitterly, you add, “check the news.”

he sighs, his hands rubbing up and down your arms. eventually, he utters a curse.

“fuck.” he tucks his head down against yours, his brow creasing. “what did you see? baby, i…”

his reaction is the confirmation you dreaded. with fears now fully realized, your heart feels like it’s being shredded alive. nothing he says now can make you feel better. he’s touching you, but there’s an indisputable canyon opening up before you, making him feel miles and miles away.

“i just want to know how many times,” you close your eyes and try to stop the trembling, entirely defeated. “you owe me that much.”

he is quiet for a moment. his hands still, instead crossing over your shoulders to pull you closer. “just the once,” he eventually swallows, his own voice wavering. “i swear it.”

you’re angry, and heartbroken, but his chest is warm and his heartbeat is fast and… you feel he’s being honest with you. whether it’s your own naivety or self-preservation at work, you find yourself leaning into his embrace. as your hands lift to grasp his shirt, seeking any ounce of comfort you can. you punctuate the motion with a broken, “san, why?”

this shatters him. he tightens his hold on you, shaking his head as the words spill out. “i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry, angel. i know there’s no excuse. it was one time, but it shouldn’t have ever—“ he chokes, whispering, “you mean everything to me.”

it doesn’t feel that way. you shiver and squeeze your eyes shut tight, the tears soaking into his shirtfront.

he makes a sound of grief in the back of his throat. “fuck, i… i’m so sorry… i don’t know what to say, my love, i…”

the anger comes searing through your chest like a knife, opening up the burning lump in your throat. “don’t,” you choke, pulling away, unable to shake the awful feeling that starts to consume you. “you don’t know how—nothing you say can—” you sigh. “just leave it.”

a silence falls. he has one hand on the back of your chair now, although he itches to close the empty space between you again. his eyes search your face for any hint of a reprieve in the destruction he’s caused.

after a moment, he sinks to his knees, his eyes wet with tears.

“i made a mistake,” he says earnestly. “i won’t ask for your forgiveness. i’m just sorry. i’m so sorry.”

and damnit, if he doesn’t look pretty like that. you reach out with shaky fingers to caress his face, but your own tears soon blur your vision, and you pull away to wipe your undereyes.

after that, an eternity of quiet stretches out between you. he bows his head, his broad shoulders shaking in silent sobs.

you find yourself drifting to the stairs, not caring about the television still being on or the food still left out. you don’t bother brushing your teeth or changing your clothes. you just crawl into bed, lights off, and lay there under the lonely sheets.

san’s empty sobs echo through the house. he doesn’t wail or say anything, but you can hear his breath hitching and retching, even behind the closed bedroom door. curling in on yourself, you sob silently into your knees, wishing for sleep, for numbness.

it takes all night, but sleep does come. you’re awakened shortly after by the weight of your fiancé as he crawls sniffling into bed. outside, dawn breaks the horizon.

delirious and exhausted, you bury yourself into a pillow, feeling the space of the mattress stretch infinitely between the two of you.

when his hands creep across the linens to your waist, you flinch at first. then his warm torso follows, and you wish you could hate him.

“san,” you croak, your voice exhumed from silent crying.

he hears the warning in your tone, but doesn’t care. his face, wet from tears, finds the divot of your neck and shoulder. “you can hate me,” he sniffles. “i understand. but i…”

his calloused hands slip around your middle, and against your will, your stomach tightens. while you’re making yourself sick thinking about how these hands have been on someone else, your body is heating up to his touch.

quietly, he pleads, “look at me for a sec.”

you’ve always been gentle with him, but as you roll to face the ceiling, your words are sharp and cruel. “why? so you can look at the girl you’ve humiliated?”

he is crestfallen. you’re trying your hardest not to let it affect you, but it does. guilt rides up in your throat along with the pain he has caused.

san swallows and nods. “i deserve that,” he whispers, his thumb coming up to brush away your tears as his own start to spill over his cheeks. “i’m sorry. i never wanted to make you feel like this.”

you want to believe they’re crocodile tears. you want to hate him. but he’s so sincere, and he’s pulling you closer by the hip, and it’s weeks since you’ve been in the same bed…

you shake your head, bracing your palms against his chest as he pushes himself up over you. he’s still got his airport clothes on. your expression twists in disgust. you almost tell him to take his clothes off, but bite your tongue.

he stays where he is, looking down at you with guilt and grief evident in his eyes. “please, i know i don’t deserve it, but i promise nothing like that has happened again. and it never will.”

you’re crying again. “you were with her one month before our engagement. what the fuck, san.”

he winces. “i know, i know,” he ducks his head, his forehead pressing to yours, tears trailing down his nose and dripping onto your face. his breath shakes in a sob. “i’m sorry. i really am…”

“i can’t trust you,” you heave. then, slowly, you push him off of you, airport clothes and all.

he falls onto his side, shaking his head. “baby,” he pleads. “let me hold you. please.”

the tears are incessant now. you shake your head weakly as he pulls you back in, this time into his chest.

“i’m yours, only yours,” he rasps.

“fuck you.” despite your words, you bury yourself against him, your grief splitting open like a wound as you continue to cry. he holds you carefully, reverently, aware of just how vulnerable you are right now. his chest aches, knowing he caused this.

the occasional kiss on your temple eventually moves lower. he’s laying you gently on your back again, kissing the tears off your cheeks. you’re too flustered and touch-starved to tell him to stop, finding shameful solace in the comfort his touch provides. his hands slip under your back, his whole body cradling yours like something sacred.

“i hate you,” you sob, and it’s only half true.

he grimaces, tucking his forehead to your chest. an act of humility. a stillness washes over the both of you, brought on by the cold desperation in your words.

you lift your hand to his hair, and he makes a broken sound, his big shoulders shuddering at your touch. slowly, you exhale, warding off more tears. “i want you to apologize,” you say weakly, your breathing turning shallow.

he lifts his head, a glimmer of hope in his teary eyes. “i’m sorry,” he chokes out. “i’m really, truly sorry. you don’t deserve this. you’re everything to me, and i fucked up, i fucked up so badly, i...”

you shake your head, swallowing hard.

his brow creases in helplessness, but then he sees the warmth spreading on your cheeks. as understanding registers, he takes a shaky breath, his own ears washing red. slowly, he tilts his head to glide his lips along your jaw, and in response, goosebumps rise everywhere on your body.

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, his breath hot and uneven. his hand moves down your waist to your hip. “will you forgive me?”

his heart pounds so hard you can feel it against your chest where it presses to his. you start to shake your head, but his hips sink down between your thighs, and your breath hitches.

“forgive me,” he pleads, depositing slow, wet kisses on your neck.

despite yourself, your eyes flutter, and your hips cant up into the pressure. “san…”

he groans. “please, baby.”

his fingers curl over the robe where it is secured at your waist, deftly pulling to release the tension of the knot. when it opens up for him, he eagerly slides his palms inside, groaning when he feels the material underneath.

your heart is in your throat. you had meant to change. a needy, insatiable hollowness starts to consume you from within. you shouldn’t be wearing this for him. you tremble so much that there’s no way he doesn’t feel it.

“say you’re still mine,” he’s crying quietly against your collarbone. “i’m yours and only yours. say it, please.”

“is that what you made her say?” you bite lowly.

he shakes in a sob, but his voice is steady with finality when he raises his head to look at you, tears flowing in a wet track down both cheeks. “no.”

strangely, his firm denial makes you feel a little better. you swallow around the lump in your throat that seems permanent now, its presence a testament to the bitterness you hold for what he’s done.

when he leans back down, his mouth is warm and wet with tears. he kisses you with a meek fervency, just lightly at first. but the taste of your mouth seems to do something to him, and his hands pull on your hips as he kisses you again, begging, “say it. please.”

you feel warm all over. the yearning of your body seems worsened by the aching of your heart.

“earn it,” you breathe, already regretting your words.

he pulls up hastily on your hips, tucking one pillow underneath them. at the same time, his other hand peels the robe from your shoulders, giving his mouth access to the skin there, which he begins to decorate with kisses.

the risqué set underneath the robe isn’t meant to be removed, with a slit cut into its lowest seam, but he hooks his fingers under one strap and slides the material aside anyway, exposing your breast to his warm palm.

you let out an involuntary moan, which he takes as an invitation to graze his teeth along your pulse, his tongue soothing over the spot shortly after. his thumb lazily plays with your hardened nipple.

he’s usually a little rougher than this, but seems to be paying extra attention to be gentle.

your heart aches as you are invaded by thoughts of the other woman—how he might have touched her, how she may have sounded. when your chest hitches in a soft sob, san raises his head and gently turns your face to his, his brows drawn together.

“hey, hey,” he soothes, his thumb grazing under your lip, then across your cheek. when he brings his lips to yours, he murmurs, “i’m so sorry,” before his tongue twists into your mouth and he tucks in, leaving no room for your lips to part from his.

involuntarily, your body arches. you whine, twisting your fingers into his shirt and tugging up on the material. he breaks the kiss but doesn't bother sitting up before he reaches back for a fistful of the garment between his shoulder blades. in one swift pull, he sheds it, and it lands somewhere off the edge of the mattress.

his skin is hot to the touch. you feel the robe pool underneath you as he lifts you into his arms, one hand cradling you from underneath while the other pulls one of your thighs around his waist. you’re panting softly as he plants wet kisses down your throat and chest.

“so sorry…” he muses, groaning as he bites down on a little ribbon holding some of the lace secure around your waist. you suck in a breath, letting it out shakily as his body moves lower over yours.

soon, he shelves your legs on top of his shoulders, kissing along the inside of them. you’re frozen, body taught underneath him, like a bow about to snap. you feel a little dizzy, watching his head bob between your hips, laying kisses in the dim, dusty blue light of daybreak.

“san,” your head falls onto the pillow as his breath ghosts over your hip bone. you’re exhausted, physically and emotionally, yet his attention demands what’s left of your energy. your pulse races.

he takes his time tasting the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, gradually centering himself. as he approaches the gap in the seam of the lace stretched over your body, his hands squeeze the underside of your thighs, causing you to squirm.

your eyes flutter as he guides the flat of his tongue between the strips of lace. when his lips find purchase, you gasp a bit, your hips jolting in pleasure.

“i’m sorry,” he moans, his words barely a breath. his tongue pleats between your folds until his lips meet those tender nerve endings, and then he starts to suck, slow and intentional.

you let out a strangled groan, your tears thinning out as they drip down the sides of your face. his own evidence of crying still streams down his chin, mixing with your wetness, which he devours like a man starved.

“so… so sorry,” he whines, his tongue carving into you, curling up in the way you like. his arms wrap around your hips, and he tugs you closer in a rhythm, his nose grinding into your clit as his mouth takes sloppy care of you.

you grab onto the sheets, unintentionally rolling your hips to his slow, steady pace. as your cries melt into the air, he shifts to pin you to the mattress, pulling himself up a bit to put unbearable pressure on your clit with his teeth and tongue. you hardly notice his palm slip down around your thigh until he slides his fingers into you, making your hips seize. a vibration racks your body as he hums in low amusement against your core, curling his fingers to make you writhe underneath him.

“s-san,” you stutter, broken whimpers escaping your throat.

“you’re gonna forgive me,” he mumbles, laying another wet kiss against your slippery clit. “i’m gonna make you forgive me…”

as your thighs begin to tremble, he ceases his ministrations, crawling back up your body. you shiver in relief although your body aches for more, your hands finding their way into his hair.

his eyes are fixed on the sight of you, staring as if depraved. you hardly have time to catch your breath before he tucks his face into the pillow beside your head, jerking down his pants, tight as they’ve become.

when he lines up his throbbing cock, he wastes no time. a shocked gasp floods your lungs as he presses inside in one, possessive, desperate thrust. it’s made easier by how badly you need him, how wet he’s made you thus far.

he crumples against you, his hips chasing deeper with small, tight motions as he begins muttering apologies next to your ear. then, after satiating himself enough to stop, he gives you a moment to adjust.

“oh, san…”

your hands scrape down his spine just as his shoulder seize up. his hips swing back and then slam into yours once more, even deeper this time. you cry out, your thighs jolting around him.

“forgive me,” he pleads, still needy, a little breathless as he feels you clench around him. with each following thrust, he starts up a gradual rhythm. it’s torturous—not quite fast enough to give you the friction you need, not quite slow enough to allow you to relax.

“mmh, fuck, san—it’s too—“

“take it,” he whispers. “god, take it—fuck, angel, i’m so sorry… i’m so sorry, my love…”

you’re so wet that his movements start to make sopping, filthy noises. the sounds seem to encourage him, and he grunts quietly as he starts to move faster.

“san—!” you arch, your gasps lost in desperate pants now.

“you gonna forgive me?” he drags his tongue over your neck, then bites on your earlobe. “you gonna—“ he grits his teeth as he thrusts deeper— “accept my apology, hmm?”

his voice is layered with desperation and exhaustion, a low rumble of a sound that makes you putty in his hands.

the bed starts to shake as he snaps his hips into yours, and your fingernails sink into his skin as your cries mount.

“san, i—mmh, fuck—i, please—“

“forgive me,” he’s still got tears in his eyes, but he’s intent on seeing through your pleasure. “please, honey. i’m sorry—forgive me, forgive me—“

it catches up to you before you’re ready, and you let out a choked whimper, your thighs clenching up as the orgasm rakes through your system.

“mmm,” he sighs, riding you through it, one hand pulling up the small of your back to push himself deeper as you contract on his swollen cock.

you fight for breath when it’s over, shivering as the aftershocks roll over you in waves.

he slows, and eventually lowers himself over you, gasping for air. as the moment recedes, you find yourself moaning in protest as he slides out of your body, collapsing onto the sheets beside you.

“you didn’t…” you roll to face him, reaching to smooth your fingers over his waist. “why didn’t you finish?”

he catches your hand and brings it up to his mouth to kiss the knuckles. “shhh.”

“san,” you object weakly.

“c’mere,” he murmurs, voice still broken.

it’s not a remedy for the situation by any means, but you allow yourself to relax in his arms, pressing your forehead to his chest, which is damp with sweat.

his cock is still achingly hard, and as you attach yourself to him, your palm dips down to stroke it, nice and slow.

he lets out a shattered groan. “baby…”

“why didn’t you finish?” you mumble again, tucking your face into his neck, laying warm kisses over his throat.

he lets out a sound almost like a sob, his hands smoothing down your body to your hips. “just sleep, my love. you’re exhausted.”

“is it some fucked up form of self-degredation? do you think don’t deserve it?” you peel your hands off his cock to pin down his shoulders.

he swallows and looks away, all but confirming your estimations.

you scoff, a bitterness still lingering. “you’re right,” you mutter, clambering over his hips. “i shouldn’t be in the same bed with you. this is fucked.”

his lips quiver, and then part in a gasp as you slide him back inside. his hands grip your hips tighter as he stutters out your name.

you start grinding your hips over his, coating his stiff cock in your slick all over again, feeling every angle of him that you particularly enjoy. your eyes flutter as you lean back, rolling your hips down. it’s not long before he’s arching and begging, tears in the corners of his eyes. oversensitive and pathetic.

“i should leave you,” you mutter, your voice wavering. “what man does that to the woman they love? and to never admit it, for her to find out through the news?”

you don't recognize yourself as you take a fistful of his hair and lean over him, pulling his head back. he whimpers, but his cock twitches. he likes this just as much as you do, even if your words are so true that they pierce deep..

“you’re pathetic,” you spit. “and you’re going to come for me, and apologize while you do it, since you came crawling back to my bed to try to fix things like this. aren’t you?”

he nods, sobbing softly.

you grit your teeth as your own eyes start to burn. “say it.”

“i’m sorry,” he sputters a sob.

you start to slap your hips down over his, your pace lazy and unforgiving.

he whimpers and writhes beneath you, so you squeeze his hair.

“was she good?” you feel a tear drip down your nose. you don't want to know. knowing won’t fix the hurt. but the way his face twists in agony has a sick and twisted bubble of satisfaction sprouting in your belly.

he shakes his head. “no. no, i shouldn’t have ever—“

you give his hair a tug, and he cries out, his cheeks flushing.

“i’m sorry,” he sobs. “i’m so close. i’m so sorry.”

“so pathetic,” you slow down even more, feeling awful for enjoying this. but as his pleasure mounts, so does yours. “you’re going to wait until i say you can come.”

he nods, and he seems to be resisting the urge to buck his hips.

“open your mouth,” you mutter.

he does, loll and all. you lean down and spit onto the back of his tongue.

“swallow.”

he’s barely holding on, you can tell from the sound that escapes in pieces as he swallows your spit. you begin to ride him relentlessly, feeling your own pleasure build as his legs start to twitch and clench underneath you.

“say you’re sorry,” you pant, releasing his hair to touch yourself.

you clench up at your own touch, and it makes him sob. “i’m sorry. i’m s—ngh—“

“that’s right,” you mutter, not bothering to wipe your eyes. “i bet you are. are you close?”

he nods, blinking up at you pitifully, desperately.

“then give me,” you grit your teeth, shoving him deep, “your,” you reel back and slam down again, “apology.”

you give yourself a little more of him, grinding hard to derive as much pleasure as possible as a second orgasm washes over you. the fluttering of your body and your satisfied sigh seem to do it for him.

he cries out, his thighs lifting off the sheets. “i’m s-sorry, i’m—fuck—i—“

he sobs as he comes for you, hot and trembling, the tension in his body bunching up in waves that gradually recede until he’s left in a quivering mess underneath you.

you swirl your fingertip over his chest, catching your breath, watching him float back to earth.

“we can talk about this in the morning. now let me sleep,” you mutter, rolling off of him and down onto the bedsheets, almost shaking from exhaustion.

he comes crawling over like a wounded puppy and slides his arm around yours, placing one last kiss on your shoulder. “for whatever it’s worth, i love you,” he murmurs, tucking his forehead against your shoulder. “please sleep well.”

you sigh, refusing to respond. but your hand lifts to lay over his briefly, which seems to help him relax. you roll onto your side to be more comfortable, leaving him gently behind.

he takes the hint and doesn’t follow you, but he does pull a blanket up over your shoulder.

“i love you too,” you murmur.

it’s the last bit of conversation before the morning rolls over into silence, partitioning the nightmare of an evening from the path moving forward. you dread the decisions you will make in the morning, but for now…

you allow him to come closer until his hand rests delicately on your waist, his body curled perfectly behind you. the two of you sleep well into the morning, unconscious to the world and your troubles, if only for a little while.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Park taps his foot impatiently.

Surely she won’t be late for her office hours appointment. If she is, he’ll be extra frustrated. Might even have to teach her a lesson. Bend her over the desk and–

He groans, rubbing his face. These thoughts haven’t stopped plaguing him since yesterday. A whole twenty-four hours of pure torture, imagining the heaven he could bring her. He has to control himself. To behave. She’ll be here soon.

Yesterday, class was largely insignificant, when considering his interactions with Estelle. Sure, he had let his eyes linger on her occasionally, and she had once retrieved a fallen pencil by sticking her leg out from under her desk in the middle of his lecture, subsequently distracting him so badly that he had to take a short break to gulp down a glass of water outside in the hall… but for the most part, he kept himself in check. 

In his office, one of his spaces of comfort, he expects to be able to keep his cool. Then again… being alone with her may prove otherwise.

There’s an hourglass on the wooden shelf across from his desk full of red sand. He believes its falling duration to be sixty seconds, as it should be, but he’s never been sure. To test this theory, and in an attempt to quell the antsy patter of his heart, he rises from his desk and crosses the small room, flipping it at exactly 7:59. The crimson contents filter beautifully through the crystalline glass.

Disappointment pulls like gravity on Park’s shoulders as the sand trickles to a neat, still pile. It finishes at a perfect sixty seconds after all, and she’s still not here. Schedules must mean nothing to her. It’s downright disrespectful. 

He had picked out his favorite button down for the occasion. Since she had consented to do the project on his terms, he had agreed to be one of her sketch subjects, and was rather proud to be wearing something he wouldn’t necessarily wear to class. Something nicer. Something she’d never seen him in. 

As the seconds tick by, though, he regrets wearing the heavy, black material. He’s overheating. He retreats to his desk and loosens his tie, taking measured breaths. Becoming agitated, he adjusts the items on his desk one more time–pushes his woodcarved pen into place, about an inch parallel to the closed laptop, adjacent to the stack of sticky notes. His empty coffee mug rests to the upper right, like a proper place setting. He had left it unwashed on account of her soon arrival, wanting to greet her here. Now that it’s 8:02, he’s staring hard at the round stain at the bottom of the ceramic cup, itching to pop down the hall, rinse it clean, then return. 

Relax, he tells himself. She’ll be here soon. She’ll be here soon...

“Fucksakes,” Park mutters, drumming his fingers on the desk. 

At 8:04, he jerks the tie free enough to slip it over his head, then unclasps the top button of the shirt. He slaps the discarded tie over the leather arm of the office chair, then snatches up the coffee mug and stands up so fast the chair spins a little. He may as well clean this damn cup while he waits.

He’s got his hand on the doorknob, grinding his teeth to curb the irritation burning in his chest. It turns out from under his fingers. He takes a step back and sighs as she opens the door. 

She didn’t knock, but the way she looks sure as hell knocks the breath out of his lungs. Once again, she wears a dress, this one much more casual than last week’s. He’s never seen those glasses before, perched on her perfect nose. There’s some sort of liner on her full, pink lips to accentuate her cupid's bow. Her hair is down. He’s never realized how long it is until now. 

“Good evening, Dr. Park.”

He clears his throat, feeling the heat intensify, spreading up his neck, into his ears. “You’re late. I’ll–I’ll be right back.”

He brushes past her, and as he brisks his way toward the faculty lounge, his eyes roll at the scent of her perfume on his way by. 

God. 

Estelle is standing at his bookcase when he returns, examining the array of cassette tapes he keeps by the recommendation of the Dean of Arts, to “make the room a little friendlier.”

She’s got this devastating smirk on her face as she spins back around. 

He quirks his brow, rounding his desk. “Something funny?”

She sinks onto the sofa, her perfect hourglass shape perched directly underneath the one on the shelf. “Of course you alphabetize your cassettes.”

He’s not sure what to make of this remark, or whether it’s a jab or not. “I do. By artist, then album title.”

“Why not by year? Or runtime?” Her eyes glint.

She’s definitely teasing him. He works his tongue into his cheek for a second to ward off his irritation, then clasps his hands on his desk. He’s a little relieved when she cuts straight to the chase, pulling out her sketchbook. 

“Is there a position you want me in?” He asks calmly. 

When she raises her eyes to his, they give no sign of detecting his underlying agitation. In fact, there is a soft curiosity to her expression.

“Actually,” she sits up, smoothing her pretty fingers across the blank page on her lap. “I was thinking you could sit here, and I could sit at the desk?”

There is a second too long of silence after her request. He blinks at her, the nerve of his jaw flexing. 

Eventually, he caves. “Why not.” 

He narrows his eyes as he stands, and she smiles sweetly. They each round the desk on opposite sides, in almost perfect synchronization. 

As he collapses onto the worn brown leather couch, he lets out a long breath, urging his body to quiet down. Something obscene flashes through his head, though, as she crosses her legs in his chair, her elbows getting a feel for the cushioned arms. The top of her dress is one that wraps across the front, leaving her shoulders exposed. He watches her collarbones flex as she gets comfortable, but quickly glances at the ceiling and runs his tongue over his teeth, forcing his brain back to earth. 

When he looks back at her, she’s examining him objectively, tapping the damn HB pencil to her bottom lip. He’s level-headed enough to stare right back, at least for now. 

She petitions something else. “Can I ask you to put your arms across the back of the couch?”

He obliges, allowing his wrists to dangle casually, then lifts one ankle onto the opposite knee and leans back a bit, getting comfortable. 

“Yes,” she nods, her voice dropping as she concentrates on the first couple strokes on her page. “Just like that...”

Heat stirs in his gut at her words. He watches her pencil move, trying to keep his breathing even. Maybe some conversation will help.

“How have your other sketches gone so far?” He wasn’t her first sketch, nor is he nude, but he couldn’t be more keen on the opportunity to be her inspiration for a night.

“I’ve sketched my roommate so much that he’s sick of me,” she mutters. 

“Ah.” Before Park can ask about her roommate, she’s getting up from his chair, a frustrated little sigh falling from her mouth. 

“One sec. I can’t see you very well from here.” 

To his utter dismay, she places herself in front of his desk and hops up to sit there. He makes a sound in the back of his throat–partly because she’s very close to taking a seat on his laptop, and partly because her dress rides up, nearly giving him a glimpse of her—

“Can you undo another button?”

His eyes snap to hers in one solid blink, followed by a couple more. “Sorry?”

Her cheeks may have turned a bit pink, but it’s hard to tell in the yellow office lamplight. “I just think it would fit this scene better. You can say no.”

This fucking girl. He hesitates, then reaches for the button and unclasps it with one fluid twist of his wrist. 

She seems pleased. Her eyes quickly pass over the exposed bit of skin before dropping back to the paper with intent to replicate.

He feels hot all over, and the extra button did little to help this time. 

“You must be someone’s muse,” she says absently, glancing at him, then the page, then back again. Between words, her pencil scratches along. Between glances, Park looks at her thighs and where they disappear under the hem of her clothes. Her voice is the only island tethering his thoughts from straying sinister. “You seem to be comfortable modeling.”

It’s true. He attended art school alongside a man that was once one of his closest companions, someone who majored in fashion design. “I used to have a roommate that liked to use me as a mannequin," he says, not intending to dwell on the topic. The memories, and their sting, were too fresh. 

She hums, if only to sound politely interested. “Did you get to keep any of the clothes?”

He ponders this for a moment, wondering if any of the clothes made it with him to his current home. “I think I still have a scarf, or something.”

She allows a longer silence to fall, making decisive marks on the page for several moments. She then slides the end of the pencil between her teeth, and without realizing, he mirrors the action with his bottom lip. 

“Almost there,” she says, her voice a breath away from a whisper. Something about the way she says it makes his fingers flex against the leather. Almost there, just like that…

God, he needs to focus on something else.

Her eyes are back on him again. Maybe for longer than they need to be, he thinks, but then again, he’s not thinking straight. Her gaze slips down his neck, over the undone buttons of his shirt again, and then lower. Lower.

Reaching a point of interest, they pause. She makes no move to mark the visual information down, just looks, just stares at where the fabric creases, folds, swells and recedes. On her neck, a flush becomes clearly visible. Her eyes slowly lift to his. 

It’s a struggle at first to find her voice, so she clears her throat. “Would you mind actually tilting your head, just slightly–there, yes. Thank you.”

The quiet stretches out, this time crackling with tension. Park sighs inaudibly, his restraint fraying fast. 

They had agreed on an hour of time, and his office hours ended at nine anyway. A quick glance at his watch tells him it’s only been about twenty minutes. He’s not sure he can last the next half of the session without saying or doing something he’ll regret. His heart pounds, delivering blood to every vessel in his body. 

“You usually depict women in your work,” he ventures, a last ditch effort to contain his growing desire to find out just how useful these next thirty minutes could become. “Is it much different for you to procure male figures?”

“Maybe at first, but at this point in my academic career I feel comfortable with depicting bodies in general.” She shrugs one pretty shoulder. “I’ve never actually seen your art. Do you have a favorite subject?”

He wants to ask more about her comfortability with the human form, but maybe it’s best that she diverted the subject. “I prefer learning about other artists,” he says, then reluctantly adds, “but sometimes I make drawings of buildings. Blueprints, really.”

“Ah,” she smiles faintly. “Are your drawings of existing buildings, or fictional ones?”

“Both.”

“Have you ever drawn one that got built?”

He is, by now, visibly taken aback at her interest in his own creative endeavors. “Well… yes.”

She giggles softly, a sound he wants put to score. “You should bring one to class sometime.”

The conversation is all too wholesome for how warm the surface of his skin feels. She uncrosses her legs and instead presses her thighs together, leaning down over them to draw. He thinks he might pass away.

“Speaking of class,” his voice takes on a condescending tone, one that brings her eyes back to his. He needs to regain control of the atmosphere somehow. “We need to talk about your lateness.”

“I’ve been good,” she smiles faintly, her eyes dropping back to the sketch.

Like hell you have.

He almost scoffs. “Regardless, I feel it is my responsibility to let you know that if you are late again, it will count as an absence. Three of those affect your grade by a whole letter.”

“I’ve read the syllabus,” she says indignantly. Then, as if to soften the sass, follows up with, “But thank you.”

He studies her for a moment. “You seem extremely comfortable being candid with your professor.”

“It’s not hard when you seem so young.” She pauses, glancing up at him. “How old are you, anyway?”

He smiles dryly. “What an inappropriate question.”

She waits for his answer.

He can’t help it. He glances her up and down before he answers. “Twenty-eight.”

A familiar surprise registers on her face. It’s how everyone reacts. The short of it is that he started college quite early, and was very lucky in finding a job directly out of his graduate program. But he doesn’t want to talk about that right now.

He deposits his foot back onto the floor and leans forward, placing his elbows on his parted thighs, still openly assessing her. He doesn’t miss how her thighs press closer together. He’s not smiling, and his expression borders on discontent. When he speaks, his tone is clear and cold.

“You specifically requested to draw me, late at night, during my office hours. I think you knew the kind of situation this might put you in. That you would have my full attention.”

She is perfectly still, her eyes wide. That pretty blush creeps up her neck again. 

Park tilts his head again, studying her face. “Am I wrong?”

Her eyes fall to the page. 

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Estelle.”

“No,” she manages to blurt, her fingers pinching the sketchbook on her lap.

He slowly rises to his feet, then steps forward once, twice, until he is standing directly in front of her. 

She refuses to look up at him. His hands are gentle but firm as he grasps the pad of paper, sliding his fingers between her thighs to do so. With a gentle tug, he forces her to give up the item, and he carefully places it beside her on the desk. Then, equally as ginger, he places the heels of his palms on the edge of the desk, if for nothing but to stop himself from grabbing her. He won’t touch her. Not yet.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he mutters.

She’s barely breathing. The rise and fall of her chest is subtle, subdued.

He brings one hand up, fingers languidly stretching to caress the exposed skin of her thigh, but he stops himself, briefly clenching his fist. He then lifts his hand, even slower this time, to fit one knuckle gently under her chin, pulling it upwards.

Her eyes betray exactly what she’s feeling–the shock, the subtle panic. There’s something else there, too. Something that spurs him to lift his other hand and place it on the top of her thigh, this time firmly and without hesitation.

Estelle’s fingers curl into the hem of her dress at her sides, trembling slightly. “Dr. Park,” she finds her voice, though it wavers. Squeaks, really.

He hums, satisfaction seeping into his tone. That pink blush has found its way across the bridge of her nose. “Oh,” he purrs, scanning her eyes, helpless as they are. “You’re trembling, sweetheart.”

Despite the way her heart pounds, she makes no move to push him away or flee. His fingers graze under her chin to her neck, and there he feels how quick her pulse has become.

That’s when the corners of his mouth lift. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs softly.

But she doesn’t. She just inhales sharply as both his hands find their way to her thighs, gently prying them apart.

He lets out a sigh, leaning closer until his breath ghosts over her parted lips. “You really shouldn’t sit on your superior’s desks,” he murmurs. “It’s very disrespectful.”

She is visibly trembling now. He smells pleasant, but she’s too dizzy to discern anything beyond that and the presence of his hands on her legs, still gripping firmly.

“Is this what you thought would happen when you scheduled our meeting tonight? Hm?” His drawl is playful, and still so, so soft. “Or did you picture something more like those little drawings you dropped a couple weeks ago?”

When he squeezes her thighs, she makes an involuntary noise, a choked whine. He grins. 

“P-proffesor Park–” she starts, but he clicks his tongue.

“I asked you not to call me that,” he reminds, that gentleness dissipating. “Try Seonghwa.”

“Seonghwa,” she swallows, but before she can continue, he groans, his nails scraping softly up her thighs.

“Good. Again.”

She hesitates, so he lets his fingers ghost to her inner thigh, slipping underneath the bottom of the dress. He’s so close now that when her thighs try to clamp shut, they just squeeze either side of his hips, drawing a laugh from his throat.

“Seonghwa,” she pleads, her voice quickly falling to shambles. 

“What is it, Estelle?” he taunts. And then he dips his head, his lips finding place against the side of her neck.

At the same time, his knuckles brush the seam of her underwear, and though she bristles, he stays his hand.

“Fucking Christ,” he utters, his smirk broadening. He presses one knuckle further into her warm core, feeling just how damp the lace is already. “You must really enjoy drawing me, huh, sweet thing…?”

Finally, she squirms, but he just holds fast with the hand still on her thigh, keeping her in place. His proceeding kisses grow sloppier, open-mouthed, hot on her skin while his fist gradually grinds pressure into her wet panties, and soon she’s panting softly, whimpering helplessly into his ear.

“Seonghwa, stop,” she whispers at last, practically in pieces.

So he does. He removes his hands from her body, takes a step back, all while his body is screaming for him to pin her down on his desk and finish what he started. He peers at her down the bridge of his nose for a second, working his jaw. Then, his fingers slide into his pockets, hardly disguising the tent in his trousers, and he gives a subtle jerk of his head.

“Go.” The word is hushed, strained.

She listens, shakily gathering her sketchbook in her hands, hopping off the desk, and hurrying out of his office. 

He doesn’t move a muscle, just watches her go with dangerous, half-lidded eyes.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

It is Thursday, and Estelle is considering skipping class altogether. On one hand, dropping the class would save her an immense amount of embarrassment. On the other, forfeiting this credit would mean a delayed graduation.

People see her risqué figure paintings all the time, so why is a little BDSM sketch any different? Professor Park has probably seen plenty of kinky art in his time.

Luckily, something about having tennis directly before Park’s class seems to spur her competitive spirit, stoke her gall. She knows she can do it, that she can face him. Be it the bloodflow after a tennis match or her own sheer tenacity, she feels brave enough to see it through. So she does.

Hesitation hits as she stands in front of the closed classroom door, her stomach churning. It’s 1:57. Sweat sticks her messy hair to her forehead. She ran straight from the courts to make it here.

For once, she’s not late—her own compromise to herself, to show up on time and draw as little attention as possible. As she considers crossing the invisible line of the door’s threshold, though, her nerves threaten to get the best of her.

After the mortifying ordeal last week when Park had discovered her sketched fantasies, she had gone home thinking she could never show her face in this room again.

Now she lifts her chin, curls her disheveled hair behind her ear, and enters in silence.

Park is at his desk. His eyes flick up and register something like subdued surprise upon seeing her familiar figure. She deliberately ignores him and finds the last lucky seat in the back row.

Park quickly recovers, making his usual routine of things. He rises to his feet around 1:59, sauntering on long legs to the center of the room. When the clock strikes, he launches directly into his spiel.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Looks like everyone is here today, so… well done.”

Estelle shrinks in her seat, her face burning.

Park doesn’t bother to avoid her gaze today. He gives a small quirk of his lips—not quite a smile, more of a smirk.

Her stomach drops through the floor. She leans over her sketchbook and scribbles some shading into a small doodle on the makeshift margin of her notes.

Park continues, “I enjoyed going through each of your interpretations of last week’s assignment.”

He had apparently especially enjoyed Estelle’s. His comments online had described how impressed he was with her work, encouraging her to apply herself and attempt to perfect her time management skills. You’re a strict schedule away from really shining, Estelle. Your name means star, right? How fitting. I could truly see you going far… but as you well know, sometimes success in this industry comes down to being in the right place at the right time.

Estelle had typed back a biting response, then closed completely out of the web browser before she could hit send.

Park meanders in the front of the room introducing today’s concepts, then goes over a couple housekeeping items. When his agenda outline concludes, he returns to his desk to collect a small stack of papers—a pop quiz, stapled to little tailored project sheets. He begins to pass them out, apparently having organized them in order of usual seating.

When he reaches the empty desk that Estelle usually occupies, his eyes move up the lecture hall to find hers, cold and amused. “Estelle,” he says calmly, clearly. His fingertips touch the surface of the desk before him.

She wants to disappear. His subdued gaze holds her captive. He waits, not wavering, her name hanging in the silence of the air like an active command.

Estelle’s face burns. She glances around, and most students are polite enough to mind their business, but a few are witnessing the strange interaction with side glances of secondhand embarrassment.

This isn’t grade school. For him to demand that she move seats, in front of everyone, to quite literally put her in her place… she knows exactly what this is.

It’s a humiliation ritual.

She gathers her things, staring hard back at him, her jaw clenched. With sketchbook clutched to her chest, bag open and over her shoulder, she descends to the front of the room.

He doesn’t move as she trudges the sloped carpet down, down, until his eyes level with hers for a brief moment, then peer under heavy lashes as she sinks into the spot he wants her in.

He suppresses a smirk as he deposits the half page leaflets before her. He then moves on as if nothing had happened.

Her knees shake a little. She stares at the quiz and personalized assignment sheet without truly registering the printed information, mind reeling with this foreboding revelation.

She had figured he would be awkward about her uncovered sketches, or at the very least dismissive, and she would never have to face the fact that he knew about them. They could both forget, move on, make it through the rest of the semester like nothing happened. Hell, guys like him usually struggle to even hold eye contact.

But now he’s kicking his feet up at his desk, hardly bothering to hide the way he looks her up and down. She’s stuck in plain view, the desk now akin to a glass case in which she perches for his own viewing pleasure.

She exhales softly, forcing feigned exasperation to curb the sizzle of anxious desire spawning in her gut. Delving into the quiz, she takes recess in the words on the page and in her brain, hoping to evade any further interplay.

Park is smug. Sensing her initial flustered reaction to his subtle advances, he eases off for the remainder of class. He doesn’t want to cross the line just yet.

Still, he wonders where that boundary might bend. Might cave.

He watches like a hawk as she completes the quiz, then flips the page to the assignment. Her pretty eyes scan the first sentence, then the second.

There. There it is.

A twitch of her brow, an incredulous loop back to the top of the page. A quick scan of the words again. He grins as he observes the way she freezes, reading over the words again, the way her ears bloom with red. After several beats of silence, only stirred by the scratching of other students’ writing utensils, her pretty eyes finally make a sweep of the room.

Estelle’s chest expands in a breath, which she lets out slowly while she glances around, discreetly trying to gauge if her peers have project prompts like hers. They don’t.

Park takes this delicious opportunity to taunt her. In a calm, friendly tone, he announces, “Each project guideline is a bit different based on the type of work I’ve witnessed from each of you this semester. If you have any questions, please let me know.”

Estelle’s glare is cast at the desk in front of her, but Park knows where she truly wants to put it. He can’t wipe the soft smile off his face as he rises once more from his seat.

“Alright. It seems like everyone has finished up the pop quiz, so we’ll move on to today’s lecture. If you still need time, you have until the end of class to finish. After that, I expect everyone to hand in their responses on their way out. Now…”

Estelle doesn’t sketch in her notes today, her grip on her pencil tighter than usual, her shoulders clenched with unease.

When the lecture concludes, she is the first to rise from her seat and march up to his desk, laying her quiz face down in front of the glaring nameplate. Dr. Park Seong Hwa.

He hasn’t even returned from clearing the whiteboard yet. As he approaches, he slides his slender fingers into his pockets.

“You had a question, Estelle?” he asks calmly.

“Just wondering about the details of my prompt,” she says in a tone half-curt. She steps aside to make room for other students as they pile closer, depositing their quiz leaflets atop her own.

“Ah,” Professor Park’s excruciating smirk is back. “I thought it was pretty straightforward, but if you’d like me to go over it in detail with you, my office hours are open tomorrow.”

The inarguable suggestion makes her all but melt into the floor. She can’t look him in the eye, instead staring placidly at his tie, which is green. Her throat feels dry as she replies, “Okay.”

That’s as far as her courage takes her. She marches out of the room with the other students like a disciplined puppy, dumbstruck at her own reluctance to demand a different outcome.

Confrontation has always come easily to Estelle. In her mind, it is almost always better to face problems early and head-on. In his presence, this drive becomes mysteriously negligible. She returns home still mentally winded.

Tomorrow. A quick dig through the semesters' syllabi yields that his office hours on Fridays begin at six o’clock and conclude at nine. Her other option would be Monday between eight in the morning and noon, but she has class during that time.

She mutters profanities as she drafts an email requesting to meet with him tomorrow. Hitting send is almost as embarrassing as the early walk of shame to her desk. The way his eyes had bore into her own, almost sultry, almost predatory, the way they pierced their way to a place in her brain usually reserved for quieter things... the image is unwelcome, yet admittedly thrilling.

She stares at the email, already sent. As if fearing a fast reply, she slams her laptop shut.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Park doesn’t usually make an appearance at campus on Fridays. Unless previously arranged, students rarely drop by for office hours, and he much prefers to work on grading or lesson plans in his private study at home.

The oak desk and stained glass windows in his office make for a pretty picture, matching the overarching academia of campus. He fits the scene perfectly—adorned in a neat, tailored brown suit and glasses, a stainless steel pen tucked into his breastpocket.

He sips from a cup of coffee—admittedly decaf, only due to his sworn arrangements early the next morning. Usually he prefers the regular drip available next to the faculty lounge down the hall. A neat Columbian blend.

While he waits for seven o’clock to roll around, he perches on the edge of the desk, fingers drumming impatiently on the smooth, dark-stained wood. She’s not late yet.

Eight was late for office hours. He suspects she scheduled it this way to limit their time to an hour.

An hour was more time than he needed.

Park sighs, removing his glasses to rub his eyes. He never was one for patience.

In a stroke of luck, her knock sounds at the stroke of the hour.

“Come in.”

The methodical clang of the campus bell tower accompanies her entrance. As Park slides his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose, he inhales silently.

For class she’s usually dressed in something athletic, something comfortable. Now she’s in this short, short dress and a cardigan that doesn’t match. It looks more like she threw the gray knit on to cover whatever the dress doesn’t underneath.

Obscured from her view by his thigh, the hand clutching the edge of his desk tightens until the knuckles turn white.

He smiles calmly. “Good evening.”

She stands silently just inside the entryway, her doe-like eyes taking in the office. It’s only when he recedes to the chair behind his desk and gestures to the sofa across from him that she moves a muscle.

Tentatively, almost gingerly, she enters and sinks down across from him, sinking into the perfect center of the old couch. She meets his eyes from her place there, withdrawing and unfolding the project assignment page.

“You had questions, from what I understand.” He’s not annoyed yet by her silence, just gently amused. There’s a tension that’s almost appetizing to him. She’s wearing a scent tonight, different from before, that takes up the space of the room quietly, clouding his brain in a feverish haze.

She holds the paper in front of herself like a script, raising her chin a bit. After clearing her throat softly, she speaks.

“Daily sketches, any medium.” Her eyes snap to his, her own gaze cold and guarded.

She’s only reading the assignment prompt, but it lights up something dangerous behind his ribcage. He tilts his head, his smile fading slightly.

She glances briefly at the paper before lowering it, her lips thinning into an unamused line. “For example—a live nude model, human figures, various positions.”

Her flat tone has him blooming in amusement. He smiles and crosses his legs, cradling one knee in his hands.

When he doesn’t respond, She sets the paper flat on his desk, taking in a breath and letting it out slowly. “…Professor,” she says, her voice measured, and he wants to eat her alive. “Don’t you think… given what happened last week… this subject material would be a little inappropriate?”

He lets her suggestion sit in the air until it’s deliciously uncomfortable, then rises to his feet.

She subtly but visibly recoils as he rounds the front of the desk, but he just saunters on past her, heading for the bookshelf.

“I tailored each student’s project prompts to what I’ve seen from their work this semester,” he says, his tone playfully calm.

She folds her fingers in her lap, trying to navigate the conversation down the safest route possible. “Professor—“

“Don’t call me that.” His voice isn’t harsh—it never is, but it’s the closest to a snap she’s ever heard from him. He slides his finger along the gathering dust on the bookcase and sighs softly, turning to find the wipes he keeps under his desk. “At least not like that….”

She hesitates to continue, watching him retrieve the damp cleaning cloth and return to the bookcase. Hardly any dust collects on the wipe, but he seems to relax after the surface is cleared of microscopic debris.

Park tosses the used cloth into the bin by his desk, then finds place in front of it, leaning his hips casually against the wood, his hands loosely gripping the edge. When his eyes meet hers, they are wildly unguarded. A knife could cut the thickness of the silence.

Estelle holds her breath. A million things swirl through her brain, most of them potential avenues for her to insist that her project outline be changed.

He speaks again before she can find her words, his gentle voice making the hair stand on the back of her neck. “You probably want me to change the project, but I would encourage you to explore the possibilities. You are very talented with depicting the human figure, as is apparent in your sketch work but also your paintings.”

Her tongue feels too big for her mouth. The way he rests his weight in front of her, staring at her down the bridge of his nose with something like interest… it ties her stomach into knots. When she tries to speak, a petulant squeak comes out before she recovers and says the first thing on her mind.

“Fine. Let me draw you first, then.”

His curious eyes narrow in unfiltered intrigue. That damn smirk is back. She has no idea why she fucking said that.

“That could make for a very interesting start to your project.” He lets his gaze wander to the pendant around her throat, the way one shoulder of the cardigan falls slightly to the side, exposing her collarbone. “I’d be happy to help with any part of the process, you know. All I ask is that you give it a try.”

Her stomach feels tight with frustration. This is not the way she wanted this to go. “I’d have to get my sketchbook from downstairs,” she says, her words heavy with reluctance.

He wets his lips briefly as she begins nervously spinning the rings on all her fingers. “…You look like you have plans this evening, so we can arrange for another time.”

In truth, he fears his own thoughts if he spends another minute alone with her. He wasn’t expecting her to walk so willingly into his office, to agree to stick to the assignment… to look like this…

Estelle swallows and rises to her feet. “Right. Of course. I’ll give it a try, then.”

Her hesitance is adorable, but she sticks out a hand, as if trying to erect a clear boundary. Professor and student.

He smiles as he accepts the handshake, but is admittedly pleased when her fingers jolt briefly, barely, as his own close around them. “I look forward to your work, Estelle.”

As she leaves the fine arts building, heading for the campus apartment where her friends wait for her, she holds the cardigan a bit tighter around herself. If she were to turn around, she would be able to see the stained glass window, four floors up, light still glowing from inside. But she doesn’t. She walks purposefully away, almost holding her breath until out of the building’s line of sight.

Back in his office, Park sits at his desk, rubbing his face with a groan. He can’t stop wondering where she’s off to in that dress, barely hidden by the loops of crocheted material. He wonders if she squares her shoulders when she shrugs it off. Wonders if she knows the way the dress rides up her thighs when she sits down. Wonders if the back of the dress is lower than the front.

The unfortunate thing is that she has agreed to humor him, to take on this damn project. And now he’ll have to sit through some excruciating session with her eyes all over him, copying his visage onto a page, and he’ll be a cage for his own thoughts, sitting obediently still for her. He finds himself thinking about how the situation would be oh-so fun, if only the roles were reversed.

There’s no doubt in his mind that those thoughts will only continue to grow worse.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

She is late again.

An exasperated sigh spills from Professor Park's lips, an unwelcome pause in an otherwise engaging lecture. She pretends not to notice, dumping her bag onto the nearest empty desk and pulling out her sketchbook. She does not bother to give so much as an apologetic wince.

"Estelle. Nice of you to join us." His tone is pleasant enough, but his jaw flexes in irritation. She just smiles in response.

If not for the interruption, it would have been just like every other Thursday afternoon. Park always starts his lecture precisely at 2p.m., expecting to be done by the hour, when he will then open the floor up for questions. Ideas will bounce around for a little over a half hour, and then class will be dismissed.

For two weeks in a row now, she has interrupted at exactly 2:19 p.m. She is wearing that damn tennis skirt again. Last week, her hair was down, but this time it is tied back in a long, neat braid.

Park narrows his eyes, taking a breath to resume his speech. He had been in the middle of a discussion about the European cultural shift that came with the Crusades.

Park continues, "To summarize, this very ugly history manifested indirectly into the birth of the Renaissance."

Because of her position in the front row, it is even more difficult to ignore her. She barely glances up, taking notes in that messy sketchbook, twirling the end of her braid. It's obnoxious.

Park's eye twitches as he pauses again, shooting her a subtle glare. Her expression is not quite bored, but nearing it.

"Colonialism has a twisted way of yielding results that become internationally celebrated," Park shakes his head, looking around the room at the other students. "It is thus important to think objectively about the art that came from Europe in the 17th century."

"Professor," one student towards the back calls, raising her hand.

Park nods, gesturing to take the question. "Yes—Talia?"

Talia dips her head slightly in respect. "Is this why when looking at artists in Europe during this time, we begin to see Asian influences in technique and materials?"

"Precisely." Park nods. "In addition to styles, the physical materials that became available to Europeans through these seizures and conversions brought over conflict of ideologies, both in politics and releg—leg—excuse me, religion—"

Park's brow twitches at the error. He continues speaking as if nothing has happened, but it's too late. She had noticed where his eyes had wandered, dancing across the floor to where her white sneakers began, glazing north. Even worse, she had caught his verbal slip.

A smirk blossoms on her cherry lips. She continues sketching in her notes, an adorable tint to her cheeks.

Park dares not glance at her for the rest of class, keeping his thoughts instead with Europe and its many sins.

By the time questions open up, he relaxes enough to skim over her figure in a sweep of the classroom, waiting for questions and student discussion. On days with little engagement, Park tends to let the students leave a bit early, and today, he has been mostly satisfied with the class' active engagement—enough at least to send them home. Plus, his heart rate is higher than normal... and it isn't going down. Caged in the back of his mind like a dangerous creature, thoughts of the unholy sort are bickering.

"Right," he claps his hands, the smile reaching his eyes, giving no sign of his inner turmoil. "Have a great weekend, then. Please don't forget the online modules, and check with me if you haven't picked a project topic yet. I'll see everyone next Thursday at 2p.m."

He doesn't exactly intend to do it, but his eyes land on her the moment he mentions the time, reminding her of her tardiness.

She gazes back calmly, that damn smirk still creasing against her cheek.

Without thinking, he beams, "Estelle—stay a minute, please."

No surprise registers on her face. She hardly bothers moving, not even putting anything away. Arms folded, smirk faded slightly, she waits for everyone to exit.

Park’s heart pounds. He smooths back his hair as he waits for everyone to leave.

It takes a bit of time, but eventually, Professor Park stands in front of his desk, one hand carefully arranging a folder to align with the edge of the smooth wood.

Estelle sits still in her seat, regarding him with a curious expression.

"You were late," he finally clears his throat, leaning back against the flat surface, fingertips braced behind him. His eyes find hers, cold and unreadable, a good distance across the room. "Today and last week."

"Yes." Her tone is soft, warm. Tantalizing.

Park smiles dryly. "It's unlike you. Everything okay?"

She tilts her head, smiling faintly, and then slowly begins gathering her things. "I have a class across campus directly before this one."

No apology, no promise to be better about it. Park's lips twitch.

"Ah, I see," he glances at the floor, at her pristine white shoes.

There is a strange tension in the room. As she shoulders her bag, she keeps her eyes on his, as if anticipating something.

"Was that all, then?"

Professor Park nods, sighing softly. "I suppose so. Try not to be late in the future. It will begin to affect your grade."

"I am aware. Thank you, Professor Park."

When she smiles, he grips the edge of his desk, watching her leave.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

She is an undergraduate senior. He knows that much. Allegedly the top of her class, with flying test scores and excellent penmanship, on her way to mastering her own style of painting. She primarily uses oil paints, but dabbles in watercolor and digital art.

The May Senior Show is ongoing in the lobby of the Fine Arts building, two floors underneath his classroom. Professor Park walks past the menagerie of pieces daily, briefly glancing or appreciating them on his way to the stairwell, always ahead of schedule for class time. Until today.

He stares up at a tall, glowy sort of artwork depicting a shapely young woman, naked, half-submerged in a body of water. Aquatic plants frame her rosy skin. Her eyes are closed, seemingly in bliss. The figure is not unlike its artist, physically speaking.

Park's hand tightens on his bag at his side. He spurs himself forward to the stairs, fighting to subdue the heat rising up his neck. It’s no use.

Class starts as usual. Estelle is nowhere to be seen.

As if trying to piss him off, she arrives at 2:19 p.m. on the dot. Professor Park's teeth clench for a moment. He follows her with his eyes, but otherwise does not acknowledge her late attendance.

Today's lecture touches on the modern implications of the European baroque movements. Park’s mind is on anything but.

He slows his lecture, stumbling over words as he attempts to continue, and then eventually sighs and gives up. He removes his glasses, smiling out at the class, trying to appear calm, relaxed. She’s got shorts on today. Her hair is twisted back into a clip.

Park takes a deep breath, turning away to draw on the whiteboard. “People often confuse baroque architecture with gothic styles. Can anyone tell me the difference?”

With large circular motions, he quickly maps out a diagram, then waits for the class to call out suggestions.

“Baroque came later,” one student calls out, half-timid.

Park nods, jotting down “1st” under the gothic side. “What else?”

“Gothic is, like. Pointy.” Someone else says.

Park nods, jotting this down too. “Can anyone tell me which century baroque styles thrived under…?”

“Seventeenth.”

“Precisely.” Park is satisfied by the sound of pen on paper following along behind him. “Now… some things they have in common—?”

“They’re both grandiose.”

Estelle’s voice feels like molten honey, stingingly sweet. The hair stand on the back of Park’s neck as he stiffly nods. “…Very good.”

The room is silent as Park’s marker poises over the next blank space. The quiet lasts so long that it spurs him to turn and raise his brows, the corners of his mouth quirking up.

No one seems ready to answer.

He straightens up and sweeps the eyes of each student, diligently avoiding Estelle’s.

She speaks again, making his jaw clench as his gaze begrudgingly find hers.

She says something, and he’s too busy watching her cherry red lips to listen.

“What was that?” he steps closer, casting his gaze to the floor and tilting his head as if he couldn’t hear her the first time.

“They both use columns and arches.”

His mouth twitches. “That’s right.”

As he turns back to jot this down, his eyes catch the clock, boasting a whole hour and fifteen minutes left of class. He does his best to disguise his tensions, turning to the room with a soft smile on his lips.

“Seeing as we have a basic understanding of the difference between baroque and gothic, I’d like to propose something a bit avant-garde. For the rest of class, please locate campus buildings and take pictures, then upload them to your class folders under one of two separate lists, one for baroque and one for gothic, and explain why you sorted them as such.” He pauses as the room begins scuffling, people putting away notebooks and laptops, then lifts his hand into the air. “Extra credit if you sketch the building instead of taking a picture.”

He returns to his desk, shifting the knot in his tie. It has begin to feel tight. The students gradually begin drifting out, most of them relatively eager to leave class early, even just to look at campus buildings. None of the stoney structures really resemble European gothic or baroque styles at all, but Park is looking forward to their interpretations of his assignment. Plus, he needs some air.

Estelle is slow to pack up, reading something on her phone that makes her brows come together. She doesn’t bother sliding each single belonging into her bag, distractedly standing up and slinging the strap over her shoulder. On the desk remains her sketchbook and a pencil, which she fumbles in one arm until it’s half-hitching a ride with her as she leaves.

Trailing after the other remaining student, she doesn’t seem to notice or care that Professor Park has stood from his desk, making his way over to lock the door behind her.

He’s messing with his sleeves, unbuttoning the cuffs and rolling them up carefully, trying to get air on his skin. It doesn’t help that she’s taking her sweet time to exit.

Trailing close behind to lock up after she leaves is a mistake. Her perfume completely consumes his present senses, and he has to close his eyes.

As soon as he does, he hears a thud and the skidding of pages.

When Park looks down, her sketchbook is on the floor, a handful of loose leaf also strewn about. She’s stooping in those damn shorts to pick everything up. Trying to ignore the screaming of his body, he bends to help her gather the scattered pages, his sigh audible and irritated.

She inhales sharply, stepping in front of him to block his help.

At first he frowns, but then his eyes focus on what he’s looking at and his gaze widens to twice its original size.

Slowly straightening, Park holds the page in front of him. He almost considers removing and cleaning his glasses to make sure he’s not seeing things.

It’s a rough sketch of a woman, faceless, featureless, almost no details included at all except the ropes binding her body taught. Just enough lines exist to render her naked, the ropes digging into her flesh, her head tilted back, thighs forced open by the restraints.

A quick glance around reveals other drawings, equally as lewd, figures engaged in different sexual acts or poses. The floor is covered in at least five or six of them.

Park’s face feels warm. A dangerous, insatiable pull begins to stir like a magnet in his lower belly.

On Estelle’s cheeks is this adorable blush. For some reason, she glares, snatching the page back and hurriedly gathering the rest.

Before Park can fully register the way he is staring, his brow furrowed, his fists clenched, his heart pounding… she is flitting away, the stray pages sandwiched carelessly into the middle of her sketchbook, this time tighter than before.

Soon after, she is gone. The classroom door closes softly on its delayed hinges, weakly hissing away her departure.

Park steps several paces forward, puts his palm against the wood as if to push it open after her, then laughs weakly, his forehead falling against the surface.

If he was curious before, the hunger to know and understand the elusive Estelle has now arrived at a thrilling and dangerous fruition.

misc. tags: hot-headed hwa, enemies to lovers that are still enemies (but it's one-sided), a bit of unserious humor, porn with a plot, obsession, subtle voyeurism, doing it against the wall, fingering, oral sex, "you have no idea how long i've wanted to do this to you," watching from afar, crush, he's had this fantasy for a hot minute, sweat, like lots of sweat, moaning, casual sex, spontaneous sex, "see you next week ;)," etc... as always, let me know if i missed something.

wc: 8596

the smut starts like 1/3 of the way down. yw ;)

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

THIS ONE-SHOT IDEA WAS ORIGINALLY DREAMT UP BY THE EVER-CREATIVE @_cherryhwa_. THE ENTIRE BASE OF THE PLOT BELONGS TO HER BRAIN. thanks hehe~

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

first, separate the whites from the colors. use fabric softener, a healthy dose of detergent that smells like "fresh scent" (whatever the hell that means), then machine wash cold. tumble dry.

this is routine for you. it happens the same way every week on wednesday nights, which are the best nights to go to the laundromat, because who the hell does laundry on a wednesday. usually you'll only see one or two other people there, if at all. you'll put eight coins in to trigger two separate wash cycles, put your headphones on, walk down the street to the park, waste thirty minutes listening to some podcast or album or whatever, walk back up the street to change out the loads to the dryer, put eight more coins in, leave to go check out the video rental store on the corner, drop off last week's films, pick up a new one you've probably-definitely seen before, then return to the laundromat in time to collect your dry clothes. your little rattler of a sedan fits two big baskets in the back seat, but you usually only use one, lights and darks combined. then it's just a ten minute drive back to your cozy little apartment on capitol hill. it's decent, as far as cost, size, and location goes. shame it doesn't have a fucking laundry room.

tonight is no different than normal, except work today was especially heinous and cruel. you feel awful and look as though it's laundry day—and while technically it is, you'd normally never leave your house looking like this, not even to do your lonely hump day ritual.

the lego print pajama bottoms have faded into  pastel colors and the wine-stained, oversized hoodie brags about your no-good-horrible day so you don't have to. you don't even want to think about what your unwashed hair looks like.

you put the coins in the slot, and then you're about to push the button to start an entire load without the stained hoodie, even though you only agreed with yourself to wear it so you wouldn't forget.

just then, the front door chimes, announcing another patron's arrival. you glance up just in time to catch your homely reflection in the glass door before it falls shut. the good-looking guy that walks in pays you no mind, earbuds in his ears, sack of laundry over his shoulder. you've seen him here before. this area of town, with its cheap, shoddy housing, is always attracting young adults looking for that fresh start. maybe that's what they should have named this place.

you sigh and lift your oversized hoodie up off your torso, but the day must have gotten to you, because you fail to remove your headphones first. the wire gets tangled in the drawstrings, the headpiece stuck in the neckline. you're standing there like a fucking idiot trying to blindly fight the mass of gray cotton off your shoulders.

you manage to fit one arm back through the head hole, dislodging the plastic piece snagging on the outside of the hoodie, but this just sends your entire headset tumbling to the floor. you hear a sickening splatter of plastic parts. from under the hem of the hoodie, which is your only window into the outside world right now, you can see several pieces skid across the floor and settle against your feet.

with another sigh, you decide to give up for a moment, letting the stupid sweatshirt revel in its own victory. just as you are about to try to climb out of its depths once more, a muffled question sounds from beside you.

"need help?"

it's that guy. embarrassed, you pull up on the sweatshirt with haste, subsequently sending your glasses tumbling to the floor alongside the broken bits of your headphones. in the chaos, you don't notice that you're peeling off your shirt along with the hoodie until the cool laundromat air hits your midriff.

when you come out on the other side, pushing your clothes down, static electricity from the inner depths of the stupid garment make all your little flyaway hairs stand on end. you're met with the sight of a slender, blurry man kneeling down in front of you.

it dawns on you that you just practically flashed a stranger. at least on your worst days you can be someone's comic relief.

but he doesn't even laugh at your predicament, just silently puts your glasses back in your hand.

you put them on and he slides into focus. taller than you, dark hair, pretty face. sort of breathtaking, actually. he's leaning back down to pick up the pieces of your headphones.

"i got it," you snap, your voice coming out a lot harsher than intended. embarrassment decorates your face like a sunburn. to soften the blow, you utter a quieter, "thanks."

his mouth twitches. he looks at you from where he crouches, seeming to mull something over. then, wordlessly, he rises, looking you up and down.

you stuff the hoodie into the washer and try to ignore both him and the mess of broken parts on the floor around you.

"nice pants."

he says it without emotion. you glance down at the mismatched outfit, wanting to disappear.

when you don't look back at him, he takes the hint and walks back over to his own row of washing machines.

you click the start button and then crouch down to pick up the pieces of your headphones, tears stinging in your eyes. at least your glasses survived the fall. this day has just been awful. the worst part is, it's not even over.

as you head out on your thirty-minute walk, you grieve the loss of your trusty headset. with nothing to listen to but the cars, you wind up reflecting on how bad the work day was.

first thing this morning, the intern brought everyone coffee, but accidentally forgot yours. you smiled and waved it off to make them feel better about it. it was an honest mistake and you probably would have done the same thing as a nervous undergrad working at your first internship.

the second inconvenience happened when your coworker, who is currently on vacation on an island somewhere, was discovered to have forgotten to print out the reports with the monday deadline. you were assigned the task of sorting through his desktop files to find wherever the hell the report went, cutting into your own work time.

it could have been worse—that setback could have put you behind schedule. but no, you had already worked your ass off the week before to get all your tasks out of the way so you could leave early this coming friday. your old college friends were getting married and they wanted you to come. now you're not sure you can get work off, in result of all the hours you lost trying to find that stupid report. turns out, your boss had been emailed a pdf of the document before the coworker had even left for vacation. your boss laughed when he found out. "silly me!"

you don't want to think about any of this though, because anger is a relatively useless and unfruitful emotion.

it's about as unfruitful, actually, as your love life, according to your mom. on your lunch break she called you trying to convince you to download hedge or cinder or whatever the hell the dating apps are called these days. you laughed good-naturedly about it, playfully scolded her for trying to get involved, then ended the phone conversation and sat alone with your instant rice, which had by then gone cold, for the rest of the lunch break.

after that the afternoon was smooth sailing until your boss dropped by to let you know that instead of giving summer bonuses to the top three employees this year, the company had collectively decided to pool that bonus money together and fund a cash drive for a family in need. never mind that your student loans were defaulting and you could only afford instant rice for lunch for the past month while you had been working late nights and holidays to meet that bonus quota. maybe someone out there could really use that money, though.

without intending to, you return to the laundromat bleary-eyed from crying. you're early, so you just sit on a washing machine opposite from the two you have running. it's humid as hell. the impending summer months will make this place feel like a sauna.

that guys is still here, his nose buried in some french book. you fish out your vhs rental return and study the back cover for the remaining handful of minutes on the cycles.

when it's time to transfer your laundry, you catch the guy glancing at you in the reflection of the dryer door. you stuff the rest of the whites in and slam it shut, then deposit your coins and start each machine. by the time you turn around, he's engrossed in his literature again.

although he's pretending not to take note of you, you wonder what he must think of you, the clumsy girl with wine-stained laundry who is now crying in public.

you make your way to the video rental store and decide to not even go inside, just using the drop off box on the outer wall of the building.

when you return to the laundromat, you're somehow early. even after deciding not to pick out a new movie, you still should have arrived after the tumble-dry was already finished, but it reads five more minutes. maybe you walked fast this time.

the guy is no longer there, but he had picked out the dryer right next to yours when he transferred his clothes. you scoff, noting how he didn't even separate lights from darks. his clothes are loud with buttons and zippers, a sound that hurts your ears a little.

when it's time, you gather your finished laundry and head out.

you see him one more time as you speed off towards the freeway, leaning against a blue car on a street adjacent to the laundromat. he watches as you drive past, and you swear you see a smirk on his face.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

the week passes. you end up making it to your friend's wedding, but just the reception. work doesn't get any less frustrating.

your coworker returned from his vacation on monday, bragged in the break room about the beach, then at the end of the day put his two-weeks notice in. this means you'll be taking on his clients, more than likely. double the work for the same pay. when your boss cheerfully announced this morning that he's so glad you're sticking around, you laughed, then promptly updated your resume.

overall, you're nearing your limit. usually you ride out road bumps with ease, handling happenings in stride, never taking anything too personally. for whatever reason, it's all just been too much lately.

it doesn't help that you seem to have misplaced some of your things—your water bottle, your favorite white tee, a twenty dollar bill. at one point you lost your keys, only to find them in the freezer with the week's groceries—a frozen pizza, some frozen berries, and clearance ice cream. you feel like you're losing your mind.

as you roll up to the lonely laundromat, right on your wednesday night schedule, you're reminded of your outward presentation last week you were here, and ultimately suffice that maybe things are looking up. this time you're in some casual pants and a nice button-down. you even dug through the junk drawer and found some old earbuds to wear on your walk today. last week was your lowest point, or so you hope. only up from here.

inside, it's busier than usual. by those standards, that means there are three people instead of zero. more laundry means higher temperatures. the condensation fogs up all the windows, making the outside world blurrier in result.

there are two small, older women sitting next to the vending machine chattering quietly, and down a couple chairs from them is a familiar figure, his head is leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, earbuds in. his arms are folded over his chest, hands pulled in the sleeves of his leather jacket. you can't tell if he's sleeping or not.

when you find your usual pair of washing machines, a cycle is already running in one. across the room, two dryers are going. you deduce that this must be his load here, and the other two belong to the women. he never arrives with more than one load, that you've noticed.

his wash cycle has just started, with twenty-eight minutes remaining. you head down the line and choose some farther away.

by the time you've completed the process of starting up each washer, the ladies are collecting their dry clothes and heading out to their little station wagon parked out front. as they exit, your untangling the ancient wires of your earbuds, preparing to head out.

that's when he stands up and moves toward the exit, hands in his pockets. you glance up as he nears, moving out of his way so he can reach the door.

but he stops right in front of you, withdrawing something from his pocket. it's a twenty dollar bill.

you look up at him, confused. you're about to say something smart, like you don't solicit, but then he speaks.

"it was in the dryer your clothes were in. you left it here last week." his voice is a gentle drawl.

"oh." you stand there for a moment, registering, then tentatively accept the crumpled bill. "thanks."

he nods, pushing past you to the door. as he does so, he intentionally slides his jacket down off his shoulders, tilting his head back and basking for a moment in the setting sunshine just outside.

you stare.

it's not how serene and beautiful he appears, or even that the shirt underneath his jacket perfectly accentuates the width of his waist, the shape of his shoulders, the definition on his chest... it's something else that makes your jaw fall to the floor.

"hey!"

you find yourself putting your hand out to stop the door, a scowl all over your features. the condensation on the glass leaves your palm damp.

he glances back at you, eyes wide and all too innocent.

somewhere in you, the despair and dragging nature of the week stops pulling you down, giving way all at once to an unfamiliar surge of anger. at first it seethes, then it boils. paired with the sticky heat of the air, you may as well be steaming.

"that's my fucking shirt," you point.

in your other hand, you hold the twenty dollar bill. as he turns to face you, giving you a fuller view of the shirt on his body, it crumples in your fist. you suck in a breath.

the white tee isn't quite big enough for his long, slender torso—on you, it rides a bit high, but on him, it's downright slutty.

there's nothing that prepares you for the toned muscles peeking out from underneath the shirt, disappearing into a very visible elastic band. his thumbs curl into the belt loops on his jeans, and he leans on one hip, unable to hide his smirk.

"what, this old thing?"

"why are you wearing my shirt?" you blink several times, tearing your gaze back up to his face. you must be raising your voice a little bit, because the little old ladies pause where they place their laundry baskets in the trunk.

the guy just stares back at you, his smirk fully manifesting.

"do you think this is funny?" you demand loudly.

his eyes drift to the station wagon, his smile fading a bit. he takes a small step toward you, lifting one gentle hand, his demeanor calm as ever. "maybe we should discuss this inside..."

the old women hurry into their respective seats and speed off.

"give me back my fucking shirt!" you cry, incredulous. "how did you even—?"

he's laughing, dipping his head as he moves toward you and corners you back inside. he doesn't touch you, but he puts his arms out as if guiding. You reluctantly step back, taking your anger indoors.

your mind is reeling. as the door shuts, you start back up. "what, are you a freak or something? do you get off on this?"

he laughs out loud now, an expensive laugh, hands still raised as if to calm you. "no, nothing like that—"

you throw up your arms. "then why the hell would you do something like this? give it back."

he's grinning, leaning against an empty machine as he tugs the leather jacket off completely. he seems in no rush to comply, and gives no signal that he's even taking you seriously.

you step closer, putting your foot down, literally and figuratively. "hello? are you just gonna sit there, or—"

"you want the shirt back?" he looks you up and down as you clench your fists at your sides.

"yeah, it's mine. i assume you have others you can change into. give mine back."

"you really want it back?"

"of course i want it back, it's my favorite fucking shirt—!"

"fine." before you even understand what he's doing, he stands up off the machine, putting himself closer than is comfortable. he holds your gaze as he slaps the leather jacket onto the flat surface behind him. he crosses his arms down over his front, pinching the bottom hem of your precious tee with his thumbs, then lifts.

you choke, your heated hostility giving way to a confused flush. this is certainly a huge deviation from your regular routine.

that damn smirk is back when he holds the shirt out to you. "here."

what the fuck?

your hands come up to take the article of clothing, awkwardly brushing with his, but you're sort of shell-shocked. after a second too long, you find your voice. "y-you could have—you didn't have to—you have a whole load of laundry, don't you—?"

his stomach clenches in a soft laugh. "what, my wet clothes?"

he's enjoying this.

"oh my god," you shake your head, flustered. your blush has flooded all the way into your ears by now.

"i think it suits me. probably looks better on you though, right?"

you glare at him. neither of you have moved an inch. to your horror, he leans closerand glances at the shirt in your hands, his voice getting softer.

"maybe you should try it on. whoever it fits better gets to keep it."

"you're absurd," you mutter.

who does this? what sane adult acts like this? and yet...

that raging anger in you burns down to something worse. maybe it's the unopened dating app on your phone, or the way he's probably the most drop-dead gorgeous person you've ever seen, but suddenly you have the urge to play along.

a victorious smirk grows over his lips as he sees the thought linger in your head. his eyes glint as they watch your fingers reach for the uppermost button on your blouse.

your heart beats louder with every button until you can hear it in your ears. you remain relaxed, shrugging off the linen and letting it fall to the dirty concrete floor. so much for laundry day.

he doesn't try to hide the way he looks at you, but he does hook his thumb back into one belt loop and let his arm relax, dragging the top of the jeans slightly lower on that side.

you take a brief glance. "alexander wang, huh?"

"better than calvin klein," he scoffs, eyeing your bra.

you try to glare at him, but he's not looking at your face anymore. to your horror, his full, pink bottom lip curls up and catches in his teeth.

you lift the tee shirt, your tee shirt, over your head and tug it down over your body. immediately, it feels wrong.

to your dismay, as you look in the reflection of the laundromat windows, you can see where the shirt has been ruined by the broadness of his shoulders.

"my shirt," you deflate, and in the reflection you see him reach up.

he snickers as he tugs playfully at the stretched fabric. "what a shame."

you're shocked he's touching you. an electricity in the air you were unaware of before, or at best trying to ignore, suddenly intensifies. his fingers touch at the warped sleeves, but then his knuckle grazes south. as he brushes loosely over your arm, you finally look at him again, your heartbeat suddenly silent.

he watches his fingers move down, then over to your waist, touching the cotton shirt again.

then his palm slides over the side of your ribs, his hand lightly taking hold of the curve of your waist.

behind him, on the other row of machines, both cycles are in full spin, drowning out the soft noise you make by mistake. you'll tell yourself it was out of grief for your favorite shirt, and not because of whatever his touch is doing to you.

his eyes return to your face, watching, surveilling as he gradually moves closer. at first you put your arm out to stop him, acting only on instinct, but then your hand is on his stomach, and all you can do is suck in a sharp breath as the heat radiates into your palm.

"you can keep the stupid shirt," you breathe, reaching to rip it off before he can get any closer, but he helps you, closing the distance, backing you into the wall and peeling the shirt up off your body.

you freeze, electricity rippling over your skin where his knuckles had grazed over you.

he stops, the shirt falling uselessly to the ground. you see his chest rising and falling a little faster. there's a strange vulnerability about the moment.

"is this okay?" he's only looking at your eyes now, completely serious. his gaze clouds with restraint. it's like he's holding back a hunger, fighting a craving.

when you hesitate, he starts to move away, his expression shifting, and he bends his knees as if to grab your clothes off the floor.

"wait." you reach out and grab his wrist before he can hunch down. "it's fine."

when his eyes flick to yours, you feel your heartbeat catch up all at once. your breath quickens to accommodate. the humidity of the room seems to lay thicker.

he doesn't say anything for a moment, slowly rising to his feet. you regard each other in silence.

the likelihood of getting caught in the act would be slim. you visit this laundromat after work every single week. he's here most of the time, and usually it's just the two of you. in the time it takes to wash and dry your clothes, you've only ever seen another person here after seven two times. it's six. there are no cameras. the door is glass, and even though water droplets cover all the windows, a passerby could still reasonably ascertain what two silhouettes were up to. you shouldn't do this.

he moves toward you again, and apparently he's pieced all of this out already, because he takes your waist and pulls you toward the space behind the vending machine, sweeping the chairs out of the way with his leg. your back hits the wall again, and then his hands are on either side of your head.

"stop me if you don't want this." his eyes bore into yours. then he dips his head, and it's like you've left your brain out on the curb where you first saw him in that damn shirt.

his mouth is hot and wet against your throat. your knees turn to jelly, and you let out an unintentional moan.

the sound makes him let out a huff of a breath and crash his hips into yours, effectively pinning you there. his fingers sink into your waistband and start to pull everything down while his words grow hotter and heavier on the side of your neck. "god, if you knew how often i've thought about this... you'd throw my brain in one of those washers."

frazzled, you hold onto his hips. they're warm. "what?"

"i can't help it. look at you." he moves to kiss the curve of your breasts, letting out a moan. "god, i need you."

"i don't even know your name," you utter, your eyes fluttering.

"does it matter?" he pants softly, working on his belt. "call me whatever you want, beautiful."

any sane girl would see this flag for what it was: red. but his hands are turning your blood into syrup and your brain to mush.

he pulls something from his back pocket and puts it between his teeth—a condom, you discover—before shifting down his jeans. his arousal is clear as day through his boxers.

somehow the laundromat feels even more humid than before. he tears the condom from between his teeth and tucks it between his fingers, tilting his head and moving back in to put his lips on your skin.

his kiss is soft and supple and wet and needy. it's a drug. you'd always considered him attractive from afar, but up close like this, he's unreal.

there's no pause that usually comes with first-time coital interactions, no stopping to figure out where to touch or what way to angle your body. his hands direct all of that.

he moves your fingers to his hair while his hips press into yours, slow but hard, lifting you up a bit, his knee pressing between your thighs and forcing you to let him in. the weight of his hips keeps you up, and you feel your own moisture start to seep into the stretchy fabric covering him.

as if silently demanding more, his palm slips underneath your cunt, the heel of his hand pressing hard where it feels good.

you hum out a moan, the pleasure making everything a bit more real, a bit more intense.

"don't be afraid to make noise," he growls. "i like it." when he nibbles at your ear, you oblige.

nothing prepares you for his fingers.

careful and intentional, he slips the first fingertip over your slit, coating it nicely in your wetness and then circling back up to tease your clit. keeping pressure, he then dives in, and you're easily taking his second finger.

your head falls back against the wall, and you groan.

he's breathing heavily. his cock twitches against your thigh.

his jeans sit on his thighs, growing taught as he spreads your thighs with his own, moving his fingers deeper inside you.

"god," you blink at the ceiling. "you're good at that..."

he smiles, watching his wrist work.

you let your eyes close, relaxing against the wall, angling your hips so he touches you just right. after a while, you can hear a faint, sloppy noise coming from between your legs. with awful timing, you also hear the washers stop.

with a sigh, he withdraws his fingers. he lingers for a moment, his jaw flexing in irritation. "stay here," he mumbles, and then he's gone, leaving you panting softly in the humidity.

you peek around the vending machine to see him tossing your ruined shirt into a washer, start it, then cross the room to load your wet laundry into one of the dryers.

"don't steal another shirt," you warn.

he just grins, throwing everything in and slamming the door. you realize after a moment that he's already depositing coins.

you start to bend down, shaking off your shoes and the rest of your pants, feeling for the pockets. "here, i have change—"

"don't worry about it," he calls.

soon, he's back in front of you.

"did you only start one dryer?"

"yeah," he's shifting down his jeans again, eyeing you up and down.

"what about—"

"i mixed them."

you frown. "into the same dryer?!"

he grins, adjusting himself before sinking to his knees. "i only had eight more coins."

"so you mixed our laundry, and you didn't even separate the whites? there's a coin machine, you know."

"i'm a bit busy at the moment."

his audacity makes you wonder if he wants you to hate fuck him. but you don't have time to dwell on it, because he's looking up at you with these big, needy eyes, his hands smoothing up and down your thighs, melting into a firm grip under your knees. it's enough to make anyone forget what they're thinking.

he tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to open up. when you do, he takes your fingers and migrates them back into his hair, then leans towards your hips.

there is no hesitation. he kisses harshly on your clit and then plunges his tongue into you immediately, giving you no warning. you squeak in surprise and grab a fistful of his hair, your knees nearly giving way.

he makes an amused rumble that tickles against your pussy, then uses one arm to pull one of your thighs up onto his shoulder, the other bracing across your lower stomach and pushing your hips against the wall, sort of holding you there. the noises around his mouth start to get sloppy as he tucks in.

you've been eaten out before, but not like this. he's fucking greedy. your cries are coming like your legs—shaky. at first you try to watch, but the sight of his full, velvety lips making out with your clit while his tongue swirls is making you feel dizzy, and you have to lean your head back, whining into the thick air. maybe you're getting heat stroke. the condensation starts to combine with the moisture on your skin, forming droplets that roll down your forehead, your neck and stomach.

his skin has a sheen to it too. you're not sure how he keeps up the steady press of his arm against you, but he hardly seems phased, the honey skin on his shoulders rippling as he nods his head, lapping away.

only when the moisture starts dripping down his chin, and you've become a whimpering mess, is he finally satisfied. he gently puts your foot back onto the floor and wipes his face on his hand. then he looks up at you, refusing to break eye contact as he rises off the floor. soon you're staring up at him, chest heaving, legs wobbly.

his hooded gaze flicks over your face, the corner of his mouth creasing in amusement as he assesses that state he's put you in. your eyes must be glossed over. "turn around," he murmurs.

he doesn't wait for you to listen. his grip on your hips is gentle, but firm. soon you're spun to face the wall, and you put one forearm up to brace yourself.

his hands move down your sides, his thumbs pressing gentle shapes into the muscles on your back. you relax a bit, though the sigh that escapes you is a trembling one.

his fingers brush your hair to one shoulder, then his mouth lays an open-mouthed kiss on the opposite one. his other hand slides under the curve of your ass, then down between your thighs, assessing your body's response. you let out a choked whine as his fingers graze over the nerves he's just sucked raw.

"yeah... you're ready now," he sighs, laying a sickeningly hot kiss on your neck. his hands grow hungrier, wandering a bit, and one curves over your hip bone to pull your hips slightly closer. "can you stand on your toes for a second for me, beautiful?"

his gentleness has gooseflesh rising all over your body. you do as he asks, arching to tilt your pelvis so it aligns a bit more with his.

he lets out an appreciative groan, his fingers sliding down to feel the wetness between your thighs again. you gasp softly as they drift upward, rubbing appreciatively over the mess he's made of you.

you hear a crinkle of foil and glance over your shoulder to see him ripping the condom wrapper with his teeth. the sight of something between his lips like that triples the desire simmering in your belly. his eyes are on your ass, and as he fits the rubber over himself, he lets out a sigh that makes his head tilt, his other palm coming up to brace on the wall beside your shoulder.

then, planting one last fervent kiss to your spine, he presses his cock against your dripping slit and starts to spread you open.

you bite your wrist, doing your best to stay up on your toes as he gets comfortable. the push is gradual, giving you time to stretch, but the way he's prepared you to take him in has made the whole process so much easier.

he groans, a guttural noise that brings the heat to your face. the air feels like it's going to burst into flames. the sweat on your skin makes your hips slippery, but he holds one anyway, keeping you still while he works his way deeper.

when his body presses flush to yours, he draws back a bit, then teases into that spot, swaying his hips gently, feeling how you clench.

his voice is a bit broken. "you can relax," he chuckles, seeing how your knees tremble with the effort of keeping on your toes.

he doesn't wait for your heels to touch the ground, he just starts moving, nice and slow, pulling your hips slightly closer each time he buries himself to the hilt.

you do your best to keep to the wall, which is much cooler than the air around you. your breath adds to the condensation clinging to its surface. this whole situation is wet as hell. hot in more ways than one.

just when you think you've adjusted to the feeling of him filling you over and over again, he starts to go faster, his fingers gripping so tight on your hips it almost hurts.

"god," he pants, his breaths ragged. he sounds like he's clenching his teeth. "holy fuck... you have no idea... how long i've wanted to do this... oh, ffffuuuck..."

as he pounds into you, you start to hear the way your body responds to him, the sound carrying even over the clanging of the dryer. a particularly sopping squelch makes you close your thighs and whine aloud. you think of your clothes all mixed together across the room, your sweat and pleasure mixing over here.

god, this feels fucking good.

it gets worse when he wraps one hand around the front of you, adjusting his stance to sort of buck his hips upward into your ass, and then he starts to grind his fingers into your clit.

"oh—" you choke.

your hips jolt, and he lets you settle for half a second before he's mercilessly shoving up into you again. as if on their own, your hips arch for him, and you nearly sob at the sensation.

you're making sounds you've never heard from yourself before. his knees dig between your legs, pushing them apart again as his hands keep your hips still. his cock must be completely drenched, because your slick is dripping down your thighs now. he's going to have to wash his jeans.

your body is thrumming and responding to the onslaught of pleasure by squeezing down on him. he's letting out desperate grunts and whimpers, somehow holding his relentless pace, then speeding faster. you're surprised at how easily you feel yourself near that limit, its approach coiling tight in your lower belly.

"do you want..." he pants. "are you comfortable moving to..."

he's gasping for air. he slows, still pumping as if reluctant to stop, but his movements grow weaker until he eventually peels back, fully removing himself. his absence gives you a second to breathe.

you lean heavily into the wall for a few seconds before pushing yourself off, turning to see where he's gone.

he's hopping up onto the washer. not just any washer—the one he just put your shirt in. it rumbles and trembles underneath him as he works his jeans off over his ankles.

you're so needy you're dripping, but you have some decency.

"someone could walk in," you point out.

he only grins and pats his lap. his erect cock waits, and you shoot one more apprehensive look toward the door before stepping out of your hiding place.

as you climb onto the shaking machine, settling overtop his hips, your face is burning.

"no one ever comes here past this time on a wednesday." he must pay attention too. it makes you wonder what else he pays attention to.

"people could still drive by and look in the windows." even as you argue, you're lifting your hips for him. you're not sure what overcomes you, but you're pushing your hands through his damp hair while he lifts up his throbbing cock and stands it up underneath you.

"they're foggy." even though he's right, you can't help but wonder if he likes the thrill of potentially getting caught.

he's more impatient than you are. his hands are gentle as they pull you down onto him. you take him completely, hips meeting his, and whimper softly. his eyes close, and he lets out a breath. beneath the both of you, the vibration of the laundry cycle gives you extra friction.

your thighs squeeze his hips as you begin to grind, working your wetness back over him for a moment. then you're lifting, hips bobbing, and he watches as he fills you over and over again, leaning back on his palms.

his figure's toned contours are exemplified by the sweat dripping over his skin. you let one hand smooth down the side of his neck, fingertips trailing, and then slide your touch to the front of his throat, moving down from there. as you descend his curves and edges, appreciating the obvious work he puts into maintaining his figure, his head tilts back, and his face flickers in a groan. he might like this more than anything else you've done so far. you grind a bit harder, heightening his pleasure.

as you reach the bottom of his stomach, you flatten your palm there and fit your other hand to his thigh behind you. bracing on his body, you start to bounce on his cock.

eagerly, he lifts his hips, a whine escaping his parted lips. "oh my god..."

the washing machine starts to shudder, and at first it throws you off balance, but then you learn how to move on top of it, rolling your hips as you come down on him, your pussy closing desperately around his cock.

he grabs your waist and forcibly guides your hips forward a bit, shattering the illusion that you're in control.

"fuck," he sighs, gazing down the bridge of his nose to where your hips connect. his eyes wander up your body as you continue riding his achingly-pleasant erection. after a couple more wet slaps of skin to skin, his knuckles graze up your ribcage and his thumb and forefinger roll over your nipple, softly pinching.

you feel your pussy start to throb, and you unintentionally let out a weak whimper. one of your hands lifts, curling around your front to touch yourself.

he watches as if fascinated by your fingers dipping down between your hips, learning how you please yourself. you fuck him a bit faster, crying out softly.

he allows you to continue for a bit, making sounds to let you know how well you're doing, but his eyes glint dangerously as he suddenly reaches down and pushes your wrist out of his way.

"let me."

his thumb touches your sensitive, throbbing clit with ease. he smiles softly as he feels your cunt clench up for him, and in your bout of pleasure, your thighs weaken, so he starts to make up for the faltered pace by thrusting his hips upward, a repeated swinging motion that makes your mind go blank.

"fuck," you moan, your hole fluttering.

"look at you, the girl who hides her panties inside other clothes when she moves them, getting fucked by a stranger in public." his lips curl into a vicious smile, sweat beading on his forehead. god, the air is so hot it's suffocating.

"you don't sound... like a stranger... if you know that much," you pant, unease and pleasure both making your brows furrow.

he doesn't respond to your statement, instead asking, "are you close?"

you look into his eyes, your own surely dazed. he doesn't stop shoving up into you, and each thrust makes your vision blur slightly. you nod.

"good." he sighs, desperation scrawling across his features as his eyes rake back down your form. "god, you're so pretty, riding me like this."

the unexpected praise makes you breathless for a second. you try to retake control, bringing your hips down a little harder, but he grabs you with one hand, fingers so tight under your thigh they might bruise. his breathing is ragged, and he's begun to have this sort of starry, far-off look.

his insistence on fucking you, even from his underneath position, has thrown you off. you try your best at this point to hold your hips where he seems to want them, but it's difficult because your thighs are so weak and shaky now.

he grunts, pushing his cock into you so hard that he lifts you higher off the washing machine. you yelp in surprise, and he takes advantage of the widened space, grabbing your waist and flipping you over. his feet hit the floor, but your hips are shelved onto the edge of the machine, and he grips your knees, pulling your thighs up around his waist, sinking back into you yet again.

you lay back on your elbows, the wash cycle quaking beneath you, making your body sway as he finds his pace. his skin is slick, and so is yours, and it's only his grip on the underside of your knees that gives him leverage. the humidity entraps you. you swear you can drink the air. he's pounding pleasure into you, and you're not sure if it's heatstroke or impending bliss, but you feel a bit faint.

"i'm—" you muster, and he understands.

"god, me too."

he somehow picks up his pace, and you cry out, squirming. "oh—mmh, fuck, yes, god, like that—mmnh—"

"fuck," he barks, slamming into you, hard.

you arch, feeling a hot flash sear through your body, the heat and the moisture and the pressure eclipsing into a pleasure so strong you feel like you have to hold onto the machine.

he holds his cock in you as far as it will go, both hands in a death grip on your hips now, trying to hold steady against you, but the spin cycle jostles you around, causing him to cry brokenly. his hips shudder, grinding desperately into yours as he doubles over, his forehead on your chest.

your legs give up, hanging uselessly off the side of the machine. you blink up at the ceiling, trying to wipe the water off your brow, but everything around you is covered in sweat and condensation, and there's not escaping it.

he takes another moment before gathering you up in his arms and kissing across your breasts and shoulders, slowly relaxing his hips and slipping out of you.

"holy shit," you mutter, catching your breath.

underneath you, the washer shudders to a stop.

he starts laughing against your shoulder, and you look at him as he uprights himself and helps you to sit up.

"i have excellent time management skills, by the way," he's still grinning ear to ear, standing between your knees, proud of himself.

the situation is odd, unprecedented, probably one of the stupidest things you've ever done—but as you look up at his face, framed by damp hair, rolling with sweat, you feel your heart stutter. he really is gorgeous, even after all that. you must look all red and blotchy and greasy from the perspiration, but he's glowing.

his eyes squint in amusement at you, but he doesn't comment on your starstruck expression. instead, he surprises you even more by leaning in to plant a kiss on your forehead. and after everything that you just did together, this feels the most intimate of all.

he leaves you sitting on the machine, heading to the dryer and opening it up to test the dryness of the clothes. they must be dry enough, because he pulls out a couple articles and then makes his way back over, tossing some of them at you.

he chose well—you're able to pull on a fresh tank top, some lacy underwear, and some cotton shorts. when you're done, he's tugged on some basketball shorts and is gathering the clothing strewn about, like his dirty jeans and his underwear.

"where are my dirty clothes?" you inquire aloud, still a bit dizzy, and now thoroughly exhausted.

"i put them over in your basket," he explains nonchalantly, heading for the vending machine. he pulls some crumpled bills from his jeans. "except that shirt. i'm washing that."

you find your shoes, then cross over to the dryers, brain whirring. did that just fucking happen?

as you're pulling out the clothes piece by piece, sorting them into his bag on the floor or your basket, you shake your head at the strangeness of the situation.

"so what's—" you call, turning to look at him, but you're surprised to find he's right behind you, holding out one of the two bottles from the vending machine. they're some generic brand of lemonade. "...what's your name, then?"

"seonghwa." he smiles warmly as you take the ice cold bottle, cracking open his own.

the sweet, sour drink tastes like it must be ambrosia. you have to stop yourself from chugging the entire bottle.

seonghwa has no such restraint. he tips his head back, some of the liquid escaping and making a trail down his throat as he gulps. despite your satisfied state, you feel a fizzle of desire in your gut. you turn back to the laundry, chastising yourself internally. you had your fun. you need to stop finding this weirdo attractive.

"what's your name?" he exhales after his long drink.

"oh, you don't know already?" you jab. "since you seem to know so many other things..."

"i'm not a stalker," he grins, stepping up beside you. he bumps your hip so you'll make room, then begins to help sort the clothes. you catch him playfully putting one of your socks in his bag, and you snatch it away from him. he snickers. "kidding, i'm only kidding..."

"so why did you wear my shirt? did you think i wouldn't notice?"

he puffs a breath of a laugh. "god forbid i try to flirt with you."

this makes you stop. you don't look at him, but you can see him grinning in your peripheral as he continues sorting the last of the clothes.

"i have a tip for you. next time a woman leaves their clothes in the dryer, don't put them on to 'flirt' with them."

"seemed pretty effective."

he sounds too amused. whatever refreshment the lemonade had offered now fades, replaced with the suffocating heat again. your annoyance, still rooted in incredulousness, begins to simmer.

"freak," you mutter, and you toss the last bit of laundry in your basket, hoisting it onto your hip.

"see you next week," he laughs.

you roll your eyes as you storm out of the laundromat.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

work doesn't get easier, but not for the usual reasons. your boss is still an oblivious idiot, your coworkers are lazy, and every minor inconvenience that can go wrong, does. this is all as per usual, but you feel like they're the least of your concerns now. the real problem is how you can't get the weirdo from the laundromat out of your head.

on wednesday you roll up at the regular time, and he's already there, along with one other older guy you see around sometimes.

seonghwa has his headphones in, his head tilted against the wall, eyes closed. just like last time.

only one dryer is on. this is strange. maybe one of the machines has a load of laundry waiting to be removed? whatever, it doesn't concern you.

you start your wash like normal—separating lights from darks, first and foremost. luckily your whites survived last week's dryer mix, and you seem to have gotten all your clothes back, save the shirt that was washing when you left. you wonder if he'll really keep it, or...

as if on cue, you feel a presence at your side. you're about to roll your eyes, but he drops something on the washer in front of you before brushing past you and heading for the door.

it's a shopping bag. you frown, looking after him as he disappears. then, curiously, you stick your hand inside to feel several things, all tied up in some sort of string. when you withdraw the parcel, you are surprised to see a little bow, its ribbon sandwiching together a brand new copy of your white shirt, a handwritten note, and on top, a small, sealed box containing some earbuds.

you slide the note out from under the box, still frowning, but as your eyes skim the page, your expression softens into almost a smile. it reads:

sorry for being a creep and stealing your shirt. what i told you about it being in the dryer after you left wasn't true. you dropped it on the way to the dryer that day and i could have given it back to you, but i didn't. i wanted to wear it and see if you'd do anything.

anyway, i'm keeping the shirt. it looks good on me. here's a new one to compensate.

you never told me your name. if you're not super creeped out by me, you should text it to me. if i don’t hear from you, i’ll change my laundry days to Tuesday. the last thing i want is to make you uncomfortable. i know it probably doesn’t look that way, but it’s true.

his number is scrawled out at the bottom. you flip the paper to find another little paragraph.

p.s. i'm sorry about your headphones. they looked really cool and vintage. i hope this isn't weird, but i had an extra pair of regular old earbuds just sitting in a drawer. i want you to have them.

see you around,

specs: yunho x fem reader au. established relationship. you're a college student. you regularly hang out at their apartment when they're not on tour (i.e. you have a toothbrush there and have your own set of keys, vice versa, etc).

misc. tags: video games, mild relationship neglect/ignoring, HAND FIXATION, oral sex, m/f sex, fingering, "daddy" kink, extremely mild discipline/withholding, rewarding, mild breeding kink, choking, gagging, wearing things for him, use of pet names (babygirl, baby, angel, sweetheart, good girl, etc), making out, like LOTS of making out, edging, mostly vanilla, very domestic, cuddling, affection... let me know if i left some out!

word count: 8043

cheers~

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

normally, you're very supportive of yunho's digital hobbies, regardless of whether he pursues them out of aspiration or leisure. he's been playing really well at fps games lately, and occasionally you'll join him for a friendly match of valorant or overwatch. it's how he likes to spend his free time, and you're perfectly fine with that. you even find it kind of endearing.

a few hours ago, though, you were literally on top of him, mid-make-out, when his pc pinged with a notification that his international friend was online. he kissed you a total of four more times before maneuvering out from underneath you, and then before you had even fully recovered from the haze his lips had left you in, he was wearing his headset not two meters away, and you were half-naked in his bed behind him.

to add insult to injury, he paused his game when yeosang knocked, announcing the arrival of pizza. you had been cockblocked by video games and food. nice.

not feeling up to trekking the high road, you had gathered your things, put your clothes back on, stolen one of his sweaters, and went back to your own apartment, grumbling something about studying on the way out.

obliviously cheerful, yunho had called his good-bye and love-you through a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni.

your apartment is quiet and lonely, but peaceful. after sulking over a textbook for a few hours, you finally check your phone to find that he had messaged you half an hour ago, wishing you a good night's sleep and expressing his desire to see you.

"guess what? we're so close to making the finals! wish you were here, baby. sleep well 💙"

you sigh and thumb a response. "it hurt my feelings a lot that you ditched me to play games. see you tomorrow?"

his response is almost immediate. "why didn't you say something? :("

"i don't want to do this right now, yu. i'm really tired. i love you, gn"

a few minutes go by. you watch the typing bubble appear then disappear several times over. still bitter, you put your phone facedown and roll to face the wall, opening up that stupid textbook again.

just as your eyes are growing heavy, skimming over the words, you hear a faint knock on the door across the room. confused, you check your phone to be sure, only to find that you missed his final message from before. "i'm coming over."

you roll out of bed with a groan and cross the studio apartment to open the door for him. as the hinges squeak in admission, you don't bother to hide your displeasure, stepping aside to let him in.

he's still in his practice clothes, and he has the pizza box in his hand. "you didn't eat any," he says gently. "i know you're hungry. have some."

with a shrug, you take the box and cross to the couch under the big window overlooking campus. the pizza is cold now, and there are only two slices left. you take one.

"thanks," you mutter, unimpressed by his thoughtfulness.

he seems to accept that you're still upset, sighing as he lands beside you on the couch. "i'm sorry," he says, genuinely. "i realize what i did wrong, and i'm gonna make it up to you."