#ennysbookstore

San had been aimlessly wandering for the better part of an hour now. The cloudy sky above him was telling, raindrops threatening to come down any minute now. But San only continues, kicking forward the rather large pebble that had come loose from the sidewalk some blocks back.

Not too concerned with the passing time, San wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking. He hadn’t known how he’d managed to occupy his time in the past couple of weeks, the days and nights melding into one. He passes a busy salon and briefly glances at the women dying and perming their hair. He turns away, hoping they have an umbrella.  

But even the hovering bad weather wasn’t enough to bring the people walking besides him down. They walk giddily, hand in hand, pointing at the intricate window displays. He felt uncomfortable, his self-implicated alienation uncomfortably obvious among their holiday spirit.

He huffs a heavy sigh. This forced time off was proving to be much more difficult than he had anticipated. The first couple of days were manageable. He caught up with his much-needed lack of sleep and spent the rest of the days cleaning his apartment. But once he ran out of the little food he did have, he was reluctantly forced to visit the grocery store. 

He’d caught up on sleep, cleaned every corner of his apartment, and finally cleared out the fridge. But once he ran out of food, he’d been forced to venture out. A trip to the grocery store yielded a sad haul of bread, milk, and a boxed mix of leafy greens: a reflection of his lack of appetite and, frankly, his lack of enthusiasm for life outside work.

With his errands complete, he hadn’t been ready to return to his apartment, its silence pressing on him like a second skin. So, he walked, turning down unfamiliar streets and weaving through alleys with no destination in mind. Who was he without his badge? Without people to protect? Without a purpose?

San had always been a hardhead. It served him well in the academy and in the early days at the precinct. But lately, it had become more of a liability than an asset. He clenched his jaw at the memory of his last case, the interrogation room dim and suffocating as he pressed a suspect for hours on end. The man was as slippery as they came, smirking through San’s frustration until something in him snapped.

“You gotta cool it, son,” the chief had said, stepping into the hallway just as San stormed out of the room.

San hadn’t stopped, his boots echoing down the corridor as he made a beeline for his desk. “He’s guilty, and you know it,” he’d fired back over his shoulder, his tone cutting.

The chief followed, his voice calm but firm. “Maybe he is, but You can’t lose control like that, especially not without any evidence to back yourself up. I’ve been down that road before, and trust me, it doesn’t lead anywhere pretty. We’ve got protocols for a reason.”

San shoved a stack of papers aside, his jaw tightening. “Protocols don’t mean shit when someone like that walks free because of a technicality.”

The chief sighed, rubbing a hand over his weathered face. “Look, I get it. You’re one of the best we’ve got. Hell, I saw it back in the academy, and I see it every damn day. You’ve got drive, heart—more than most of the guys in this building. But that doesn’t mean you’re above the rules.”

San scoffed, his frustration bubbling over. “Half the guys here don’t give a damn about protecting anyone. They’re just here for the paycheck or the power trip. And you want to lecture me about rules?”

The chief’s gaze hardened, his voice dropping low. “Fine. Maybe not everyone’s in it for the right reasons. But you are. And that’s why you can’t let this anger consume you. You can’t help anyone if you burn out or get yourself benched permanently.”

They walked toward the heavy double doors, the city quiet in the crisp night air. The chief stopped at the top of the stairs, his breath visible as he exhaled slowly. “Listen, son. I’ve been where you are. I know what it feels like to want justice so bad it hurts. But you’ve got to channel that fire, not let it control you. That’s why I’m putting you on mandatory leave.”

San froze, turning to him with disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” The chief’s tone was unyielding. “Give me your badge and gun. You’re not coming back until you’ve had time to figure out who you are without them.”

Reluctantly, San handed over the items, his heart sinking as the chief took them. The older man’s face softened, his voice quiet but resolute. “I know you’ve got anger for the unjust that’s drowning this city, but you can’t bottle it up and blow it out on some asshole that mugs old ladies. I want you to know this isn’t a punishment. It’s a second chance. Use it to get your head straight.” 

And San figures that was fair.

This time was supposed to help him answer that, but all San had done was sleep, clean his apartment, get some groceries, and take an obscurely long walk to strange parts of the city.

“Oops. Sorry, mister!” San looks down to find a little boy patting the material of his black trousers. He couldn’t have been any older than five, cheeks tinged rose in the cold. One of his hands was gloved, and the other was bare, tightly clutching a powdered pastry, much of the powder now on San’s pant leg. The kid’s gloved hand continues to wipe, only smearing the stark white sugar more, coloring the spot on his pants a light gray. 

The little boy’s mother pulls him away to continue down the crowded street, throwing a quick apology in San's way before turning around to scold her son. They quickly get lost in the sea of people in the busy downtown. 

The streets are bustling today. The decorations for the holidays had gone up some days ago, and now, every storefront was decked with wreaths and lights. San looks at the people that pass him, faces stretched wide with smiles and hands filled with presents and wrapping paper. His steps slow a little, watching the happiness decorate the faces of so many people. 

To look at the streets and people without having a tragedy to attach to them was unfamiliar to him, unnatural even. 

The traffic was only increasing, with more and more people bumping into San’s shoulders. San finds it stifling, and he feels as if he’s back in the interrogation room with the ticking clock of detainment breathing down his neck. 

His chest constricts, and San finds himself turning into an alley. Adapting a fast pace, he exits out the alley into another street, his large pebble shockingly still alongside his uneven stride. 

This street is quiet, void of the festive cheer from the street that runs parallel, and it helps in calming him down. He breathes in the cool November air and looks at his surroundings. Despite having lived in the city for several years now, he’d never been down this particular street, at least he thinks he hasn’t. There had never been time to explore with the multitude of cases.

The storefronts here are also decorated, but it fares lamely compared to the other street. The effort is minimal and it shows desperately. Many of the strung up lights are no longer lit, and the wreaths look as if one strong gust could blow them apart. 

The festivity on this street feels exhausted like it’s seen one to many holiday seasons and just can’t be bothered to participate in them, yet San finds it comforting. Despite the stress the holidays brought to the precinct, San had always liked this time of year, and the way this particular street was decorated seemed to resonate with him more. 

While he can still hear the commotion of people from one street over, he tries to walk it off, and for some minutes, San and his pebble stroll the quieter street. 

Without having to dodge other shoppers or watch out for little children, the chief’s words come back to his mind. 

You can’t lose control like that, especially not without any evidence to back yourself up. I’ve been down that road before, and trust me, it doesn’t lead anywhere pretty.

The chief’s downfall was a story San had pieced together from fragments over the years. The case that broke him was a mess—eyewitness accounts that contradicted each other, blurry CCTV footage, and the absence of concrete evidence. The parallels were impossible to ignore.

And if there was one thing Choi San did not have, it was the concrete evidence. 

But he knew that all it would’ve taken was a little bit of pushing. With just a little bit of prodding, he could’ve and would’ve gotten a confession. 

His frustration, while milder than it was the night of the interrogation, is renewed, and to exercise it, he kicks particularly hard at his pebble, making it roll off the sidewalk and unceremoniously fall into a storm drain. When he hears the clink as it reaches the sewer floor, San also feels the first raindrop. 

He can only sigh. With the pebble and the chief forgotten, he speeds up, finally tilting his head upwards to read the storefront signs, deciding that, without an umbrella, he’d surely need to find a sanctuary in one of them soon.

He passes far too many more salons and boutiques than one street needs, before entering a seemingly forgotten corner of the avenue. Many of the spaces are for sale, another couple advertising shady business operations, and finally one sad mattress store. Just past them, is another store with a sigh San can’t quite make out. As the weight of the raindrops increases, he moves closer, careful to not slip on the slick cobblestones. 

Nearing it, the sign simply reads “Old & Rare Books”. The outside of the store is sodden much like the rest of the street, and the interior so dark that the window in the front doesn’t show San anything but his own reflection. 

San turns his back to the store, eyeing the entrance of the mattress store and one of the many salons further down the street. With one more look at the thundering sky, San pushes the heavy wooden door to the bookstore open. 

The inside of the store, despite its cool appearance, is warm and unexpectedly smells of chocolate. The walls are lined with rich, ebony wood, only darkening the space more. As San turns to eye the rest of the store, his bag of groceries thuds against a stack of books, knocking the pile over. 

With a sigh, San only looks for an employee, but what he finds is complete disarray. 

To put it simply, the store was in utter chaos. Much like the fallen jumble by the door, there were books strewn everywhere, the messy heaps neverending, forcefully stacked and piled against one another with no formality. With a crooked neck, San finds the rest of the long and dim store in a similar manner. 

The state of the mess has San standing still, and as he observes his surroundings, his disbelief only builds. This store was like a thief’s playground. 

First of all, the store was entirely too dark, and there were no clear sightlines for San or any employees to keep an eye on the entirety of the store’s layout. The register was located in a strange corner to his right, and San was unable to spot any cameras. San wouldn’t even know how to begin to take inventory when the inventory itself was scattered so carelessly in every corner of the store. To his left, there was a brown leather couch nestled in another corner, and on its cushions slept a very much not alert gray cat. 

Opposite the couch was a box computer that looked to be older than San, a logo bouncing from edge to edge on its screen, and just behind that was a wire spiral staircase leading up to the second floor. And, there was still no employee in sight, despite the ringing of the bell that hung above the door and the thudding of the stack of books San had knocked over. 

If anyone did decide to steal, the store owner would be none the wiser. 

This was starting to piss San off. If a call had come into the precinct to report a theft of any kind, there would be little to nothing they could do, and their report would be a measly one page, lacking any and all substance. And he knows that after the fact, the precinct would still be bad-mouthed by the store owner or even a local newspaper, written aside to be lazy.  

He feels his chest constricting again and decides the mattress store will just have to do. He turns back towards the door he’s just come through, but through the window, he watches the rain pour, drizzling down heavily onto the pavement and roads, darkening them. Begrudgingly, he faces the interior of the bookstore again. 

He hears a gentle clicking of shoes against the wooden panels from the creaky floor above him, and suddenly, descending the wire staircase, you peak your head out. Oddly enough, the anxiety he was feeling only moments ago vanishes as you come into view. 

You seem misplaced in the store, the whites and cream of your apparel far too contrasted with the dark and moody interior. Your long cream skirt drags slightly along the floor, and there’s a dirtied apron tied securely around your waist smeared with a combination of sugar, butter, and flour. As you move closer, San can smell baked goods.

Unlike the artificially and sickly sweet smell coming from the bakeries and pastry shops from the parallel street, you smell real. San doesn’t know how to describe it, but he momentarily shuts his eyes, taking in your scent. 

“Hi! Welcome in, is there anything I can help you find?” Your voice is cheery, and you hope it isn’t all too obvious that you’re excited to finally have someone in the store. 

With the holiday season in full swing, the traffic on main street was bound to trickle into your street, but with new big-brand wholesale bookstores popping up all over the city, you could only pray customers would walk far enough into this street to see your place. 

So when anybody, especially someone this handsome, walks in, you want to be there to greet them, welcoming them into your store with a warm Hello! and sincere Thank you! for choosing your little bookstore instead of the heavily franchised wholesalers across town, but cookies in your oven had a different idea. 

The man’s features, although striking, were roughened, like he’d been to war and back, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep by toasty fire. Yet you stand undeterred and patiently in front of the man, waiting for him to answer. You were positive you could find him something to read in your store, it was your job after all.

“Just escaping the rain for some time, I’ll be leaving once it slows,” is all he says, voice deep and certain.

You only hum, continuing in his direction, stopping in front of the window. You stand side-by-side, watching the pouring rain for some seconds before whispering, “Wow, it’s really coming down out there.” You turn to the man, placing your hands on your hips, “Sure I can’t offer you something to read? We’ve got books for all ages, I’m sure I can find you something,” you suggest.

Normally, San would have a hard time believing you, and he thinks part of him definitely does. With the sheer lack of structure surrounding the two of you in the store, he doesn’t think it’s possible to find anything. But when your eyes sparkle even in the dim lights of the store, he only agrees, finding the smile on your face widening.

With a skip in your step, you begin weaving through the familiar aisles. Unsure of himself, San decided to follow you, watching as your eyes scan the titles on the shelves. 

Now that he’s looking closely at the actual books in your store, he sees that many of them don’t look too old or rare. In fact, some of them look like they’re straight from the manufacturing press. His fingertips trace the spine of a book that’s yet to be broken into, and the confusion on his face must be obvious, prompting you to speak up.

“The sign’s a bit misleading, I know. We’ve actually got more new books than we do old and rare, but I’ve grown attached to the old thing. Can’t find it in myself to replace it,” you say with a pensive sigh. Your eyes continue to rake along the stuffed shelves, searching for something particular. 

As the man follows a respectful distance behind you, you sneak in a couple of hopefully discrete glances. His form was broad and stiff, face hardened with a stoic expression. Despite it, you could feel some judgment radiating off of him. Deciding to look past it, you notice his dark attire. 

If it wasn’t for his face, he could’ve easily blended into the walls of the store. A jet black turtleneck matched with jet black trousers. A silver belt buckle resting exactly at the center of his waist. A dark gray woolen coat that seemed just a little too tight around his shoulders. Hair neat, each strand pushed out of his face. It told you everything and nothing at the same time. 

“What do you usually like to read…” you trail off, hoping at least a name would get you somewhere. 

“San,” he fills in. 

“San,” you say, pondering the name, continuing to walk down the busy aisles.  

But San lags behind. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard his name said so sweetly before. Sure, his own name has been yelled at him many times before by his own father, his sisters, his academy teachers, and even the chief, but it’s never been said in a way that’s brought warmth to him. He clears his throat to rid himself of the feeling, catching up to you as you repeat, “What genres do you read most often?”

San’s steps falter again. The last time San had opened a book was during his finals at the academy, and even that had been a textbook. After he’d gotten his job at the precinct, the only reading he’d done had been from case files. What genre would those even qualify as? “Nonfiction,” he settles on before changing his mind, “True crime… mystery?” He grimaces at his diffident response, but even with the little he’d given you, your expression only brightens. 

With this knowledge, you speed through the aisles, San obediently keeping up behind you. You finally stop in front of a shelf that’s lined with thin books that look smaller than the size of San’s hands, and with a pointed finger, you graze the titles. When you spot the book you’re searching for, you pull it out with a gasp. 

“This is a good one,” you tell him, facing the cover towards him. Lost Horizon. The paperback book was old, probably printed some 50 years ago, and the cover donned a painted illustration of a peculiar scene. In the center of a series of jagged, snow-capped mountains was a patch of green. Four tiny men were leading another four tiny men to the warm refuge, navigating through the harsh alpine environment in clothing from the early 1900s. Despite its age, the book was well taken care of, void of discoloration and bent pages. 

“It’s a book about Hugh Conway, who’s a veteran. His plane crashes in the Himalayas, and he and his men take refuge in the valley of Blue Moon in a place called Shangri-La. It’s hard to establish a utopia when you’ve only got less than 200 pages to tell your story, but Hilton’s such a good writer that he does flawlessly. So, this place, Shangri-La, has no war, no crimes, and people don’t age, and oh, did you know this was the first ever mass-market produced paperback in history?”

Your face is animatedly excited, telling San more facts about the author or the premise or the paperback industry, and you know you’re ranting, far too excited about a novel that was published nearly 100 years ago. But this is the first customer, who also just happened to be ruggedly handsome and probably around your age, you’ve had in the store for the longest time. 

You try to wrap up quickly, deciding to only tell San half of the story about how President Roosevelt used the book to mislead journalists during the second World War, saying, “Anyways, Hilton’s a writer that wants his readers to feel good, and I— I just… I’m sorry if it isn’t my place to say this, but I feel like you could use some of that,” you admit, the decibels of your voice dropping significantly in the hopes that San doesn’t get offended and storm out of your store. 

But the shyly said words have the tension in San’s shoulder releasing, because yeah, he could use some of that. So mustering a friendly, albeit tight-lipped smile, he takes the book, which did in fact prove to be smaller than San’s hands, from your own, saying only a polite, “Thank you.”

Your smile returns, and you look away from him, eyeing the interior of your store. “You’re welcome to sit and read here until the rain slows down,” you tell him, pointing at the brown leather couch where the gray cat lay, still sleeping. Padding across the floor, you turn on a lamp, which sat precariously on top of a long pile of I-Spy books next to the couch. “You could give Violet some much needed company,” you say with a laugh, gently petting between the cat’s ears. 

Maybe this is what the chief was talking about. Maybe it wasn’t. 

But San sits down on the couch carefully anyways, so as to not disturb the sleeping Violet besides him. He watches more and more of your cream skirt drag along the floor as you walk away to tend to the stack of the books San’s groceries had knocked over. He turns his attention to the snow-capped mountains on the cover of the book, and when the incredibly unfamiliar sensation of relaxation takes over his form, he leans his back into the couch and turns the cover and begins reading.

Over your shoulder, you watch San get comfortable on your couch, flipping open the cover of Lost Horizon. You breathe out a relieved sigh, fixing the stack of knocked over books. It was never easy to gauge the interests of new customers, and with so many being driven away by the wholesalers, you’d grown rusty at it with many of your repeat customers being elderly women opinionated enough to know what they want to read.

But as the time ticks by and rain continues to pour, you watch San still engrossed in the story of Hugh Conway. You knew the book you’d picked out didn’t quite fit into any of the genres he’d mentioned to you, but you were taking a shot in the dark and luckily for you, it had landed squarely within San’s interests. 

A comfortable ambience takes over the bookstore, and you tend to its needs, straightening piles of books and dusting the ebony shelves. You head upstairs to your kitchen to package the now cooled chocolate cookies, even putting a new batch in the oven. Maybe I should offer some to San. 

Apprehensively, you bring a half a dozen packaged cookies down, sneaking glances at San. His stiff shoulders looked much more relaxed, thumbing through the tiny book page by page. You decide not to break his focus, placing the cookie under the register and continue on with your work, occasionally watching him slowly read a fourth of the way through the book, then halfway through while you complete your tasks. His presence in the store is comforting. and you find yourself not even caring if he makes a purchase or not. 

In San’s periphery, you run up and down the staircase and weave through the shelves endlessly, but he strictly focuses his attention on Hugh Conway’s adventure. It isn’t until Violet wakes up and begins to lick San’s fingertips that he’s brought out of the book. Turning his head in search of your figure, he sees you giving an older lady, who San hadn’t even noticed come in, some change back at the register, wishing her a good night to stay warm in the cooling weather. 

The sky outside has turned dark, welcoming the night, and the rain has also long since stopped. San clears his throat, sitting up straighter on the couch, closing the book shut. His bagful of groceries crinkles at his movement, and he realizes that his milk and greens have no doubt gone bad in the hours they’ve been sitting in the warm bookstore. 

Collecting all of his belongings, which weren’t many to begin with, he stands, joining you at the register. 

Looking up from your ledger notebook, your eyes widen in surprise. “Hey, how’s the book?”

“Good, I’m not quite finished yet, but I really should get going,” he raises his bag of groceries in his hand, hoping you’d understand. “But I’d like to purchase it,” he says, placing the book on the counter and fishing his wallet out of his coat. 

“Yeah, of course.” You scan the book, eyes catch the grocery receipt he’s tucked in it to mark his spot. You repeat his total to him, watching as he thumbs through the bills from his wallet. You hand him his change, and he lingers for a moment, as if he’s got something to say. Ultimately, San sends you another tight-lipped smile, securing Lost Horizon in his coat pocket and turning towards the door. 

You bite your lip, grabbing the package of cookies you’d hidden under the register. Just before he pushes the door open, you stop him. “Wait!” 

Hurriedly, you walk towards him, all but shoving the package of cookies in his hands. “As a thank you,” you say, quickly clarifying, “For coming into the store today. I hope you enjoy the rest of the book.” 

Had you given the older lady cookies? San hadn’t paid attention, but he grips the package tight in his hands. “Thank you, too…” he waits, as you answer with your name. He repeats it back, hoping it was as gentle and warm as when you had said his some hours ago. “For the book and for the cookies.”

*****

That night, San reads through the remaining pages of Lost Horizon in his silent apartment, snacking on your chocolate chip cookies alongside a glass of the milk that had surprisingly not gone bad. He lays awake, thinking about the book, about the characters, about the settings, and that night when he falls asleep, he dreams himself among them in the lamasery. 

For some hours that day, you’d helped San drift his mind away from the stuffy precinct and his inconsiderate coworkers. Maybe this is what the Chief was talking about. Maybe not. But when San wakes up the following morning, he decides to take another walk.

There’s no rain, but the day is significantly colder than the day before, biting at San’s exposed skin. It may not have been the most ideal temperature for taking a walk, but San does nonetheless, finding himself once again on Main Street, where yesterday’s crowd of people is nowhere to be found on today’s Monday morning.

Once again, he decides to turn down Abbey Avenue, and once again, he finds himself standing under your Old & Rare signage. Peering through the window, you’re nowhere to be seen, well at least as far as San is able to see through the old piled and stacked books. There’s no open hours posted on the door or posted anywhere online, and San knows better to try the door, so he lingers on the street that’s quiet in the hours before noon.

Turning around, he sees that some shops are open, so he visits the mattress store, and even with no intention of replacing his current bedding, still walks out with multiple cubed samples of memory foams and mini pillows. He also stops in one of the many salons as well, purchasing pomade and gel. He strolls through the many other shops, many of which don’t have much to offer San, but it’s a nice change to talk to people who aren’t filing complaints or opening cases. 

Finally, just minutes before noon, he walks up to the bookstore again. He looks through the window again, and when he spots you writing in your ledger notebook, he knocks on the door. 

The noise startles you, and you’re temporarily confused before you see San from yesterday standing at the door. 

Truthfully, you were never expecting to see him ever again. This was a big city, and he’d only stumbled into Abbey Avenue and your store by accident. Also you were certain that after accidentally, although well-intentionally, insulting him to his face and then offhandedly apologizing by giving him some cookies, he would have most definitely pegged you as a crazy lady and vowed to never wander down this area again or into your store.

Today, you’d woken up feeling gloomy knowing that San would never end up in Abbey Avenue again, and to shake away the sadness, you’d lay in bed for much longer than usual and when you finally did wake, you’d gone straight to your kitchen to put bake a loaf of spiced gingerbread, before finally heading downstairs to open up the store. 

But seeing San looking through the window with shopping bags in hand, you’re pleasantly surprised, flustered even. With an exasperated smile, you wave, motioning for him to come inside. 

“Hi!” You chirp, and you feel like you’re out of breath. You’re able to see San’s face more clearly in the midday light, noting the blush that runs across his cheeks. He’s dressed similarly to yesterday in his neutrals and darks, looking more like the owner of your bookstore more than you, who’s also dressed similarly to yesterday in your creams and pastels. 

“Hello,” is all San is able to say, not quite sure what he’s doing here as he fiddles with the strings of shopping bags. He was able to excuse his reason for coming yesterday on the torrential weather, but today, although the sky was littered with flat clouds, not a single drop of rain was expected to fall. 

He mulls the substance of each conversation over in his head, unable to actually say anything at all. Should he thank you for the delectable cookies? Should he ask you about your hours of operation? Should he talk about the ending of the book and what happens to Conway? God, the book was amazing.

Thankfully for him, you’re happy to lead the conversation, asking, “I’m taking it you finished Lost Horizon?”

Eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide, he looks at you with shock. “Yes, I di— how did you know?”

“You learn to notice the look after working at a bookstore for so long,” you tease with a shrug. “So, how’d you like it?” you ask, leaning your hip against the register. 

San grips the handles of his shopping bags in his hand, feeling the burn of their plastic on his ungloved hands. The book was incredible. The location, the philosophy splendid. San isn’t sure why he hadn’t picked up reading after so many rough days at the precinct. He’s grateful you didn’t give him a book about a gruesome murder or mystery. Just as you had said yesterday, Hilton’s writing had made him feel good, hopeful even. But these emotions were too much for him to put into cohesive words, so he pondered for a moment, somehow sure you’d give him the time to think about without judgement. 

And you do. While he collects his thoughts, you unabashedly take the time to stare at San. His reddened fingers clung onto a bag from Lou’s Mattress Shoppe, the perfectly cubed samples of memory foam jutting out from the plastic bag, and the other from Harry’s Hair Boutique, its brown bag concealing the tubbed products inside. 

Today, he was wearing a gray, long-sleeved shirt who’s long sleeves were proving to be too long, reaching beyond his wrist to cover his knuckles under his coat. The coat was the same one he’d worn yesterday, but in the light, you’re able to see some of the fibers from the woolen jacket had rubbed off onto his dark gray shirt and his collar. You were tempted to reach across the register and brush them off yourself, before you’re shaking the unprofessional thought away when San finally speaks.

“It was… brilliant,” he pauses to look at you. You’ve got a gentle smile on your face, slightly flushed as if you’ve been outside in the frigid weather. “Can you recommend something else for me?”

“Would you like to see something in particular?”

“Surprise me,” he finds himself saying.

The words sound like music to your ears, and grinning widely, you nod. The joy on your face quickly morphs into inquisitiveness as you navigate the aisles in search for another book San would enjoy. 

It’s equally thrilling and daunting to be in charge of someone’s next literary adventure. People like San were never in your store, and elderly ladies that would frequent would never ask you for your recommendations. Once in a while, some would trickle in from Main Street, haphazardly ending up in your corner of Abbey Avenue, come in for a quick see-through, maybe take a picture or two of the interior, and walk out only to never come again. 

So treating this as your utmost priority, you scan through the titles you’ve amassed with a laser-focus. You couldn’t give him something like Lost Horizon again, so you flit past the classics section. He seemed relaxed yesterday and you wanted him to be relaxed today, too, so with that in mind, you ignore the anxiety-inducing murder-mysteries. You come to a stop at the contemporary section.

These books were not for everyone, yet you found yourself lingering. Turning into the aisle, you try to remember the title of a book you’d read quite some time ago, eyebrows furrowed in series intent, hoping you don’t skim by the title by accident. When you reach a thin book with the gold-plated title, you beam with excitement. 

The Unchangeable Spots of Leopards by Kristopher Jansma. You’d read it for the first time during your first year in college, cozied up in your lofted bed with a mug of warm tea while a party ensued on both the floors above and below you. It was a good companion on that chilly night, but you were uneasy about what it would be for San. As a book about books and writing, it definitely wasn’t for everybody. But the prose was beautiful and story engaging, so shaking away the self-conscious feeling, you confidently hold the book out to him. 

“I have a feeling you’d like this one,” you tell him, watching as he flips the book in his hands. 

This book was definitely younger than Lost Horizon, and with the rigid, hardbound covers, the pages inside were far more well-protected than the pocketbook he’d purchased yesterday. He smiles as he checks the publication date and reads through the contents page, and like yesterday, it’s tight-lipped. 

But with the little more light that’s brightening the store, you can make out the faintest dimples in his cheeks. Suddenly, the ruggedness, the tiredness, the worn image you had of him fades away. He looks incredibly cute, like a big teddy bear wearing a disguise, and at the thought, you giggle lightly. 

San looks up at you in surprise, your laughter flowing like a forgotten melody in his head. He smiles wider, mostly out of confusion, but also to mimic you. You wave your own laughter away, calming yourself before clarifying, “I’m sorry, I just—”

There’s a shrill ringing of a timer coming from upstairs. Your spiced gingerbread loaf! 

There’s a panic in your eyes. “Oh, I’ve got to get that!” you say, before leaving San in the aisle as you dash towards your wire staircase. Making your way up, you continue, all but yelling, “You can join Violet and make yourself comfortable. And oh, make sure you read the Author’s Note, it’s actually a part of the story in this book!” 

And suddenly, San’s standing alone in the middle of the quiet bookstore. He can hear your footsteps above him scuffling across the floor to turn off your timer, as he flips the book in his hands again. San actually wasn’t planning on staying to read today, but now, he supposes, he probably could spare some time. 

He walks over the couch, where Violet is still lying atop of her fluffy cushion, and turns on the I-Spy lamp himself. He settles into the well worn leather, giving the sleepy Violet a timid pet. She doesn’t move away, in fact, nuzzling into San’s touch. 

Upstairs, you remove your steaming loaf from the oven with a satisfied smile. The loaf has risen perfectly symmetrical, the heavenly smell permeating throughout your home. Without giving it much time to cool properly, you begin to cut into the loaf, slicing through the hot bread. You plate a couple of slices on a plate, hurrying downstairs to give some to San. 

The cookies you’d made yesterday had partly been to serve as an apology for your comment yesterday, but it had been nice to share your baking with someone again. 

This bookstore had been your mother’s, and when she’d passed some time ago, the store had remained shut for the years immediately following. You’d spent those years deflecting the grief, busying yourself with finishing school, starting work at the bakery uptown, and staying as far away from Abbey Avenue as you possibly could. 

You were an exemplary employee, always early, first to offer to stay late, and eager to cover shifts for the other employees, but the work was only delaying the inevitable. You let the grief build up, neglecting the painful truth that your mother was gone for years, but after a particularly bad day, you’d stumbled into Abbey Avenue drunk, crying your heart out at the doors of the closed bookstore. 

The next morning, you rummaged through your apartment for the keys to the bookstore, opening its doors for the first time in nearly 3 years. 

You were searching for something you think, but you weren’t quite sure what it was. Maybe you were hoping your mother would walk down the staircase, adorned in her long skirts with a book always in hand, asking why you hadn’t come to visit in so long.

You had ignored the state of the bookstore altogether, climbing up the rickety wire staircase into the modest apartment upstairs. 

You took your time, sorting through every single piece of your mother’s belongings, smiling at the bittersweet memories framed in the pictures beside her bed and her personal collection of books with her notes still scribbled in the margins that she read to you from when you were little. You let yourself feel her loss, finally able to accept her absence in your life.

After wiping away your tears, you decided to stop running away and stay here to clean up the store and open its doors to the public again.

That first day, you hadn't even known where to start, simply being able to walk in the store had become an obstacle. There were no clean pathways, and the abandoned store had collected a thick layer of dust over every single open surface. It’s no secret to the regulars that your mother was a commercial hoarder, the old and new inventory all combined to form a stack of mismatched genres and various types of prints. It had been a difficult time, and it still was. 

But you persisted, organizing and cleaning and dusting, repeating the process over and over and over again until you could finally make out the ebony hardwood floors. You had cleared away the antique and expensive books further back in the store and placed the newer books upfront. 

But you couldn’t stay away from baking too long, and to relax from the hours and hours of organizing, you needed to destress in the kitchen with familiar ingredients and smells. Using a combination of the skills you’d picked up from the uptown bakery and your mother’s old recipe books, you started whipping up fresh mini batches of cookies everyday. Then you started to make more complicated recipes, including croissants, brownies, and pastries. 

You wanted to start selling your food in the bookstore as well, thinking it would up the ambience, the smell of bread drawing in customers away from the wholesalers, but you’d sworn to yourself you would organize the mess downstairs completely before you did. And that had been easier said than done. It had been nearly a year, and you only seemed to have made a measly dent in the heavy stock of books. 

Until then, you suppose treating one cute customer for free would do no harm.

Before San’s able to get too far into the book, you skip down the stairs with some slices of your freshly finished spiced gingerbread loaf. 

“Here,” you hand him the plate. “Something to accompany your reading.”

You seemed too nice. And this certainly wasn’t a good business technique; you surely had to be operating on a loss with the amount of treats you’d given him. San would’ve brought this up, even denied your plate of amazing smelling bread, but with the hopeful expression gracing your face, he can’t seem to find any words to say besides a low thanks that he’s not even sure you could hear. 

This book was very different from yesterday. San didn’t even know the main character’s name, but he kept following his story all the way from high school to college to adulthood, from the heat of the Grand Canyon to the freezing cabin in the Arctic circle to the rolling hill stations in the tropics of India. 

In the hours that follow, several customers come and go, but San pays them no mind, reading quietly and snacking on your bread. You watch him read, almost as peacefully as yesterday, with even his large frame swallowed up by your leather couch. 

By happenstance, when he does look up, the sun has set yet again, and the store is empty. He spots you across from him, some aisles down, trying to dust the top of the bookshelves, standing precariously on the tips of your toes yet still unable to reach. He gives Violet a quick scratch before shutting his book and standing to help you. 

“Here, I can help you,” he says, voice gruff from hours of unuse. Startled at his sudden appearance behind you, you’re only able to send him a grateful smile while handing him the duster. 

He takes it wordlessly, throwing you his familiar tight-lipped smile, dimples making a pleasant reappearance. He reaches above you, getting a much cleaner swipe with his height compared to your aimlessly poke around in the hopes to clean something method. 

As he’s cleaning, his sweater rises up, revealing his toned stomach. The sight has you shamelessly staring, wanting to reach out and trace the defined muscles under his skin. 

Suddenly, you hear rampant yelling from across the street. One of the many shady loaning businesses doors fly open, and several angry people walk out. Many of them are cursing out the people inside, while others busy themselves in knocking over the trash cans placed in front of the establishment. 

It’s rowdy for several minutes, and much of the angered crowd walks past your bookstore, still muttering and spewing derogatory phrases back towards the loaning business. Through your window, some of the angered faces even look directly at you, yelling iterations of What, YOU gonna fuck me over, too? 

Instinctively, San rounds your body, blocking the mob’s crowd from you. They soon disappear, quickly turning down the street onto the main roads of the city. 

From behind San’s shoulder, you watch the owner of the loaning business step outside, looking both ways, making absolutely sure that the angered mob has gone while he picks up the remnants of the trash and mess they’ve left behind. 

This would’ve been one of those better times to have cameras handy. There’s no telling what the mass of anger would’ve done to your store had they just been a tad bit more angry. 

But more anger is probably something you don’t want to see, so San reconsiders his words and clears his throat, asking, “I apologize if this is intrusive, but have you considered getting cameras?”

You sigh, watching the loaning business across the street shut their blinds and flip their sign to read CLOSED. “Yeah, I have. It’s just that I haven’t really gotten troublesome customers like that. Everyone that comes in is always typically nice, so it’s never at the top of my priorities.” You turn your back to the window, feeling the stitching underneath your sweater. “And I know I should, what with living right upstairs and all, but I don’t know, I’ve just never gotten around to it.”

“Hmm,” San only hums.   

*****

When you spot him the next day, he waits nervously for you outside the door again, knocking to alert you of his presence, shy and head turned down towards a crumpled brown paper bag in his hands. 

As you move to greet him, he all but shoves the bag into your hands. “I had some extra laying around and thought they’d be of more use to you than rotting away in my garage,” he says, almost defensively. Inside the brown bag, there are 3 wireless security cameras. 

As you rummage through the bag, San desperately hopes you can’t tell that the cameras are newly purchased after all the time he’d spent tirelessly working to scrape off the impossible sticker residue from the boxes. 

But you’re simply too elated. Cameras had been on your to-do list, falling just under cleaning up the inventory, but under just the sheer amount of inventory you had to get through, they’d become a forgotten priority, even after the incident yesterday. 

The notion has you embarrassingly on the verge of tears, and in swift steps, you’re rounding the counter and wrapping your arms around San’s neck in an overwhelmed hug. It has San stumbling backwards before he catches himself. 

As soon as you’re able to breathe in his cologne, you suddenly sober and realize the position you’re in, immediately loosening your hold around his neck. Clearing your throat, you move back around the counter and laser your focus on the cords and instructions associated with the cameras. 

San can feel the blush settle across his face, and he bites his lip, tugging at the skin. He wished he’d hugged you back, but the moment has passed too quickly. He flicks his eyes to you. 

You’re in deep concentration, observing the labels and instructions, your furrowed eyebrows too obvious in exposing your utter confusion. “I can help you set them up,” he offers, scratching the hair at the nape of his neck.

A light drizzle begins to paint your windows when you happily take him up on the offer. He sets up one camera to face the front of the store and register, promising to set up the last one as soon as the rain stops, and in return, you place a copy of Fahrenheit 451 alongside a plate of teddy bear-shaped vanilla oatmeal cookies on your leather couch for him. 

The next day, the rain has yet to let up, but he spots parts of a bookshelf you’ve abandoned in an obscure corner of the store and offers to build it for you, for which you repay him with The Life of Pi and a slice of red velvet cake. 

“I can help you assemble that,” he had said. 

The rain is unceasing, so the day after that, he fixes up the jammed register, for which you repay him with Pachinko and a couple of warm butter croissants. 

“I can help unjam it,” he had said.

Pachinko was longer, it’s story heavier and more expansive than the other books you’d recommended him, and you were sure you wouldn’t be seeing him the next day. 

But he surprises you, knocking on your door as you’re adorning your large Christmas tree with your collection of ornaments, ready to talk about Sunja’s life and Hansu’s decisions in great depth with you. 

“I can help you decorate the tree while we talk,” he had said.

That day, he sits on the floor near the tree with a stack of childrens’ books, a combination of both his and your favorites. 

The next day, he aids you in completing the science fiction section, leaving each and every book on the shelf catalogued and inventoried, and you recommend to him a book of H.G. Wells’ short stories and some muffins. 

“I can help you catalogue those books,” he had said. 

The rain has yet to stop even the day after, San spends the better part of the afternoon assembling Violet’s new cat tower in a quiet corner near the couch. The cat watches him from her perch on the back of the sofa, her tail flicking lazily as if supervising his every move.

“I can help you build that,” he had said. 

Once he tightens the last screw, he steps back to admire his work. Violet wastes no time, leaping gracefully onto the lowest level and sniffing curiously at the new structure. Within moments, she’s sprawled on the top platform, her paws tucked neatly under her chest as she surveys the room like a queen on her throne.

You approach San, holding out a book. “Here’s the first of The Boxcar Children series,” you say with a smile. “Figured you might like something lighthearted after your last read.”

San takes the book, glancing at the cover—a simple illustration of four children standing in front of an old boxcar. He flips it over, reading the back blurb as you settle beside him on the couch, your gaze drifting to Violet.

“You know,” you begin, your voice soft, “Violet’s actually named after one of the siblings in that book.”

San raises a brow, glancing between you and the cat, who is now grooming herself atop the tower. “Really?”

You nod, leaning back slightly. “Yeah. Back when I worked at the bakery uptown, I used to feed the strays that hung around the alley behind the shop. There were always four of them. They sort of reminded me of the Boxcar Children, you know, sticking together, looking out for one another. But there was one cat who was always apprehensive. She was shy, always waiting to eat until I’d walked away. She never came close, never let me touch her, not even once. For the longest time, I thought she didn’t trust me at all.”

San had listened intently, his attention fixed on you. “And yet, she’s here now,” he said, his tone low.

“She’s the only one who followed me when I left,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. “The others stayed behind, but Violet… I don’t know. Maybe she saw something in me that the others didn’t.”

San tilts his head, his eyes softening. “Sounds like she trusted you more than you thought.”

You laugh lightly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Maybe. I guess I saw a little of myself in her, too. I was a lot like Violet growing up—quiet, keeping to myself, waiting in the background until everyone else had moved on. I think I still am in some ways.” You pause, your cheeks warming slightly. “And, well, we couldn’t have the same name, so… Violet it was.”

Your story trails off with a shrug, and you avoid San’s gaze, feeling suddenly self-conscious. It wasn’t a story you shared often, mostly because it felt silly—meaningless, even. Yet somehow with San, the words had come easily, almost as if the rainy day had coaxed them out of you.

But despite it, out of all the stories you’ve recommended to San so far, he thinks this one is his favorite. 

*****

The next day, with nothing left to build or fix and rain still pouring, you’ve got a book picked out for him before he even comes knocking at the store’s doors. To accompany it, you’d readied a dish of cinnamon rolls that were cooling upstairs. “You look like you would appreciate this,” you say, handing him an untouched copy of Kristopher Jansma’s newest book. 

He scratches his head, suddenly shy. “Actually, I was hoping to read some older stuff? Like stuff from the past?”

Your eyes widen in surprise then very quickly in excitement, and before he knows it, you’ve grabbed the sleeve of his coat jacket and are pulling him towards the back of the store. 

You’re able to dodge the misaligned shelves that jut forward out of practice, but San bumps into everything, sending books tumbling to the floor as his wide shoulders collide with thuds against the wooden shelves. He tries to stop, wanting to pick up the mess he’s leaving in his wake, but you only persist, telling him, “It’s okay, I’ll pick them later. Come on!”

You trudge further and further into the store, the atmosphere cooling even more. Finally, you pull San behind a rather tall bookshelf that he has a bit of a hard time getting through. Nonetheless, he squeezes in and follows you into a makeshift room. Its walls are filled to the brim with books, but unlike the others in the store, these are much larger. 

“This is my special collection,” you tell him, leaning against the mahogany table. “I’ve got archived newspapers, magazines, and journals from all over the city here. Most of these are from libraries in or around the city that have shut down, but I’ve bought a couple of them, too. Oh! Like this one!” You lean forward and grab a book titled “African Jungle Animals”. “This was published in 1937, but it’s got all sorts of information about species classification that’s incorrect by today’s standards, but it’s so easy to get lost in it. Oh!”

You pull out another book, and San listens diligently. Now that he’s not focused on the probable bruising that’s developing on his shoulders, he realizes how close you are. You were so beautiful, and even in the dull light of lamps, your eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm as you grabbed yet another book to show San. 

The realization has his breath catching in his throat. He can smell your sweet perfume and count each of your lashes, and he stills, watching in sheer awe. 

“I really want to get all of these things organized and scanned to put online… I just think there’s someone out there that’s interested in, oh, I don’t know,” you grab a newspaper from the shelf, “recipes from the The Great Depression.”

The bell at the door rings, announcing the arrival of another customer, and you stand at its sound, stacking the pile of books in your hand on the table. “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” you say, slinking out of the intimate room. 

San watches you rush towards the customer, and when he can hear your cheery “Hello!”, he turns his attention back to the little room. He notices another lamp in the corner and switches it on, brightening the space a little.

The common disarray that he’d become familiar with at the front of the store welcomed him just as loudly here. He decides to place the stack of books you’d left on the table away in the same general area you’d pulled them out of, and then, with the cleared desk, he begins to thumb through your special collection. There’s a youthful part of him that feels giddy knowing that you’ve welcomed him into your private collection.

San suppresses the feeling, opting to flip through a copy of Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha you’ve left on the desk. He reads through the first couple of pages, pocketing it to take him with him.

Under the book were the brittle pages of a 1950s newspaper that San decided to skim, his fingers careful not to tear the delicate material. The faint smell of aged paper fills the air, grounding him in a moment that feels oddly intimate. As he scans the faded headlines, he finds himself captivated by the glimpse into another time. A world that feels distant and yet eerily familiar. 

The atmosphere in the room is quiet but not silent; faint noises from the store’s main area drift in. The creak of floorboards, your cheerful laugh as you chat with a customer. He exhales slowly, letting himself sink into the calm that this little corner of the store offers. 

It’s then that he spots it: a stack of yellowed newspapers bound together with twine, pushed into the corner of a low shelf. The date on the top page catches his eye, and he pulls it free with deliberate care. As he begins to read, his chest tightens. 

The headline doesn’t scream, but it whispers loudly enough: a failed case, mishandled evidence, and the name of a familiar precinct. He reads further, his heart sinking as the pieces fall into place. This was the case. The one that had haunted the chief for decades, the one that was never spoken of but always loomed in the background of every cautionary warning the chief had ever given him. 

The details are vague, the article careful not to name names, but the tone is damning. The sense of failure bleeds through the words, painting a picture of a situation that spiraled out of control. San sets the paper down, his hands tightening into fists on the edge of the desk. 

He can see it clearly now: the frustration, the mounting pressure, and the breaking point the chief must have reached. It’s too familiar. San had walked dangerously close to that same line himself, and the realization shakes him to his core. 

The sound of your voice filters into the room again, and he takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. This was supposed to be a refuge, a break from the chaos of his thoughts. But now, all he can feel is the weight of his own choices pressing down on him, mirroring the failures of someone he’d once idolized.

San exhales sharply, trying to shake off the tightening grip in his chest. He pushes the newspaper aside, its weight feeling heavier than it should, and picks up another, hoping for something, anything, to pull him away from the spiraling thoughts that have begun to consume him.

He reads aimlessly, flipping through pages of advertisements for long-defunct businesses, stories of local events, and the occasional human-interest piece. The words blur together, their meanings losing shape as his mind drifts back to the headline.

The familiar creak of the floorboards and the soft hum of your voice in the distance remind him of where he is. He forces himself to focus on the present, to absorb the comfort of this quiet corner. He leans back in the chair, letting the low light of the lamp and the rhythmic patter of rain on the roof lull him.

Somewhere between the yellowed pages and the warmth of the room, his eyes grow heavy. He doesn’t notice at first, his grip on the latest newspaper loosening as his body succumbs to the exhaustion he’s carried for weeks.

When closing time comes and passes, you don’t worry about San. You assume he’s lost track of time, so you busy yourself with the usual tasks—dusting shelves, straightening displays, and locking the front door against the persistent rain. The warmth of the bookstore wraps around you like a cocoon, and for a while, it’s enough to stave off concern.

It’s only when the clock inches closer to midnight that unease begins to creep in. You haven’t seen or heard San for hours, and the faint hum of the rain outside feels louder in the growing stillness. Finally, you decide to check on him, your footsteps quiet as you make your way to your private collection.

As you approach, you hear the faint sound of light snores, and your worry eases. Squeezing into the room, you find San slumped over the desk, fast asleep. His head rests awkwardly on his arm, his face half-buried in the sleeve of his turtleneck. A loose strand of hair has fallen from his normally neat style, and Violet, ever the opportunist, has curled up comfortably in his lap, purring softly.

You linger, unwilling to wake him just yet. In the dim light, you take in the quiet details you hadn’t allowed yourself to notice before: the steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep, the way his long fingers are splayed over the newspaper he’d left open. But as you watch, his expression begins to change.

The furrow in his brow deepens, and his fingers clenched into fists, the paper crumpling beneath them. He twitches, his breath coming in sharp, uneven huffs. Violet stirs, her ears flicking in annoyance before she hops off his lap, padding to the corner of the room. You hesitate, unsure of what to do, but the sight of his tightening features and restless movements pushes you forward.

Reaching out, you press your thumb gently to the crease in his forehead, smoothing it out with a light, steady touch. You hope your hand feels warm against his skin, soothing enough to pull him from whatever bad dream has its hold on him. For a moment, his expression softens, and you think it’s working.

But then San stirs, his hand shooting up to catch yours before you can pull away. His grip is firm but not harsh, his eyes blinking open, hazy and unfocused as he takes in his surroundings. The surprise on his face sharpens quickly into clarity, and you stand frozen, your heart racing.

“You were having a bad dream,” you blurt out, the words tumbling over each other. “I was just trying to help.”

The realization dawns on him, and he releases your hand, smoothing his palms over his pants as though trying to ground himself. His embarrassment is palpable, but you’re rooted in place, watching as he gathers himself. 

There’s a shift in his demeanor, something you can’t quite put your finger on, but it’s there. It seems as if the walls that had finally been knocked over had been built right back up in a matter of hours. 

Pushing aside the wrenching feeling, you clear your throat. “I’ve made cinnamon rolls,” you offer, your voice quieter now. “If you want some...” You trail off, hoping to diffuse the awkwardness.

San clears his throat as well, finally looking up at you. His voice is low and gruff from sleep as he says, “Yeah, that sounds great. Could I use your restroom first?”

You nod quickly, stepping aside to make room for him to exit. “Yeah, of course. It’s upstairs.”

You lead him up the spiral wire staircase, glancing back to see him rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his movements slow and deliberate. When the bathroom door closes behind him, you exhale heavily, pressing a hand to the arm he’d gripped moments ago.

His touch had been brief, but it lingered, searing into your skin with a quiet intensity that left you flustered.

Shaking the thought away, you turn back to the kitchen and begin packaging some cinnamon rolls in a brown paper bag. The act steadies you, the familiar motions bringing a small sense of calm. 

From inside the bathroom, you can hear the rush of water from your faucet. It runs for several seconds before it's turned off. Silence follows after, as you wait outside for San to come out. 

When an odd number of beats have passed, you step in front of the door, raising your hand to knock, uncertain if you should offer any help. Your hand hovers in the air, the hesitation thick in your chest. You take a shaky breath, steeling yourself to follow through. But before your knuckles can connect with the wood, the door swings open.

San stands inches away, his broad frame filling the doorway, his expression as startled as your own. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The dim light from the room behind him casts his face in shadows, softening the sharp lines of his jaw. The collar of his turtleneck is wet, as is his hair, and the tension in his shoulders speaks of a man caught somewhere between exhaustion and vigilance.

You blink, realizing how close you are, the air between you charged and thin. “I… I was just going to see if you needed anything,” you manage, your voice quieter than intended.

San’s gaze flickers to yours, his dark eyes searching your face for a beat too long before you step back, giving him space to exit. “I’m fine,” he says, though his voice lacks conviction. He clears his throat.

The room feels warmer now, though the silence is anything but comforting. San stands a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, his posture rigid despite the quiet setting. “The rain’s finally stopped. I could put that last camera up,” he says, turning away from you. One look out the window tells you that it in fact has not stopped, turning instead into snow. But San walks toward the staircase, deciding not to turn around.  

“That’s okay. It’s late anyways, you can do it tomorrow,” you say, as he continues down the stairs. “You should just stay the night.”

Now that has him stopping. 

You take the opportunity to get in front of him, braving him directly in his eyes. “The weather’s getting pretty bad, I mean. And it’s the least I can do, you know, with all the stuff you’ve helped me with around here…” your confidence tapers off at San’s silence.

For a moment, San doesn’t move, caught between the weight of your words and the storm raging inside him. His lips press together, a faint tremor betraying the steadiness he’s trying so hard to maintain. You can see it all—confusion, longing, fear—all warring for dominance in his dark eyes. His gaze flickers to yours, then away, as if the intensity of your sincerity is too much to bear. The silence between you stretches thin, heavy with everything unspoken, until he finally inhales sharply, the sound breaking the tension like a fragile thread snapping under pressure. 

His hand twitches at his side, like he’s debating whether to reach for you or push you away, but ultimately, he takes a step back, distancing himself from the decision he doesn’t want to make, and continues towards the door. The bell above the door jingles sharply as he pushes it open, the cold air rushing in to meet the warmth of the store. 

You stand frozen for a moment, watching as the snow swirls around him, clinging to his dark coat and dampening his neat hair. He doesn’t look back, his shoulders hunched against the biting wind, but you can see the tension in every step he takes. 

Your chest tightens, and before you even realize it, you’re moving. Grabbing the umbrella from its place by the counter, you rush to the door and step into the frame, your voice soft but firm as you call after him. “San, wait—take this.” You hold the umbrella out toward him, your hand trembling in the cold, hoping he’ll take it, hoping he’ll stop.

San turns around, desperately hoping that in the blur of the rain you can’t see how much he wants to walk back into the bookstore and kiss you. He brings his hands up to the forehead, shielding his eyes from the numbing downpour. 

You want him to come back inside, to protect him from the freezing rain, but his expression is stoic, similar to the day when he first walked into your store, so biting back your words, you hold out your umbrella for him to take. 

San doesn’t take the umbrella. He just stares at it for a moment, his lips parting as if to say something, but nothing comes. Instead, he exhales sharply and looks away, his jaw tightening.

“You don’t have to do this,” he mutters. “You don’t have to be so nice. You don’t have to feed me and entertain me because I’m lonely. You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

You step closer, the umbrella still outstretched, trembling slightly in your hand. You’re unable to say anything back, the bitter sadness of his words catching you off guard. 

But San only continues with a barely audible laugh. He shakes his head, melted snow droplets flicking from his damp hair. “You don’t get it. You think I’m this... decent guy, just because I’ve fixed a few things around here and kept you company when no one else did. But I’m not. I’ve done things—things that would make you look at me differently if you knew. And I don’t think I can handle seeing that look in your eyes.”

“Then tell me,” you say, your voice steady even though your heart is pounding. “Tell me whatever you think would scare me off, because I’m standing here, San. I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to.”

He finally meets your gaze, and the weight in his eyes makes your breath catch. For a moment, it feels like he might. Like he might let you in, lay everything bare, and give you the truth you’re asking for. But then his walls go back up, and he shakes his head again.

“I can’t stay,” he says, his voice cracking ever so slightly. “Not because I don’t want to—but because I do. And that’s the problem.”

“San—”

“I’m sorry.”

Before you can stop him, he turns and steps out into the snow. The umbrella slips from your fingers, falling uselessly to the ground as you watch him walk away, his figure disappearing into the swirling white.

You take a shaky breath, the cold biting at your skin. A part of you wants to run after him, to drag him back inside and make him see what you see in him. But another part of you knows that he won’t let you. Not yet anyways.

So instead, you pick up the umbrella, close the door, and wait. For the storm to pass, and maybe, just maybe, for him to find his way back.

*****

The next day, San comes back, though he tells himself it’s only to return the copy of Siddhartha he’d absentmindedly shoved into his pocket the night before. His steps are brisk as he approaches your bookstore, his thoughts a tangled mix of excuses and denials about why he’s here again.

He pushes the door open, and the faint chime of the bell feels oddly comforting. But what catches him off guard is the sight of you, bundled up in a thick jacket, a scarf wound tightly around your neck, and gloves covering your hands. Your nose is sniffling as you greet him with a shy, “Hi,” shocked to even see him back.

“Hey,” he replies, holding up the book. “I forgot I had this with me.”

You wave off his explanation, already stepping aside to let him in. “Don’t worry about it. Come in, it's freezing out there.”

San steps inside, and immediately the cold hits him. The store is far chillier than it had been the previous day, and he raises an eyebrow as you rub your gloved hands together for warmth.

“The storm blew out the power last night on the whole street,” you explain, motioning toward the darkened corners of the store. “So it’s a bit chilly in here. I’ve been trying to get the fire going, but…” You trail off, gesturing toward the old fireplace nestled near the back of the store. The pile of wood inside sits stubbornly unlit, a faint trace of smoke lingering in the air from your earlier attempts.

San glances at the fireplace, then back at you. He hesitates for a moment, then says the words you’ve been hoping to hear: “I can help you fix that.”

Relief floods your body, and you’ve done every time before, you accept his help.

The day stretches on, and San stays. Despite his insistence that he wouldn’t linger, he finds himself caught up in the small tasks you offer him to help keep the store running smoothly in the absence of power. Together, you rearrange shelves closer to the windows to take advantage of the fading daylight, and he even helps you move a heavy display table that you’ve been meaning to shift for weeks.

By late afternoon, the fires, both in the store and our apartment upstairs, finally roar to life, and the once-chilly bookstore begins to fill with a gentle, enveloping warmth. You can’t help but smile as you watch San step back, wiping his hands on his coat, the flickering flames casting a soft glow across his features.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice filled with genuine gratitude.

He only smiles, his lips tight and his dimples making a rare appearance.

As the sun sets and the firelight grows more prominent, the atmosphere in the store shifts. The usual hum of conversation fades, leaving behind a quiet that feels heavy, almost charged. You busy yourself with other tasks like straightening a pile of books here, brushing imaginary dust off a counter there, but your eyes keep drifting back to San, who sits near the fire, intently watching over the dancing flames, making sure they don’t go out.

He seems lost in thought, his usual guarded demeanor softened in the flickering light. You wonder what’s running through his mind but don’t dare to ask. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s not quite comfortable either. It’s something else entirely, something that feels fragile and electric all at once.

As the clock nears closing time, you glance outside at the snow-covered street. The storm has finally calmed, but the icy wind still howls faintly against the windows. You turn back to San, who seems reluctant to move, his posture stiffening as if preparing to leave.

“You should warm up a bit before you head out,” you say suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can second-guess yourself. “You’ve been helping me all day. At least let me make you some tea or coffee?”

San looks at you, surprise flickering in his dark eyes. For a moment, you think he’ll refuse like he did yesterday, his lips parting to offer an excuse. But then he nods, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. “Tea would be good.”

“Great,” you smile, trying to mask the relief that floods through you.

The power outage had left the bookstore bathed in a warm, flickering glow. You’d pulled out every candle you could find—short pillars, tea lights, and a few mismatched taper candles. They were scattered across the shelves and counters, their soft light dancing on the walls and casting long shadows.

As you made your way up to prepare tea for San, you grabbed an extra candle and holder from a shelf. When San sees you juggling the items, he silently takes the candle from you, following behind with it held high to light your path.

“I can manage,” you said lightly, but he only shook his head, staying close as you climbed the spiral staircase.

The kitchen was dark and drafty, the windows rattling faintly from the lingering wind outside. Aside from the orange hues of the fireplace upstairs, the single candle San held provided the only light in the kitchen, the flame trembling as you set about filling the kettle. You moved to the stove, fumbling slightly in the dimness as you reached for the tea tins on the counter.

“Hold it closer?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder at San. He stepped forward without a word, bringing the candle nearer to the workspace.

But as you reached for the tea, the candle tilted slightly in his hand, and a small drip of molten wax landed on the back of your hand. You flinched instinctively, gasping at the hot sensation the wax leaves behind.

San’s eyes widened, and he set the candle down on the counter, grabbing your wrist gently. “Are you okay? Let me see,” he said, his voice low but filled with concern.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, though your voice wavered. It had felt good. You turned your hand over, the faint red mark already beginning to cool. “These are made of paraffin, so it’s… it’s all good,” you added awkwardly.

San didn’t seem convinced, his brows furrowed as he inspected your hand. “You’re sure?”

“See?” You ran your fingers over the reddened skin where the wax had fallen, showing him there was no lasting damage. “All good,” you confirmed.

Only then did he release your wrist, though his worry didn’t completely fade. His fingers brushed against yours briefly as he pulled away, leaving a warmth that lingered longer than the sting of the wax.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“Don’t be,” you replied with a soft smile, trying to ease his discomfort. “It’s just a little wax. I’ve survived worse.”

The kettle began to whistle, breaking the charged silence between you. You turned back to the stove, busying yourself with pouring the steaming water into two mugs. San picked up the candle again, holding it steady this time as he stepped back to give you space.

When you turned around with the mugs in hand, he was watching you closely, his expression unreadable in the flickering light. For a moment, you thought about saying something, anything, to bridge the tension that had settled between you. 

But instead, you simply handed him one of the mugs and sat on the rug in front of the fireplace.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his fingers brushing yours as he took the cup, sitting with crossed legs beside you.

The material of the rug is soft and holds the heat from the fireplace well. As San sits in front of the fireplace, the tufts of fur tickle his skin, and suddenly he feels shy about the events from yesterday.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low but steady. “About last night…”

You blinked, startled by the suddenness of his words. “San—”

“No, let me just—” He cut you off, his words tumbling out faster now, like he’d been holding them back for far too long. “I shouldn’t have left like that. It wasn’t fair to you. I just… I needed to clear my head. I didn’t mean to make you feel like—like I was angry or—” He stopped, groaning softly, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “God, I’m terrible at this.”

“San—” you tried again, but he kept going, his voice growing more flustered.

“I mean, I didn’t even explain. I just walked out like some kind of idiot, and you were trying to help, and I—”

You couldn’t take it anymore. Turning abruptly, you put your mug down and turn to him, your heart pounding in your chest. Before he could ramble another word, you leaned in closer, cupping his face with your hands.

His eyes widen impossibly, and before he’s able to back away from you, you thumb the skin of his cheek carefully and tug him into you, lips colliding messily. You kiss him like you’ve wanted to since the moment he walked into your store, hungrily yet timidly, waiting for him to reciprocate, but San’s in a state of shock. 

He’s stuck in limbo, the selfish part of him wanting to kiss you back so desperately and the decent part of him knowing he’s not at all good for you. He lost his temper too quickly and most of the time, he thought he was better than his coworkers. Chief had told him so himself. He should stop this. 

Yet, when you start pulling away, the selfish part of him screams out in pain, his heart begging and thrashing against his rib cages to listen to himself for once. And so losing all lapse of judgement, he pulls you right back into him. 

You gasp in surprise, happy to know he wants you as much as you want him and shy at his rough hands at your waist. He pulls you towards him more at the impatient realization that you were too far away, growing more unhappy with the distance, and you let him, leaning into his eager touch. 

San’s mouth moves over yours hungrily, his tongue delving deep to taste you. With a whimper, you arch into him, one hand in his hair and the other fisting his shirt. You kiss him back just as desperately, the days of pent-up longing fueling you.

You kiss until you’re both breathless, only breaking apart to frantically yank at each other’s tops. Buttons fly and fabrics tear in your haste to get rid of the material in your way, and soon, you’re his lap again, both of you stripped naked, chests heaving as your eyes lock, darkened with desire. 

San’s eyes flick down your exposed boobs, your nipples hardened, and without hesitation, he takes one into his mouth and grips the other with his hand, swirling his tongue over your sensitive buds. Your fingers wrap around his bicep as he sucks and licks until you’re writhing in his hold. He moves between one boob to another, cupping them together, running his tongue along the valley before suckling each nipple in turn. 

You’re squirming at the feeling, when suddenly he’s slowing down, his hold on your loosening. 

“Why’d you stop?” you all but whine. Following his line of vision, you land on the melting candle. Much of the wax has now dripped onto the base of the holder, collecting in creams pools on your countertop. 

“Nothing, next time,” is all he says, before he’s sucking at your breasts again. 

Next time? You felt yourself physically grow wetter at the thought, wanting selfishly to have more of him, and so, you grow tired of San’s slow movements at your boobs and push at his chest. 

He reluctantly backs away, and in the light of the fireplace, you see his cheeks have grown impossibly red and the blacks of his irises are completely dilated with lust. You push him down until he’s laying flat against your rug and watch the crackling orange and yellow of the fireplace cast shadows across his chiseled abdomen. 

Brazenly, you trace your hands along the lines of his body, starting at his neck. Underneath your fingertips you can feel the quick thumping of his heart. Next, your hands travel to his pecks, slowing them to thumb his nipples. San shudders at the touch, jolting, following the way your own eyes have grown black like his. 

At his nudge, you’re moved further up his body, now sitting squarely on his toned abs. The hardened muscles bring an immeasurable relief to your neglected and embarrassingly wet pussy, and you inadvertently start moving your hips against them. 

Unabashedly, you start riding him, grinding your bare pussy against the defined ridges of his muscles. Your arousal is too apparent, juices coating his stomach, making it glisten in the golden hue of the fireplace. 

San groans at the sight, his cock straining against the material of his pants. He watches you through half-lidded eyes as you chase your orgasm with your head thrown back in pleasure. 

“Sannie,” you whine quietly, prompting him to tighten his core, his grip around your legs pushing you further onto him. You gasp at the change in rigidity, emboldened to grind harder, hips moving in quick circles. Your climax was rapidly building, and your legs had begun to shake. 

“Sannie, I’m gonna cum,” you warn him, feeling your body tense. 

“It’s okay, love,” San says, voice urgent and low. “Cum for me.”

Love. The word, uttered so sweetly from his lips, pushes you over the edge. Your pussy spasms, and you cry his name out over and over again, grinding yourself mercilessly against him as you ride out the waves of pleasure.

Suddenly, watching you come down from your orgasm, San feels parched. The way you smell, the way you feel, it all feels overwhelmingly good. He looks at you with open admiration, drinking in the sight of you lost in rapture. He zeroes in on the mess you’ve left on his stomach. 

When you open your eyes, you spot San’s bottom lip tucked lightly between his teeth. His adam’s apple bobs at your release that’s smeared across his stomach, and his grip on your thighs tightens, wrapping around them, nudging you up towards his mouth. You’ve yet to even fully recover from your previous orgasm, but you find yourself slowly moving upwards, thoughtless.

“Come here,” he begs. “Please, please, come here.” And so you do, carefully moving up his chest and stopping to hover right above his face. “Please,” he begs of you again with a hungry tenderness in his eyes and with that, you sit. 

Immediately, you want to double over in pleasure as San moans against your pussy at the contact while his eyes flutter shut at your weight and taste. But you stay still, fingers coming to tangle themselves in San’s strands of hair while he mumbles incoherent words into you, kissing you reverently, lips soft and warm against your delicate skin. 

It takes a few moments for San to find his rhythm, lost in himself as your scent surrounds him. His hands which were laying flat over your thighs have moved up, knuckles growing white as he roughly grips the flesh of your ass, ensuring that you don’t have any chance to move away from him. 

You gasp at the gentle contact, your body tingling with need. You settle fully on his face and feel his stubble lightly abrading your inner thighs as he opens his mouth, licking a thick stripe into you, deeply humming at your flavor, sending vibrations up your core. He laps at your essence with long, slow strokes, savoring you, worshipping you, alternating between soft and firm licks.

With both hands tangled in his hair, you rock gently against him, guided by his tongue. You whimper and writhe over him, feeling the taut pull of rope threatening to snap inside your stomach. 

As your whines grow louder, San redoubles his efforts, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue and drawing to his mouth to suck then switching to rapidly flicking your swollen bud. His strong hands dig into her hips, holding her steady as he continues to eat you out ravishingly. Of the mumble that was escaping his lips, the one thing you were able to catch loud and clear was a husky repetition of, “Cum for me.”

With a drawn out cry, you do just that, pussy clamping down and pulsing around San’s tongue. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you as he continues to lap at you, gentling his touch as you float down from your high. 

When your shudders finally subside, he lifts you off of him, delicately laying you down on the soft, white fuzz of your rug. Before he can get too far, you pull him down into you, tasting yourself on his lips. 

You felt wrecked with the back to back orgasms, and surely, there was no way you could handle another. Yet, when he pulls away, “Please,” is all you ask of him.

And San obliges with a groan, the head of his thick cock nudging against your slick entrance. With one slow, steady push, he pushes himself inside you, filling you so completely. “You’re so beautiful. Fuck, you feel incredible,” he rasps, beginning to move.

You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him deeper as you start to rock your hips against his, but San has other plans, taking hold of the underside of your thigh, pushing them back and effectively folding you in half. There’s sweat collecting on his brow that drips into the valley between your breasts and you brokenly moan at the feeling. 

As you clamp around him, San picks up the pace, driving into you with deep, powerful thrusts. The headboard slams against the wall with the force of his movements, the room filling with the sounds of skin slapping and breathy moans. 

“Louder," he growls. "I want to hear you, love. Please,” he begs of you.

"Fuck!" you cry out, your head thrashing against your rug as the pleasure builds to a crest. You can feel your release approaching rapidly, your pussy clenching around his pistoning cock. The intensity reaches a fever pitch as you rock against each other, skin glistening with sweat in the firelight. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he feels your silken walls fluttering around his aching cock. “Don't stop,” you begs, nails raking down his arms. “Please, Sannie, I'm so close,” you whine.

He reaches down between your bodies, finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight circles around it. “Cum for me, baby,” he commands for the third time that night, his voice rough with desire.

His words are your undoing and with a sharp cry of completion, you shatter beneath him, your pussy gushing around his cock as you spurt your release. He groans deeply, hips jerking as he follows you over the edge, emptying himself inside you with a few final, deep thrusts.

And you’re not sure what it is, but you don’t stop there despite the burn in your thighs. Insatiable, the two of you keep going, until San has to replace the firewood in the dimming fireplace. 

When he finally has to leave, he promises to come back. 

And he does. 

Even after he’d returned to work at the precinct, he began to show up more often—not always with a reason, and not always needing one. 

Sometimes he’d sit by the fire with a book you’d chosen for him, his quiet presence filling the store in a way that felt grounding. Other times, he’d help you organize shelves or tinker with small repairs, his hands steady as yours danced nervously around his.

One snowy afternoon, in the aftermath of another blizzard, the world outside was left blanketed in white. The sun filtered through the windows, its pale light reflecting off the snow and illuminating the bookstore in a way that felt almost magical. San was by the fireplace, his fingers running idly along the spine of a book as he watched you rearrange a display near the counter.

“You’re going to run out of books to organize,” he teased, his voice warm and teasing.

You glanced over your shoulder, laughing softly. “Not with this inventory, trust me. I’ll be at it until I’m eighty.”

San’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Well, I guess I’ll have to stick around to help.”

You paused, the words catching you off guard in the best way. Turning to face him fully, you tilted your head, studying the sincerity in his expression. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said simply, his gaze steady.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the fire cast long shadows across the store, San stood by the counter, tugging his coat on. He looked at you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it, and something in his eyes made your heart swell.

“I think I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, almost shyly, though you both knew it wasn’t a question.

Author's Note II: What did you guys think? Please leave a comment or reblog, it always helps to see what people think, even if it's a keyboard smash or emojis lol. Anyways, thanks again for 700 followers, much love <333

Seonghwa’s apartment, despite being lit by multiple soft white lamps, couldn’t have been any warmer than the brisk temperature outside. Nonetheless, you compliment the way he’s designed his interior as you take off your shoes. Some months ago, when you’d started your masters program, you’d never thought you’d be invited inside your mentor’s home. 

In fact, of all that came with a masters degree, you were probably least excited about having to deal with a mentor. They’d been marketed as people who’d help you set off your path with the right connections, with the proper networks, but it had always seemed like an unfortunate byproduct of higher academia.  

You were so not looking forward to meeting older, snooty, PhD candidates and spending time with their holier than thou attitude. So much so that you had to forcefully drag yourself to the orientation hall that early fall morning where a small batch of nervous education masters students were waiting for their mentors. You stood by them, cheeks sore in a painfully superficial friendly smile, and one by one, your peers were pulled away, greeted by their older mentors.

A good amount of the bunch were older, hair peppered with streaks of silver and white, and you had sighed, dropping your smile momentarily as you looked around you. As more and more of the other students were picked away by their mentors, you had slowly slinked away to a quiet corner near the refreshments. 

As you were stuffing a mini poppy seed muffin fully into your mouth, you turned back to the crowd to find that a man, not much older than you, was making his way towards where you were standing alone in a corner of the bustling hall. Mistaking him for another masters student, you look over his shoulder, only to have him stop directly in front of you, with your name on his pink lips posed as a question. 

Somehow, you had lucked out and landed Park Seonghwa as your masters mentor, and suddenly, having a mentor didn’t seem all too bad. 

He was very pretty, his face maturely slender and plush lips settled in a pout. He had a lean frame, which helped him seem as if he was towering over you despite being only some inches taller. His hair was jet black, almost blue, and settled straightly over his face, lengthening it. You’d have to be completely oblivious to not notice the jealous stares thrown your way from the other female masters students. But a successful PhD student in his own right, Seonghwa was also breathtakingly intelligent. 

In the months that followed, you came to find that his quietly offered advice always came from a place of care and genuine concern, and his methods of conducting research were something you couldn’t compliment enough. He was sure of himself, albeit clandestine with his ways, and thereby, his work, modestly confident between the group of incredibly well-respected and experienced mentors, all of which had at least a decade or two on him. 

But it was hard to focus on the knowledge he had to offer you completely when the words falling from his pillowy lips always sounded so strangely seductive. His quiet manner and low voice didn’t do much to quell your unruly, and absolutely unprofessional, desire for him. 

When you were helping him sort through his research, it was always his fingers you’d zero in on. When you met him early in the mornings to discuss your progress, it was his gravelly voice, still heavy with sleep. When you were sitting side by side discussing your own thesis, it was his distinct scent of Black Opium coming from his skin.

Utterly ashamed with yourself, you had gotten off to the thought of Seonghwa a multitude of times, conjuring different ways he would take you. Sometimes it would roughly after a particularly challenging day around his older colleagues. Other days it would be gently as the weather cooled on the campus around you. Whichever way it was, you were always able to make yourself cum to him. 

It didn’t help that he was great with children, too. As you observed him in the field, you saw his usual demeanor falling away to reveal smiles and playfulness, taunting and teasing the children. Many of the children’s eyes would be filled with tears when the time for goodbyes came, already asking when he’d be coming over to play again. 

It wasn’t until the semester really kicked into effect some weeks later when the piling work was threatening to take its toll that you decided enough was enough. So you promise yourself to push your immature infatuation aside, focusing on your degree and on your degree only, but every now and then, you’d catch yourself shamelessly ogling and desperately praying Seonghwa would mistake it for admiration. 

Despite that, now well into the fall and the semester, you and Seonghwa were working like a well-oiled machine, efficient and functional. Which was incredibly important now that you’d received your topic for the spring seminar that was to be held sometime early next year. 

The night you had received your topic, you and Seonghwa were teeming with ideas. Cooped up in his office, you wrote potential outline after outline, gathering research and preparing as many stances as you could conjure up. Sat side by side on the carpet of his intimate 100 square foot office, the two of you worked nonstop. The mid-afternoon had turned into late evening and still, your shoulders stayed firmly pressed against Seonghwa’s as you combed through more and more research. 

Though as the hours passed by, your strong resolve began to fade away. The proximity that you didn’t seem to mind at 5:00 pm was beginning to make you dizzy at 8:00 pm. His woody perfume, the way his fingers expertly typed away at his laptop’s keyboard, the glasses that kept slipping down the slope of his nose. 

Thankfully soon after, Seonghwa had decided to call it a night, but by the time you were packed up and ready to leave, you realized there were no longer any buses running on campus, so when Seonghwa offered to drive you to your apartment, you happily took him up on the offer.

After dropping you off at your own place, Seonghwa had offered to hold the next meeting at his apartment just off campus tomorrow and you had giddily agreed, deciding to meet after your lectures wrapped up in the late afternoon.

Breaking your own promise, you had gotten yourself off to him that night from the remainder of his scent that had seeped into your own clothes. 

But now, in the quiet of his cool apartment, you’re feeling a little out of place. It felt a little surreal to be in a place that was completely Seonghwa. Sure, his office had bits and pieces of him, but the equipment was clearly the university’s. The bland brown carpet, the sturdy gray desk, and the harsh fluorescent lights didn’t belong to Seonghwa. 

This space, which was completely his, felt like Seonghwa. In the center of his living room was a clean white rug, and instead of turning on the overhead lights, he began switching on many of the lamps. The cushions on his white couch were fluffed to resemble clouds, and there was a mild fragrance of vanilla that hung in the air. On his center table was a neatly arranged stack of literary journals and as you take off your shoes, you notice the way he’d organized his own pairs in a small closet. 

It was overwhelmingly Seonghwa. Of course, in the best way possible. 

The two of you waste no time, immediately unpacking the research from your bags, and per Seonghwa’s suggestion, splay them on the floor to get another perspective. You try desperately to ignore being surrounded by Seonghwa and hone in your focus on your research. 

Adn to your credit, things are going well, and hours pass as you collect evidence and build up your strategy. It isn’t until half past ten that you hit a wall. 

For maybe the past hour, you’ve been trying to find evidence to lay the groundwork for your second hypothesis with no luck. The spread out research has made a shuffled mess on the floors, and both you and Seonghwa are sitting on the ground with your aching backs against the couch. You flip through your notes in search of a journal to get past this godforsaken roadblock. 

“We could use Hoffman’s essay in Journal No. 51 to provide evidence for the requirement of substantially good parents to raise substantially good children?” you offer with a tired sigh, holding out your highlighted copy of Journal No.51 to Seonghwa. 

Instead of taking the journal from you, he scoots closer from his end of the couch to yours, shoulders bumping yours. Features softened with exhaustion, he moves even closer in an attempt to read the words on the page of the journal.

Suddenly, the image of Seonghwa playing with children flashes across your eyes. It wasn’t uncommon to shadow other teachers in your line of majors, and you’d even shadowed Seonghwa shadowing another teacher. He was great with kids, seeming able to read into their every microexpression, knowing exactly what they wanted from him before they had the chance to tell him. “Do you think you’d make a good parent?” you find yourself asking, already knowing the answer.

You’re met with silence. You can hear a group of probably drunk students walking outside of the apartment complex before Seonghwa’s air conditioning system kicks in. He’s contemplating the answer, unsure if answering would be crossing a line. 

He backs away from the journal, choosing instead to look at the disarray of pages and books. “I’m not sure,” he finally says, admission quiet. It’s the first time you don’t hear the confidence in his voice. “Do you think you would?”

Frankly, you weren’t so sure either. You think you were very clinical in your approach, very textbook. You weren’t naturally attuned to children and were honestly quick to be irritated at irrational behavior that one would obviously expect to come from children, but you did care for them. You wanted to be a good parent. And for a second, your brain slips to Seonghwa, thinking what parenting would be like with him. 

God, you think it would be the most easiest thing in the world. So before you can filter the thought away, you respond, “Yes, if I was doing it with you.”

“With me?” Oh my god. Your eyes widen a little in shock. You wanted the material of his rug to swallow you alive or shrink into a subatomic particle or become a child. Anything to explain the reason why you said what you said. 

But, unfortunately for you, none of those things happen, so you clear your throat in an attempt to at least appear put together and justify, “I mean, we’re both studying elementary education, you know?” 

It was a bullshit excuse. You knew it, and you were painfully aware that Seonghwa knew it. There was no correlation in parenting a kid and educating them. It was too far of a reach to even begin to entertain. 

But Seonghwa only smiles, exhaustion fading away to reveal mischief, leaning back to rest his back against the couch. Kids were the absolute last thing on your mind. You’d had to work with them enough for your degree, and putting an additional strain on yourself, especially while you were still in school, seemed all too unwise. 

“Kids are tough,” he says, eyeing your stiff form. He wraps his arm over the couch, not touching your body, but resting close enough for you to feel its presence. “There's a lot to consider. They require a lot of attention and care and love. You’ve got to raise them right, under the right supervision, to get them ready for the world. It’s a lot of effort for something that only takes one good shot. Ever considered that?” What the fuck was going on? 

In the moments that pass as Seonghwa waits for your answer, you wonder if he’s thought about you as much as you’ve thought about him these past several weeks.

One part of your brain shouts at you, scolding you for entertaining the thought and not stopping yourself. It wasn’t as if this wasn’t completely and absolutely immoral. Having relations with your mentor is probably up there on things you definitely shouldn’t do as a student. But all the momentary panic and anxiety felt overruled by the wetness collected on your panties. 

Because the other part of your brain is eager to give into the temptation. It makes you rub your legs together, which Seonghwa no doubt catches, and it also makes you speak up. “I’ve thought about it,” is how you choose to summarize your thoughts. 

The ghost of his arm falls away, and you think you've visibly deflated against the couch at the loss of his pseudo-touch. Suddenly his hand is in your hair, fingers threading through the strands at the nape of your neck. You stiffen again, holding back a moan. Seonghwa scoffs, and at your silence, decides to tug. 

He pulls your hair, tilting your head back to look at him. His eyes are dark, filled with a primal hunger that makes your pussy clench. He leans in, his breath hot against your ear, voice low with intent, “Is that so? And have you thought about what it takes? The sacrifices, the intimacy, the practice?”

His other hand trails down your body, over your clothed breasts, your stomach, coming to rest on your thigh. He squeezes, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he slides his hands higher, pushing your skirt up. “Because I have. I’ve thought about all the things we’d need to do to get it right. All the ways we’d have to touch, all the ways we’d have to taste, all the ways we’d have to feel each other. 

He nips at your earlobe before pulling back to look at you, his gaze knowing. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me? If I didn't know any better, I’d assume that you would start drooling for me if I asked,” he mocks. 

Seonghwa isn’t as oblivious as you’d like him to be. He’d be a complete fool to not notice how you often zone out staring unabashedly sometimes at his hands, other times at his shoulders. But the times when you’d stare openly at his lips, while he was talking that too, had him growing hard under his desk. 

And it wasn’t like he was completely innocent either. After your first couple of meetings, he moved your desk, which prior to meeting you, was facing his, to the corner of his small office only to get a better view of the swell of your breasts under your silken blouses and to watch the material of stupidly short pencil skirts rise higher and higher on your thighs when you’d eventually cross your legs.

Every now and then when you were working on your seminar project, you’d pull up your chair next to him, and Seonghwa could barely contain himself. The smell of your perfume would hit his nose, and just like that he was gone. He’d pull himself together for the sake of your work, but it took everything in him to not shove the papers off his desk and take you right there. 

“I bet you would. In fact, I bet you’ve fantasized this moment in your pretty little head countless times, haven’t you?” His hand reaches the hem of your skirt, fingers brushing against the damp material of your panties. He smirks at the evidence of your arousal. “Seems like you have,” he says, giving your clothed pussy three sharp slaps. 

You feel like you can’t breathe. Of course, you’ve thought about this. More times than you’d care to admit, but you feel like you’re glued to the edge of Seonghwa's couch, taking his touch without much fight. When he pulls on the waistband of your underwear and lets it snap back onto your skin, that is when you finally exhale and reach for him.

Messily, your lips clash against his, and there’s no formality, no decorum. It’s raw, and it’s messy, and there’s spit and teeth everywhere. You’ve definitely caught Seonghwa off guard, but he’s quick to regain his composure, one hand keeping your legs spread while the other is back at the nape of your neck.

He pulls your leg over his lap, sitting you down on his hard cock. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, the same hot desperation in his touch. He presses you down, grinding your body over his, while he nips at your lips, his tongue fighting only momentarily for dominance before you give in. 

As he’s kissing you, he wraps your legs around his waist before standing to set you down on his pristine couch. He breaks the kiss, moving away to look down at you. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with lust. He licks his lips, tasting you on them. “Fuck, you taste good.” He leans in to lick your lips while his hands grope every inch of you as he grinds his cock against your clothed pussy. 

You tilt your hips up to meet his thrusts, and the friction feels delicious, sending sparks of pleasure down your spine. “Please,” you whimper, not sure what exactly you’re begging for.

“So needy already,” he says, unbuttoning your blouse while kissing a trail down your torso. “I’ve barely even started with you.”

He sits back on his knees, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside, and he does the same to your clothing, leaving you in just your underwear on the couch. You’d feel shame, but your busy eyes rove over Seonghwa’s chest and wide shoulders instead, taking in the hard planes of muscles, making you swallow thickly. God, you wanted to mark his skin so badly. 

But Seonghwa’s giving you no time, tugging your panties aside, exposing your wet folds to the cool air of his apartment. His fingers teasingly circle your clit, making you gasp. With impatient hands, he’s taking your panties off, and as soon as they’re on his floor, he’s running the thick pads of fingers up and down your pussy, spreading the slick that’s been collecting for probably the past several hours. 

“Fuck, you’re so ready, aren’t you? So eager for my touch. You want me to fill you up? Hmm?” he asks, increasing the pressure and speed of his movements. “Want me to finger this tight little cunt until you’re squirting all over my hand?”

The shame comes back in full force, hitting you altogether, all at once, because with the little stimulation that Seonghwa’s providing you, you think you’re going to cum. 

He finally slides a finger inside, incredulously scoffing at how tight you are. He pumps his finger in and out, adding a second not long after, and curling them, before pushing them deeper inside and curling again, experimenting to find that sweet spot. He finds it fairly quickly when your moans increase in volume, and he focuses his attention there. 

“Fuck! Please, please!” You arch your back, legs shaking at the rapid movements. But Seonghwa doesn’t let up, picking up the pace. 

He fucks you harder and faster with his fingers, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit. You can feel yourself tensing, your walls fluttering around his slender fingers as your orgasm crashes down on you. “That’s it,” Seonghwa says, not letting up. “Cum all over my hand like the dirty little slut you are. Show me how much you like having my fingers inside you.”

He leans in, biting down on the skin at the base of your neck, sucking hard to leave a mark as he feels you come undone. He keeps his fingers moving until you’re shaking with the force of your release. Only then does he slow down, gently massaging your sensitive flesh as he brings you down from your high. “Good girl,” he whispers into your ear, withdrawing his gingers and bringing them to his lips to lick them clean. “Mm, you taste even better than I imagined.” 

With wide eyes, all you do is watch him, taking in how his long tongue wraps around his pretty fingers, sucking your essence cleanly off of them with his own eyes shut in ecstasy. 

Your filter seems as if it's taken the day off, because the next words that leave your mouth are, “Hwa, I need you inside of me, please.”

He removes his fingers from his mouth with a pop, looking down at you. He leans in to whisper in your ear, pressing his chest against your, and you hope he can’t hear how fast your heart is beating. 

“You’re going to take everything that I give you without any complaints. You’re going to be a good student and listen to your mentor, got that?”

You think you could come again from his words alone, and when he backs away, eyeing you for an answer, you can only shakily nod. 

He takes his cock and runs it along your pussy, watching you with hungry eyes. He spits into his hand, coating his cock in a mixture of his own spit and our orgasm before he slowly starts pushing into you.

You tremble beneath him, completely at his mercy as he takes what he wants from your willing body. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he all but growls, fingers digging into your the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave you covered in bruises for days. He stays there, buried deep inside you for some moments, feeling the rhythmic beating of walls hugging his cock. “Fuck, I’m gonna ruin this pretty pussy for anyone else.”

Seonghwa sets a brutal pace, each snap of his hips jostling you further up the couch. You can only cling to the hand rest and take it, lost in the haze of pleasure and overstimulation. “Use me,” you whimper, voice breaking on a moan. “I’m yours, your slut.”

Through your half-opened lids, you can see him grinning down at you ferally, pupils blown with lust. He brings one of his hands up, wrapping it around your throat. Contrasting the bruising thrusts of his hips, the hand around your throat is gentle, squeezing lightly at your airways. 

Seonghwa drops his head forward, forehead resting against yours, his pace not faltering. “Damn right you are,” he says. “This cunt belongs to me. Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp out, feeling your pussy clamp down around him at the dominance in his voice. “It’s all yours, Hwa.”

He moans prettily at the way the nickname falls from your lips, thrusting into you even harder. “Good girl,” he praises, thumb brushing over your pulse point. “I’m gonna fill this pussy up until you're dripping with my cum.”

You cry out, head thrashing on the cushion as you cum, your release barreling down on you like a freight train. “Please,” you beg, voice wrecked. “Fill me up, mark me, make me yours,” you whine, words jumbled together. 

But Seonghwa understands anyways, obliging your request with a harsh thrust, slamming into you one more time and emptying himself inside you with a hoarse breath. You can feel him pulsing inside you, filling you up to the brim until it’s leaking out around his cock. Seonghwa grinds into you, making sure every last drop is deposited deep inside your hungry cunt. 

When he finally pulls out, you’re left gaping and dripping, his seed oozing out of your well-fucked hole. He flips you onto your stomach, pushing your legs up and back, leaving you with your ass in the air and head pressed into his cushions. 

“Fuck, look at that pretty little pussy, all stretched and sloppy,” he grumbles out, gathering the cum leaking out of you and pushing it back in with his two fingers. He takes some moments, looking at your fucked form. Your legs are still shaking slightly and your eyes have rolled back in your head while you shudder under him. “I need to fill you up again.”

Before you’re able to completely comprehend his words, Seonghwa’s lifting you off the couch and carrying you to his bedroom. You try to keep your eyes open in an attempt to observe his space, cream and silver objects quickly blurring past you, but it takes Seonghwa only a few strides until he's thrown you onto his sheets and is hovering over you again. 

He rakes in your body, the bruising of his harsh hold already taking place on your hips, your heaving chest trying to catch its breath, and the mess that he’s left in between your legs. With a shuddered groan, he positions himself at your pulsing pussy, rubbing the head of his reddened cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your juices and his own release. 

The overstimulation has you running on overdrive, needing to close your legs at the tingling sensation.

But with a quick shove, Seonghwa has them spread again. “You’re mine, my little student, my little cumslut. Do you understand?” he asks, his voice rough with desire. “This pussy belongs to me, and I’m going to fill you up over and over and over again until my cum is leaking out of you for days.”

And with that, he pushes his hips forward, burying himself inside you to the hilt once more. You cry out at the sudden intrusion, your walls already sensitive from your earlier orgasms, but he doesn’t give you a chance to adjust, immediately setting a fast pace that has his headboard slamming against the wall.

He leans down, capturing one of your nipples between his teeth and biting down just hard enough to send a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. “Stay still,” he mutters onto your skin, but you’re gone, thrashing at his hips slapping against your ass with each thrust. You’re barely able to hear him over your own moans, hiccuping at the overstimulation.

As if he didn’t already feel amazing inside of you, Seonghwa tightly grips the underside of your thighs, sure to add to the collection of bruises on your body. You’re not making it any easier for him, and with your legs constantly threatening to close, Seonghwa’s pace was faltering, unable to put his energy completely into fucking you dumb. 

Having had enough of it, he brings your ankles over his shoulders and presses his weight onto you, pushing himself deeper into your sopping pussy as Seonghwa all but folds you in half. You can let out a strangled cry as your eyes roll back into your head at feeling him nestled so deeply inside of you. 

“I said stay fucking still,” he presses his forehead against you again, and you feel like the air has been sucked out of your lungs. He looks at you with a crazed look in his eyes. “God, I’ve wanted to cum so deep inside of you for so long. I’ve wanted you to feel me for days. I want you to feel me when you’re in class, I want you to feel me when we’re talking to the all the old fucks in our department meetings. Fuck, you don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to take you in my office with a line of students outside.”

Your voice feels caught in your throat, and for a moment, the only sound in the room is of your skin slapping together. Seonghwa takes in your aghast expression and finds himself smirking, leaning in once again to capture your lips with his in a quick kiss.

Seonghwa entirely surrounds you. His forearms are near your ears, fingertips tangled in your hair. His lips huff at your temple, and beads of his sweat drip onto your neck. The smell of your release, his release, Seonghwa’s woody perfume, the vanilla encapsulating his apartment is all around you. When his dick twitches inside of you, signaling his climax, you realize you needed his cum inside you.

“Please cum inside me, Hwa. Please, I need it so bad, please, please,” you whine. “Fill me up, please, fill me up,” you repeat like a mantra. The words are slurred together, spoken in between moans and cries, not making much sense. 

Yet, just as he did before, Seonghwa answers your pleas, and with one sharp thrust, he fills you up once again with a low growl. He stays buried to the hilt, and you can feel rope after rope of his cum being spurted inside your pulsing walls. 

He’s flipped your lethargic body on its stomach again, pulling your ass up to his face. With rushed fingers, he’s smearing the mix of your arousal and orgasm with his around your lips and clit. It’s overwhelmingly messy and the sound of the mess is nothing less than obscene, but you feel like you’re floating, riding the high of your orgasm. 

You’re not quite sure what Seonghwa’s doing when his fingers are pulled away from your core, and it isn’t until he utters his next words that you know what’s running through his mind. “Again.”

Your eyes widen as he pushes your face into his pillows while pulling your hips upwards. “I-I thought it only took one good shot?” you mumble against his sheets, unaware of the perverted plans Seonghwa had for you. 

Perspiration had gathered at your back, and Seonghwa could only laugh at your already beyond fucked-out state. His fingers run up and down your abused pussy, stopping at where his cum was trickling out of you. With two fingers, he pushes his release back inside, curling his fingers in the process, watching the way your eyes flutter shut. 

“Better to be safe than sorry,” he comments, removing his fingers and incessantly aligning himself against your ruined pussy once again for the third time that night.

Author's Note II: I would really appreciate you leaving your thoughts in the form of comments and/or reblogs! It really helps me out and keeps me motivated to write more, so thank you in advance to those who do! Much love <3

This was a weird arrangement. You could admit that much, because it wasn’t normal for someone that was well out of the academic scene, with a brilliantly paying job and a well-established social scene, to want to jump back into schooling of all things—especially when it was math that you were trying to re-learn.

You flatten your hands across the linen of your pants. At second-glance, they looked far too similar to pajamas, but as the clock ticks closer to 7, you decide it’s too late to change out of them for something more appropriate. It should be fine. After all, you were in your home. You can dress however you wanted to.

You huff out a frustrated sigh and stand from your dining table chair. You were overthinking this. You were turning 30 soon, and you were bad at math. Those were two facts. You have an established career that comes with good money, and with said established career, you’ve earned the luxury of a slightly shorter workweek. Those were also two facts. The promotion you’re surely about to receive will definitely require some math in the near future. 

And that, unfortunately for you, was also a fact.

Sometimes it surprised you that you had even managed to make it this far. You had gotten through high school just fine, but in college, you had your fair share of a struggle. In the middle of the night several weeks into your first semester, with your hair clutched tightly between your whitening knuckles, you were bent over your tear-stained precalculus textbook and decided the bare-minimum would just have to be good enough. 

So with that philosophy, you drudged forward, using a combination of flirting with the unfortunate boy that next to you and restricted calculators, you managed to score a measly C-average in your math classes throughout your college career. 

You knew a managerial promotion was on the cards for you; you were even looking forward to it. In an attempt to build niceties, you had taken the acting manager of your team to lunch last Friday, but what you didn’t expect was learning how much math she does on a daily basis. As she made her way through her salad, your smile faltered into bewilderment. 

There was no way you would be able to do this yourself or put it on someone else. 

Later that night in the quiet of your apartment, you’d downed three cans of beers in a worry. You could decline the promotion? But you’ve been wanting it for so long. You could load the work onto someone else? No, that’d be a real shitty move, especially as a newly promoted manager. You could just fake it till you make it? No, that now has the potential to very badly go south. 

It was a little comical; there you were in your pajamas, swirling your wine in a coffee mug, as you said to yourself, more serious than you’d ever been before, “No. I need to learn math.”

Closing in on a decade of being a professional adult, you figure no time is better than now. So, slightly less tipsy now, you decided to look up math tutors in your area, but your discouragement was quick to grow with what seemed like an unending amount of options for children, the need to down another beer strong but that’s when you came across him. 

As you clicked on the fourth link of the seventh page of your Google results, you landed on Park Seonghwa’s university contact page. 

Next to his email, phone number and office hours was a professional headshot. At first glance, he looked, for a lack of a better word, derpy. The frame of his black glasses looked too thick for his slender face, and there was a politely childish smile on his face. His raven black hair beautifully fell around his face, and his lips were plush and moisturized. Somehow, at second glance, he looked kind of adorable.

Cute, nerdy boys had never been your type, but you think, maybe for Seonghwa, you could change that. Besides you were getting older, and your list of married friends had grown longer than your list of single friends. Maybe I should sign up for a dating app?

No! Shaking the inebriated thoughts away, you pull yourself together, deciding to unpack that baggage for another time. 

You bring your attention back to Seonghwa’s picture, thinking as critically as you could. Although he was extremely cute, he frankly didn’t look old enough to be a teacher. Ever the skeptic, you copied his name to quickly run it through RateMyProfessor, only to pleasantly be proven wrong. 

With a sturdy 4.3, most of his students only had nice things to say. Kind, good teacher, and not too hard on the eyes. Don’t buy the textbook. Beware of his paper exams. Gives out lots of extra credit. Super accessible office hours. And that was all you needed. 

You suppose you should’ve waited to sober up before you sent him the god-awful rant of an email you’d written, but what was done couldn’t be undone. The wait was tortuous, and you anxiously paced your apartment, trying to convince yourself that surely no professor checks their email over the weekend, as you checked your email every ten minutes. That was until you’d seen his response agreeing to help come in close to midnight on that Sunday night.

You breathe out heavily and look back at your clock. 6:58 p.m. This definitely wasn’t normal, and while you were sure he was nice, there was no doubt in your mind that he was filled with sorry judgment towards you. What kind of corporate professional needs a math tutor? You scoff ridiculously before thinking, Me, I do. 

With a frustrated sigh, you fluffed the pillows on your couch and looked around to see if anything else required tending to as you waited for Park Seonghwa to ring your doorbell.

*****

Seonghwa thought this was a weird arrangement. He felt comfortable admitting that because you had thankfully admitted it first.

When he had spotted your email in his inbox last week, he was sure you were looking for someone to teach your kid. But as he kept reading, your long message becoming ever so desperate, it became very clear that you were the one requesting his help. 

And sure he offers help, but that’s typically limited to his students which is usually during office hours. Never once, throughout the entirety of his career, has he been asked to tutor someone who was not a student in any capacity. So he lets your email sit in his inbox for the weekend, your offer to pay him handsomely for his services constantly bouncing around in his head. 

Finally, when he’d had enough of it, he’d sat down at his computer far too late into the Sunday evening and scrolled through your LinkedIn profile. He was thoroughly pleased to find out you were in fact a real human and not a scamming chatbot.

You were stunning, and you looked assured standing next to what Seonghwa assumed were your co-workers in a picture you had posted last week. He kept scrolling to find more and more pictures of you shaking hands with partners when you’ve signed a deal or clinking your champagne flute with your team after closing out a successful quarter. Your life was fast-paced, and you seemed to like it that way.

Seonghwa was able to gather your intelligence and resiliency as he looked at your active feed and impressive work experiences. But what he wasn’t able to understand was why, when heading into your 30s, you were suddenly interested in obtaining math as a skill. It was absolutely an important skill to have, that there was no doubt about that in Seonghwa’s mind, but you had been plenty successful without it so far. 

So with more questions than answers, he writes you an email back, happy to be of help. 

But now, when he’s standing in the lobby of your apartment building in the city, he’s not too fond of his decision to get to know you better. 

Your apartment, located in the northern side of the city, had stopped Seonghwa in his tracks. The building rose high amongst its neighbors, and the exterior was elegant, stone carvings hugging the arching entrance, where Seonghwa was greeted by a courteous doorman. 

With slow steps, Seonghwa walked into the cool air of the building’s lobby. It looked almost like a hotel to him. There was a massive electrical fireplace, and while it was off for the summer, its presence set the tone for the rest of the collectively expansive lobby.

Cool marble lined the entirety of the floors and reflected the light of a golden chandelier that hung glamorously from the ceiling. Along the high ceilings were delicate oil paintings portraying blurred visions of the city’s renowned skyline. To his left, mail was being dropped into their corresponding sleek black boxes, and to his right, sweaty residents were exiting the modernly equipped gym. Several dark velvet chairs and couches sitting on plush rugs invited him further into the center of the lobby, and behind them, he saw a reception area bustling with busy employees. Past that was a luxurious elevator. 

Clearing his throat and readjusting his worn leather messenger bag over his shoulder, he walked towards it, begging his racing heart to calm. He presses the up button, and the whirr of the awakening elevator quiets the sound coming from the bustling lobby, enough for Seonghwa to take his first full breath after entering the overwhelmingly grand building.

Seonghwa didn’t ask for much. He didn’t ask for respect from his students or his co-workers, and to be completely honest, he didn’t want it. He was more than satisfied with his life. He had a job that he enjoyed and research that kept him curious. He even had a fantastic office, even if it was originally meant to be a closet. Seonghwa had cleared out the seemingly unending amount of stuff to reveal a beautiful window with a view of the campus square. 

He had a small house in the outskirts of the city that he kept well-maintained. He had a cute cat that waited for him to come home, and the show he really liked had a new season coming out soon. He enjoyed taking the train to and from the university campus. He liked that there was ample amount of things to do in the city when he wasn’t working on his research. 

So when he finds himself repeatedly looking through your LinkedIn profile leading to today, he isn’t sure why he felt inadequate.

He supposes his good enough, his normal, probably doesn’t seem like much in comparison to your accomplishments, your accolades, your success. Seonghwa was just really good at math. That was the end of it.  

After his final lecture yesterday, Seonghwa found himself scrolling through your LinkedIn page for the umpteenth time that week. You had posted a picture earlier celebrating the students that had landed an internship at your company for the summer, wishing them the best for their time there. 

You looked so lovely standing between the bright-eyed students. You’d worn a baby blue blouse that was neatly tucked into a pair of cream dress pants that brought out your own eyes. Your smile was big and genuine, just as it was in every single one of your other pictures. You were really pretty. Seonghwa stared at that picture for much longer than he would like to admit.  

The elevator dings open, and Seonghwa steps in, pressing the button for the 8th floor.

He wasn’t sure why he took on this gig. Perhaps your pictures had done him in, but even then, his curiosity should’ve stopped there. It’s not as if he doesn’t have other things to focus on. He had to teach two summer sessions these next couple of months. His research was still ongoing and his incomplete publication for the mathematics journal had been edited more times than he’d care to acknowledge. He was supposed to renovate his outdated bathroom and buy his cat a new scratch post. He was also working on secretly pulling out the god-awful carpet in his office square foot by square foot. 

Besides, he’s never really been a people person, preferring emails anyways. He can’t even look most of his students in the eyes, choosing to look at the back of the classroom or his projectors instead. He doesn’t like socializing much either, and he only stays a generous 30 minutes to the university events or fellow professors’ birthdays he’s invited to. 

But here he is, standing in an elevator too majestic to simply be just an elevator heading up to a gorgeous woman’s expensive apartment to teach her math. It sounded too ridiculous to even think about. As the elevator slowly climbs upwards, he thinks God, why am I even here?

Before he’s able to spiral deeper into the thought, the elevator arrives and opens to the 8th floor. Taking a look at the address you’d emailed him, he steps out in search of your apartment. When he arrives at your door, he nervously chews at his lip. 

He’d taken the bus here straight from campus and hadn’t had a chance to even look at himself in the mirror. Quickly sliding the camera on his phone open, he begins to adjust the strands of hair the summer wind had managed to blow out of place as best he can. He pats down his outfit, puts lip balm over his bitten lips, and pushes his thick glasses up his nose. 

Then, after what seems like the longest time, Seonghwa clears his throat and rings your doorbell.

When you finally hear the long-awaited ding dong!, your rushed pacing comes to a halt. You’ve fluffed every pillow, straightened every cloth, and spritzed your apartment with a soft lavender scent multiple times over, all in an attempt to make a good first impression, hoping to maybe compensate for your stupidity with good taste. 

But you look around the living room once more, just in case. The nauseating overhead lights have been turned off and you’ve lit your collected array of oddly shaped and sized lamps, and usually you’d be proud of the arrangement, but right now, it looks almost romantic. 

You’ve got no time to change it when the doorbell rings again, and you call out, “Just a moment!” You straighten the wrinkles in your linen pants again and take a deep breath before opening the front door. 

Behind the door, the sight of Seonghwa beyond his university profile picture makes you inwardly melt. His glasses rest crookedly on his face, and there’s a blush decorating his cheekbones. His soft yellow cardigan is bent as if it had crumpled underneath him when he sat, and his hair looks as if it had gotten tousled in the wind. 

He looks lovingly adorable, yet when he readjusts his dark leather bag hanging from his shoulder, you’re able to spot his broad chest under it. Inside his yellow cardigan, he had worn a cream shirt that had been tucked into his dark brown pants, secured with a clunky belt looped around his beautifully thin waist. Beyond the blush, his cheekbones were pronounced, making his face look angled and sharp. Park Seonghwa was unexpectedly handsome, but you push the thought aside as you greet him with a simple “Hi.”

“Hello, it’s really nice to meet you. I’m Seonghwa,” he adjusts his bag once more and holds out his hand for you to shake. Taking his slender hands into your own, you’re unable to stop thinking about how his fingers would feel around your waist, and maybe around your throat, and maybe curled just right inside of you.  

What are you doing? Stop it! Introducing yourself, you add, “Thank you, you too. Please, come in,” and step aside, letting him enter your apartment. 

As he starts to remove his shoes, he curiously eyes your space, taking in the interior. There must have been a dozen or so lamps illuminating your very well-lit living room, leaving no corner dark, the crown molding only amplifying their effect. Your apartment was designed similarly to the lobby, exuding sheer confidence and class. Your dark brown couch was draped with dark green cushions and a silky wine red shawl. Above it, there was a massive oil painting of a naked couple participating in an explicit scene that had Seonghwa blushing. 

Your appliances were dark brown, or black, Seonghwa couldn’t tell in the golden light. There was a neatly arranged bookshelf filled with hundreds of books lining one wall while the other was decorated with several picture frames. Variously colored vases held an array of colorful flowers, and in front of them was a collection of small Lego structures. Soenghwa liked you, but what he says instead is, “You’ve got a lovely home.”

“Oh, thanks, I’ve just recently had it renovated.” Leading him to the dining table, you gesture at the chair, “Please, sit.” And as he does, you add, “Can I get you anything, some water or something to eat?”

“I’m alright, thank you for offering,” Seonghwa responds, but as he does, he feels his throat drying. “Actually, I’m sorry, some water would be nice.” 

When you were at university, you learned about something called sympathetic resonance. It happened when a passive string responded to an external vibration, matching its harmonic likeness. When you began interning and eventually working, you found out you were really good at sympathetic resonance. Matching others’ vibrations to your own felt easy, and once you mastered it, it felt like you could move nowhere but up. But for your sympathetic resonance to work effectively, you had to be in the presence of someone extraverted, someone loud, of which there was no lack of in the corporate world. 

But with Seonghwa? You couldn’t help but feel as reserved as him. It almost felt like a first date. 

But nonetheless, you persist, placing a glass of cold water on a coaster and sliding it over to him, asking, “I hope my place wasn’t too hard to find?”

“No, not at all,” Seonghwa answers, taking a sip of the water. In the time it takes him to respond, condensation has built up around the cup, and you feel the time moving in slow-motion. Seonghwa wasn’t meeting your eyes, instead choosing to look at the city from behind your sheer curtains. 

“Because I don’t mind meeting somewhere else if the time or place doesn’t work out for you,” you continue.

“This works well for me,” Seonghwa says, taking another sip. As he does, he tips his head back, exposing his throat. Even his throat is handsome… God, I need to download those dating apps. “There’s a bus that runs directly from the campus to this side of the city, so really, it’s no problem.”

“Okay, perfect.” You feel like you’re droning, so to fill the silence, you ask, “So what do you prefer?”

Seonghwa looks into your face for the first time, tilting his head. “Sorry?”

“Professor Park? Dr. Park? Sir?” Oddly enough, your face warms at your own words. Sir had never been a sexual innuendo for you. In fact, you’d used it so often in your line of work that all you associated with the word now was elderly men that were much too old to be running an office. Yet the unintended implication makes you look down to your feet, giving you a chance to recollect yourself.

“Oh!” Seonghwa shakes his hands, eyes widening. “Just Seonghwa is fine!” he insists, adding, “We’re very close in age.” 

Somehow, now that he’s finally able to look at you, the heavy tension has broken. “Okay, Seonghwa,” you say, finally sitting down across from him. “I really appreciate you doing this.” You rest your vulnerability softly on the table between you. 

“Of course,” Seonghwa’s lips curl into a half-smile. Now past the niceties, you can feel his stiff form loosening. From his bag, he starts to pull out thick books. “So I bought a couple of textbooks that cover the basics of algebra and others that dip into trigonometry, but we can start with some algebra review before we move into those things,” he says, stacking the textbooks one on top of the other. “Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he adds, leaning back into your wooden chair, much more relaxed. 

But your silence makes him nervous again. There’s a gentle ticking coming from a large clock just past your head, and Seonghwa watches several seconds pass by before you nervously say, “I was hoping that maybe we can start at the beginning? Like all the way at the beginning?” you tell him, looking down at your fiddling fingertips.

It wasn’t easy to tell another adult you were shit at simple arithmetics. A child? Sure, you could let them know, no worries, no damage to your reputation. But another adult? That teaches math for a living? You felt like crawling under your dinner table and staying there until Seonghwa decided to leave on his own, his head shaking with disappointment. 

But to your surprise, he simply nods and pushes the intimidating pile of algebra and trigonometry to the side. Reaching into his worn leather bag once again, he pulls out several sheets of paper. At the smaller numbers and lack of letters, you calm.

“How about some basic math?” he offers, pushing the frame of his thick glasses up his slender nose. The material of his yellow cardigan glimmers in the soft light of your apartment, giving him a halo effect. 

With a relieved smile, you exhale, “Yeah, that sounds good.”

*****

You had an affinity for paper. It was surely an odd thing to have an affinity for, but writing on paper felt fulfilling. It felt like being alive to you. You’d write your tasks down on paper, crossing each differently shaped square box with an X. You’d draft your emails in your journal, using different pens to mark it for when the time came to type it. 

You kept every hand-written letter you’ve received, each memo from work, each signed receipt, and each graded paper safely in a collection of boxes in your closet. 

It felt like you were leaving your mark on the world. So when Seonghwa grades the printed worksheets you do throughout the week with a glittery blue smiley face that strangely resembles his own face, you can’t help but add it to your collection. 

Though other times, he picks up the red pen. You’re filled with dread during the time Seonghwa spends between grading your work in front of you, fingers hovering over the glittery blue and distressing red pens.

As your lessons continue, it becomes increasingly difficult to pay attention to him. Sometimes, you find eyes flickering down to his lips when he’s explaining things to you, wondering how they’d feel pressed up against yours. They were always moisturized, and when he passed you on his way out, you could faintly smell the cinnamon of his gum. Other times, you watch his fingers correct your work, wondering how good the long digits would feel inside you. 

It doesn’t take long for Seonghwa’s face to pop up in your brain when you’re masturbating at night. You’d decided he’d look the cutest between your thighs, round eyes looking up at you. Other nights, you’d be under his broad chest as he roughly rut into you. You rotated endlessly between the two, yet either managed to get you off every single time. 

That was until the guilt settled in later. Seonghwa was sweet. He always sounded intelligent and sophisticated, but he never made you feel like you were stupid. He went over concepts until they would stick, and when that didn’t work, he didn’t get annoyed, instead opting to look for another method. His blue and red pen were encouraging, and he spent a great deal of time reassuring you as you worked through each problem. He never overwhelmed you with information and kept his lessons digestible. 

All he wanted to do was help you, and there you were, getting off to him like some pervert. You’d shame yourself for it, only to fall back into the vicious cycle week after week.

Still, in seven weeks time, you had built up a decent collection of Seonghwa’s good job! paper notes, ripping them off the corner of your worksheets. You liked to feel the paper where his skin had been, and in time, some of them even made it to your work desk, encouraging your endeavors outside of math. 

And in that way, you were much like Seonghwa, because like you, Seonghwa liked giving out his exams on paper. Sure, it would be much simpler to administer exams online, letting students take them from the comfort of their own home and letting the computer do the grading. It definitely earned him some nasty glares when he mentioned this fact on the first day of class, but he thinks his students come around when they discover his ample leniency when they get their first exams back.

The handwritten answers and work help him see. He can see the uncertainty or lack thereof in his students’ answers. He can feel the roughened paper that had been erased over one too many times under his fingertips. And occasionally, a paper littered in dried tears from his differential equations class. Either way, while his grading process took a much longer time, he enjoyed getting to know his students this way. 

So when you email him to let him know you’re running late, he’s grateful the doorman lets him in to wait in the cooled lobby instead of melting into the summer night outside. Seonghwa takes a seat in the corner of the lobby on one of the dark velvet couches, reaches into his bag, and begins to grade the summer class’ midterm exams by hand. 

He’d liked tutoring you. Or maybe he just liked you. Seonghwa wasn’t sure, but he didn’t mind the uncertainty.

You had a really beautiful smile, and Seonghwa had grown a little too fond of it. It was bold, happy, and genuine. He supposed it was a skill you had to learn to succeed in the corporate world. On the other hand, Seonghwa had mastered his nod, which wasn’t too formal, yet still carried respect, which his older tenured associates seemed to prefer anyways. 

But your eyes attracted Seonghwa like no other. They had a way of pulling him in, and when he sat adjacent to you, he’d observed them into remembrance. He loved everything about them. The way a fire burned behind them when you were frustratingly learning about proofs, or the way they crinkled shut in happiness at his gentle praises of doing a good job. 

In the silence of his office before his office hours, Seonghwa would lose himself in his thoughts of you. What you sounded like when he complimented your progress. What you’d sound like greeting him. What you’d sound like under him. What you’d look like in a pretty sundress. What you’d look like in his clothes. What you’d look like naked.

Okay, maybe more often than not, his thoughts were perverted. But in all honesty, Seonghwa just couldn’t help it. He’d think of you when no one came to his office hours, he’d think of you when he was lecturing, and he’d think of you when he was in bed, all much too often for his own good.

Seonghwa’s fantasies were vivid, his imagination running amok when he’d think of the things he’d want to do to you and what you might do to him. How he’d eat you out, how he’d deep he’d fuck into you, how he’d bruise your skin with his hold. How you’d suck him off, how you’d ride him, how you’d tug at his hair. It was all too much and all too vivid in his head. 

He’d have his way with you in your home, fucking you at your dining table. Other times, it would be in his office, with you splayed out against the window that looked out onto the campus square. You’d whimper out his name as he gave you orgasm after orgasm. So while Seonghwa wasn’t a people person, he was starting to become a you person.

But when you’d welcome him into your hold the following Friday with your pretty smile and sweet eyes, Seonghwa would feel intense and  apologetic regret. God, you were just so kind, and he was such a terrible person. 

“You’re a lifesaver” you had told him after a particularly difficult lesson. 

Never in his life had Seonghwa been someone’s lifesaver. But to be yours? He would live a thousand lifetimes and never feel as accomplished as he did then. So while Seonghwa wasn’t a people person, he was starting to become a you person. He wanted to admit that to you, but all he could say in the moment was that it was his job and he was more than happy to help. 

He notices that you enjoyed his little comments he left on your graded worksheets, and so, riddled with guilt, he continues to leave smiley faces and iterations of good job! and well done! on your worksheets with his glittery blue pen, hoping it would ease his mind when he eventually jerked off to you later that night. 

Seonghwa grades several more midterms before you finally walk through the entrance of your apartment lobby. Seonghwa had begun to smile more often. He stretched his lips into a wide smile like yours, but when he looked in the mirror, all he could see was a pained expression. Nonetheless, he persisted, smiling more at his students, the tenured professors, and even the bus driver that took him to your apartment. 

Now, as conceited as it sounded, the big, wide smile seemed natural to him, so that’s how he smiles when your eyes catch his. But this time, unlike other occasions, you greet him not with your usual happy smile, but with a tight-lipped one instead.

Seonghwa’s out-of-place bright smile falters a little, and instead, he chooses to mirror yours. Hurriedly, he shoves his students’ partially graded midterms into his bag and follows you as you politely greet the employees at the reception desk. 

When the two of you step into the majestic elevator that Seonghwa has yet to get used to, he finally observes your still form standing besides his. Your usually tall shoulders are rounded in fatigue, and your eyes are sunken with exhaustion. You’re uncharacteristically quiet too, not even a How were your lectures this week? falling from your lips. 

So Seonghwa stays quiet as well, unsure how to approach you. 

It’s when you’ve both set your bags down inside your dark apartment that Seonghwa finally asks, “Is everything okay?”

Apologetically, you look at him. “Yeah, I’m sorry,” you say, sighing deeply. “I just had a really shitty day at work,” and with that, you begin to light your multitude of lamps.

“Oh, we can reschedule for another time if you’re tired today,” he says, watching you flicking the switch for some lamps while twisting the knobs for others, illuminating the dim space. 

“No, that’s alright. I just wish I could’ve let you know earlier, I probably would’ve saved you the trip up here.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. He wanted to say he didn’t mind it in the slightest, he would’ve dropped everything if you’d tell him so. But Seonghwa doesn’t say that and you’re still distracted, far away, stalling by straightening the shawl draped over the couch. 

So he does as you’ve paid him to do, teach. Flipping the cover of his bag over, he grasps the textbook you’ve been making your way through tightly and a folder filled with worksheets he’s printed just for you between his fingers. As he begins to lay out the printed practice sheets on your dining table, you sigh. “Would it be alright with you if I had a beer?”

Seonghwa stops organizing the worksheets and holds them awkwardly in his hands, answering, “Of course.”

With slightly more elated steps, you rush to grab three cans from your fridge and walk past the dining table, deciding to plop down on your couch. With a swift crack of the can, you hungrily swallow down the beer. You turn, finding Seonghwa standing unmoving behind you. Picking up one of the extra cans from your coffee table, you reach behind the couch and hold the can for him to take. 

For the past several weeks, Seonghwa had followed a direct line from the front door to his designated chair at the dining table. He never even so much as used your restroom. It felt impolite, like he would be overstepping. So, when Seonghwa pushes the chair back into the dining table and rounds the couch past the familiar threshold, it's as though he's crossing into uncharted territory. The air seems to shift, carrying with it the scent of lavender and old books. 

This was different from the sturdy wooden chairs of your dining table. The colors in the room appear more vivid, the textures more pronounced. The soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen mingles with the ticking of your clock. Seonghwa could read the titles of your books without squinting, and he could make out the details of your lamps. At the realization of the intimacy, Seonghwa stiffened. 

But you’ve relaxed a little, so Seonghwa tries to do the same, asking, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

You take a couple of small sips, an annoyed expression coloring your face. “It’s just this stupid guy at work.”

Seonghwa waits on you to elaborate, opening his own can and taking the smallest possible sip. 

“He came in this morning asking for the quarter’s report before the quarter’s even finished, so obviously we started panicking and began working on it. When it doesn’t get done by lunch, which it was never going to, he starts messing with the interns! Like hassling the poor kids is going to get the report done. Worst of all? The asshole left early.” You shake your head bitterly. “Anyways, I just…” you finish off the beer with a sigh and place the empty can back on the wooden coaster on your coffee table. “I really don’t want to talk or even think about him anymore. Will you distract me?”

Seonghwa's breath hitches and his heart beats irregularly fast. He’s grateful that in that moment your air conditioner kicks in as loudly as it does, hiding the thump thump thump of his anxious heart. Clearing his throat, he asks, “How?”

“Hmm,” you think for a moment. You’re beginning to feel the alcohol's warm haze, and with it, you abandon your usual caution, craving comfort over contemplation, and bravely decide to readjust your legs over the arms of the couch and lay your head on his lap. It definitely catches Seonghwa off guard, the fragrance of your perfume fills his senses and he swallows, momentarily closing his eyes. “Tell me something, anything,” you say, looking up at him. 

One of Seonghwa’s hands is nervously curled into a fist, glued to his side, while the other is tightly clutching his can of beer, and you’re desperately eager to take them into your own, placing one on your stomach and the other in your hair. But as the blush on his cheeks only darkens, you suppose this is better than nothing.

“Oh, okay…” he clears his throat again, gulping down a couple of large swigs of his untouched beer. “Well, there’s a tenured professor in my department that’s exactly like this guy at your office.”

“Oh, yeah? 

“He loses track of reports and dates all the time, but we can’t complain about it. And he treats the department’s teaching assistants like crap. And he manages to turn every conversation into an ode to Euler’s theorem.”

“At least he’s passionate?” you offer, but this is the first time Seonghwa’s complained about this guy out loud; he wants to set the record straight, even if you’re probably never going to meet the old man. 

He shakes his head, “More like obsessed. He’s spent multiple lunch breaks raving on and on about its beauty and elegance like it’s the only theorem in the world, like Gödel and Fermat don’t exist. I mean, sure, I like Euler’s theorem as much as the next mathematician, but he should at least admit you have a favorite and move on.” Wow, it felt good to get that off his chest. Seonghwa didn’t even know he’d been this irritated at the man, but accepting the fact rather quickly, he takes a generous sip of beer.

“Do you have one? A favorite theorem?”

He laughs, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, answering “Of course, I do.” He takes a large gulp, and you watch his adam's apple bob as he swallows, pressing your thighs closer together. “That’s like asking a writer if they’ve got a favorite book.”

You roll your eyes and playfully scoff, “Okay Professor Park, what’s your favorite theorem then?” You fold your arms over your chest and look up to his face. The action pushes your breasts closer together and upwards, and Seonghwa has to look away. 

Seonghwa was not a drinker, but having you rest in his lap, looking as good as you did, calling him Professor, was making him ridiculously horny, enough to need another beer. He was praying he wouldn’t pop a boner, and to quell the need, he sits up, takes another big sip, and runs his hair through his hair, focusing on answering your question. “I have three. Do you know who Kurt Gödel is?” From his lap, you watch his hair land floppily over his forehead and shake your head. 

“Well, back in the 1930s, he published this set of theorems that talks about how it’s impossible to find a complete and consistent set of axioms for the entirety of mathematics.” Seonghwa catches the confusion that speeds across your face and stutters, “Oh…” as he searches for an analogy. His eyes light up when he spots the Lego structures on your television stand. “Imagine we're building a giant Lego city, with lots of rules about how to connect the pieces.” 

“Oh, okay.” You close your eyes, trying to imagine. Now that your eyes are no longer on him, Seonghwa relaxes slightly into the cushions of your couch.

He takes another sip from his can before continuing, “Gödel's first theorem says that no matter how complete you think your rulebook is, there will always be some questions about your city that the rulebook can't answer. There will be statements about numbers and math that are true, but you can’t prove them using just the rules in your book. It’s like having a beautiful, detailed map that still leaves out some important paths.”

Seonghwa takes yet another sip. He knows he should probably stop, but he likes the buzz that’s running through his body. The buzz that helps him calm even with the weight of your head in his lap and the smell of you filling him up. The buzz that encourages him to shut his own eyes, lean his head against the back of the couch, and softly run his unoccupied hand through your scalp. 

The buzz that helps him continue, “The second theorem says that your rulebook can’t prove its own reliability. Pretend you wrote down all the rules and wanted to be absolutely sure that there are no mistakes in your rules. Gödel said that you can't use the rules themselves to prove they are always correct. It’s like… having a detailed instruction manual for building a Lego structure that can’t guarantee it’s free of errors using its own instructions.”

You hear him sip from his can again and open your eyes. Seonghwa’s face was flushed, the tips of nose and ears tinted pink. His throat bobbed as he swallowed down the alcohol. With his eyes still shut, he breathes out deeply. 

“Even with a perfectly designed set of rules, there will always be questions we can't answer and a level of certainty we can't achieve. Almost like nothing has any meaning at all. Call it nihilistic, but I think it’s so comforting that nothing has an answer. We’re just here and nothing really makes sense, but we try so hard to make it make sense… Am I making sense?”

With a reassured nod, you answer “Yeah.”

At the movement, Seonghwa opens his heavy lids, briefly looking at you before turning to the view of the bright, blinking city outside your window. “Some of us work to make it make sense, and we go crazy trying to make it make sense. But others… don’t. And they’re okay with the fact that it doesn’t make sense. They keep going, never wanting it to make sense. And they die, knowing that even if it made any sense, it wouldn’t matter anyways.” Seonghwa empties his can of beer and removes his hand from your hair.

His words have grown slurred, yet you knew they were genuine. It did make sense, even if it really didn’t. Okay, now I’m not making any sense. But Seonghwa’s grown sentimental, and you feel a veil of sadness wash over him.

You sit up and scoot closer to him, watching his calm stature. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this relaxed, or maybe it was dejection, you didn’t know. But let yourself stare at him, taking in the smudged glasses that sat atop his nose bridge. You look at his glossy lips and even glossier eyes that look like they’re filling with tears. 

In an attempt to distract him, you tap his shoulder and ask, “What’s the other one?”

Seonghwa blinks the unfallen tears away and turns to look at you. “Hmm?” His round eyes take in your own and at your question, his pouted lips twitch. 

“The other theorem?”

“Oh, it’s the, uh… it’s the ham sandwich theorem. That theorem guarantees that no matter how components are arranged, there’s always a perfect way to make this equal division with a single cut, but… Can I be honest?” You nod. “I only like that theorem because it’s got a silly name.” 

Temporary shock flashes across your features before you finally laugh, gently shoving his shoulder. Seonghwa laughs, too, and in his tipsy stupor, has left the existentialism he was experiencing moments ago behind. He grabs the last unopened can of beer from your coffee table, snapping it open, before continuing.

“Did you know its Wikipedia page has an image of an actual ham sandwich? Speaking of Wikipedia, it’s not that bad of a resource to use considering they provide links to the actual resources they use—”

He talks and you listen as best as you can. He talks about axioms and Wikipedia and bad students and terrible thesis topics and other theorems, and you just listen. You watch him explain and complain and talk for what seems like hours, and you didn’t mind it least. And that’s when you realize, you weren’t just sexually attracted to Seonghwa, you had a crush on him. 

At the ripe age of 29, you had a crush on your math tutor. You felt like a silly teenager, wondering if you’d be compatible. Maybe I should ask him his birthday? But would you even be compatible outside of unreliable zodiac readings? He probably wanted someone that knew how to solve basic polynomials. He probably wanted someone that was able to do arithmetics without the itching need of a calculator. He doesn’t want somebody stupid like me. No, stop it, you’re better at math now. You’re better because of Seonghwa. Don’t sell him short.

The muddled thoughts are a bit overwhelming to process coherently, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “Do you have a girlfriend?” As soon as the collection of words leave your mouth, you suddenly sober, laser-focused on the words that were to come from Seonghwa.

Seonghwa’s eyes widen at your question, and his cheeks only blush more. “Wha— No!” he vehemently denies, before looking away, embarrassed. He looks at the pile of textbooks that were sitting ignored on your dinner table and plays with the frayed end of his dress shirt, asking, “Do you? Have a boyfriend, I mean?” The question is brave, and you know he wouldn’t have asked it had it not been for the alcohol in his system.

“I don’t have time for a relationship,” you sigh. “Too many work duties.” Seonghwa doesn’t answer, instead hiccuping. 

“Ha, duties.” He can’t believe he’d said that, covering his mouth in embarrassment, looking away from you, before he hiccups again and giggles sheepishly. 

Your insecurity temporarily vanishes at his laughter. Still slightly worried, but thoroughly amused, you ask “Seonghwa, are you drunk?”

He uncovers his mouth. “No, I’m not drunk, you’re drunk.” Still clutching the can of beer in one hand, he folds his hand into a finger gun and shoots it at your concerned face. “Pew, pew,” he says with a giggle, taking another sip. 

You stand from your spot on the couch and reach to grab the can from his hand, “Okay, maybe you’ve had enough—”

In a swift motion, Seonghwa reaches for your forearm and pulls you firmly back into his lap. Although this time, you’re sitting squarely on his semi-hard dick. He buries his head in the crook of your neck and softly inhales. “You always smell so fucking nice,” he says, his eyes shutting at your proximity, taking in your scent. 

His display of strength was new. You’d assumed him to be frail, fluttering in the wind if there were a strong breeze despite his broad chest, but this was a good surprise. It was a great surprise. The hand he’s got wrapped around your forearm is warm and secure. The other hand, that was still unfortunately hanging on to his can of beer, was heavily slung over your thighs. The cursing was also new, but you welcomed it, even rash words sounding sophisticated falling from his intoxicated lips.

Seonghwa mumbles something incomprehensible into your neck, sending tingling vibrations to the tip of your lips. “What?”

Turning his head, with his cheek now resting against your collarbones, he repeats, “I asked if I could kiss you?” Oh. 

Letting yourself indulge in the moment temporarily, you bring your hand up to card your fingers through his soft hair. The action has him relaxing into you even more, and you can feel your resolve crumbling away with every passing second. But still, you answer, “No, you’re drunk.”

“So are you,” he says, nose nuzzling into you. He lowly exhales, his warm breath on your chest sending shivers down your spine.

“Exactly,” you desperately push the desire away. Emboldened, you add, “Besides, I’d rather kiss you when we’re both sober.” At this, Seonghwa backs away slightly, large eyes boring into yours, as if to ask Really? Your eyes subconsciously flicker down to his lips, and you just know exactly what he’d taste like. 

You know you’d taste the gentle vanilla he always smells like. You know you’d taste the coffee from the ancient coffee machine he’s told you about in the teacher’s lounge. And you were certain you’d taste like the one-and-a-half can of beer he’d downed too fast for his own good. 

And you’re so desperate to taste it all, anything, everything, from him. But when you look back up into his drooping eyes, you know, and he knows, that this isn’t the time or place for any of it. 

So with the utmost willpower and determination, you slip out of his grasp, forcing yourself away from his warm body and his strong arms to stand. “Let me drive you home.”

*****

The next week is agonizing. When you drove Seonghwa home that night, he’d been oddly quiet sitting in the passenger seat of your car as you silently followed the navigation to his home. As you were stopped at the occasional red light, your eyes would quickly dart to his figure. His posture was calm, but his mind seemed to be racing with unlimited thoughts. You would look over to find the city lights reflecting off his raven hair, his eyes focused on their gleam. 

And when the light turned green, you would look away, focusing on the road to his house. 

Then, he’d wobbled to his door, thanked you politely, albeit slurred, and bid you a soft goodnight. 

It was well-mannered. It was respectful. And it was most definitely Seonghwa. 

Yet you had a terrible feeling that he wouldn’t be coming back. 

Maybe your recollection was hazy, but thinking back on it, maybe the color had drained from his face when you admitted you wanted to kiss him back. Maybe his eyes had frowned in disgust. Now sober, you couldn’t seem to remember. 

He would have certainly been embarrassed. It wasn’t right. You were, after all, paying him to teach you math. You weren’t even looking for a relationship, your downloaded dating apps sitting abandoned in a folder on your phone.

But maybe this is just who Seonghwa was. Over the past weeks you’ve spent with him at your dining table, you’d come to understand he was reserved. Maybe he doesn’t like jokes like this. Because that was what it was right? It was just a joke. 

No, it wasn’t. You really did want to kiss him. And he wanted to kiss you. But you rejected him. Maybe he was upset about the rejection?

The useless thoughts swirled recklessly in your head, and in the span of the week, you’d convinced yourself that Seonghwa was never coming back.

Friday brings a certain dread. You had met with Seonghwa consistently for the past 8 weeks. What were you going to do today in your empty apartment? God, you should’ve never admitted that you wanted to kiss him. You were still in the middle of understanding synthetic division. You hadn't even gotten to logarithmic functions yet. You were utterly fucked. 

So, as a pick-me-up, you’d left a little earlier from work, citing a terrible excuse, gotten a large tub of ice cream from the grocery store, changed into a silky, not-so-modest night set, and turned on a crime documentary for the remainder of the night. 

And still, not even the harrowing murder being described in gory detail on the scene was enough to distract you.

You look over to your empty dining table and the chair where Seonghwa liked to sit. The area looked sad without him. You’d even only turned on one of your lamps tonight, deciding to sit in the dim loneliness of your apartment. 

With a sigh, you dig your mistakenly grabbed soup spoon into the tub of butterscotch ice cream, looking back at the television to watch the detective’s perspective play out on the screen. 

Several more spoonfuls and narrative testimonies later, your doorbell rings.

You should’ve checked who it was and you definitely should’ve covered up, but with leaping steps, ridiculously large spoon still in hand, you rush to open the door in the hopes that it was who you thought it was. 

Behind your door was Seonghwa, dressed oh-so-lovingly in blue, his messenger bag resting familiarly over his shoulder. He looked surprised when you opened the door, almost as if he hadn’t meant to knock or expected you to answer. 

But you did and he was beyond elated, until his eyes trailed down your body. 

In no mood to cover up, you ignore his bashful gaze and breathlessly say, “Hi.”

His eyes quickly dart up to yours. “Hello.” And then it’s silent. He fiddles with a white and blue bandana that’s tied around his neck and pushes his glasses up his nose. You only stare, unable to come up with any words. What would you say? Should you apologize? Should you tell him you want to kiss him too? You debate the statements when Seonghwa adds, “I’m not drunk.”

What? “Oh, okay,” you respond, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Are you?”

“No,” you shake your head. 

Seonghwa looks down at his neatly tied shoes, and the beret on his head tips forward a little. He looks, for lack of a better word, adorable. The white button down he’s worn inside his jean jacket has clearly been ironed to perfection, and the denim of his jeans fit nicely around his waist. Seonghwa looks back up, tipping his beret back with him and says, “Then, if you still want to, can you kiss me now?”

Oh. 

After the split-second it takes you to process his words, your lips are on his. It’s like the floodgates had burst open. After weeks and weeks and weeks of pent up frustration, the unsatisfying orgasms, and the stupid crush, you were finally kissing Seonghwa. And you were beyond happy to know his lips tasted exactly as you’d imagined. 

Grabbing his neat collar, you pull him inside your apartment, kissing him hungrily, wanting to make up for the week of despair. Once you’ve rid him of his messenger bag, your hands cup his jaw, coaxing his mouth open for your tongue. He gasps in surprise and finds his hands grabbing at your waist. 

When the back of your knees touch your couch, you’re quick to turn around and push Seonghwa onto the cushions. He’s utterly mesmerized, looking up at you in your sheer clothes, craving you. 

With your knees on either side of his lap, you sit against him and search ravenously for his lips. They taste so sweet and so familiar that you take and take, wanting to memorize his taste. They were soft, yearning for more, yet he still hesitates. Seonghwa’s barely able to keep up, kissing you back as best as he could, but he’s quickly running out of breath. Luckily for him, your lips kiss the side of his mouth and begin to move down his jaw. 

Seonghwa’s eyes close at the feeling, and when you experimentally nip into his neck, he opens his eyes with a gasp. His hands come to rest on your thighs, gently squeezing the flesh, which has you humming into his neck. Then, he suddenly spots his bag sitting precariously on the edge of your couch. 

Seonghwa really thought you’d never want to see him again. He was extremely unprofessional. What was he thinking getting drunk like that when he knew he was a lightweight? After sobering up, he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t ever think of you inappropriately again. He had come here in the hopes of either getting on his knees and apologizing or acting like nothing happened. It was dependent on your reaction.

But when you open the door in hardly any clothes, all he wanted to do again was kiss you. 

And he’s glad you did too, but he had an unyielding need to complete his duty as your tutor to help you get through today’s lesson. You were doing so well, and he’d hand-written the worksheet for you to complete today. So, as much as it pains him, he tries to get you to stop. 

“We should—” You grind against him, teasingly, trying to test the waters. You feel greedy, deprived even, cutting off his words to taste him better, but he just feels so good, you can’t help it. He gasps, and you take your chance to slip your tongue back into his mouth. Still, in between kisses, he tries to continue, “We should still try to get some work done.” 

His grip on your thighs felt good, tightening a little at your persistence, and in response, you grind down on his lap harder. Backing away, you pant, “We will, just five more minutes,” before you’re kissing him yet again. 

When five minutes come and go, Seonghwa’s face is red, he can’t seem to catch his breath, and his dick has grown painfully hard. But the cover of his leather bag has come undone, and he can see parts of the worksheets he’s printed off for you. He attempts to pull away, “We really should be practicing your synthetic divi—” but you drag him back in by his collar. When you roll your hips against him, he stutters out the first thing he can think of. “We can play strip poker!”

The idea has you stopping.

“For every question you get right, I’ll take a piece of clothing off,” Seonghwa says.

You smirk and back away from him. “Okay,” is all you say, before you get off him and turn around to walk to the table. Seonghwa straightens his glasses and gets up from your couch. Using his bag as a shield, he covers his embarrassingly hard boner and follows you to the dining table. 

Once you’ve both sat, he takes the worksheet he’d so diligently prepared and his pens, sliding the worksheet towards you. You scan the ten questions on the paper and then look back at Seonghwa to eye him up and down. Grabbing a pencil from your cup, you begin to solve the first problem. 

Seonghwa takes a deep breath, air filling his lungs to capacity, before silently releasing. The strap of your top was slowly sliding down your shoulder, exposing the top of your chest. Get it together, he thinks, looking away. He focuses on the tick-tock of your clock, until you finish and pass the worksheet back to him. 

Clearing his throat, Seonghwa looks over your scribbled work, picking up his blue pen to draw a smiley face as he says, “Good job.” He lifts his denim beret off his heat and places it gently on your kitchen table. 

“No fair,” you pout, eyeing the many layers he’s worn in the middle of summer. “Aren’t you hot?”

“Not at all, next question,” he nods at the sheet. That was a lie, and Seonghwa dearly hoped you couldn’t tell. The warmth in his cheeks wouldn’t leave, and as you turn your attention back to the paper, he swallows heavily. His cock was straining in his boxers, and he was regretting his intricately layered outfit as he discretely squirmed in his chair. 

Some seconds later, you slide the paper back to him. He blinks through your answer, and to your surprise, picks up his red pen to circle your mistake. “You miscalculated when distributing the negative exponents.”

“What?” you snatch the paper back, running through the problem again. He was right. You look up at Seonghwa, and with a shrug, you slip your shirt over your head. 

“What are you doing?” Seonghwa asks, bewildered. 

Faking innocence,  you respond, “If I get one right, you take something off, but if I get one wrong, I take something off. It only seems fair.” 

You’d come to adore Seonghwa’s fashion in these past weeks. It exuded comfort and belonging, and his color combinations were never not admirable. It also helped that looked beautiful no matter what he wore. But today, despite the complementing oceanic and deep blues, you were frustrated at the amount of things he had on. You were simply speeding up the process and hoping that maybe having him equally or more horny than you would do the trick.

Seonghwa was struggling, and it was obvious. Your tits were right there, and god were they something. Seonghwa’s nails dig into his palms, wanting to touch you, squeeze you, something, anything. 

Alcohol bravened him, that much was a fact, but sitting here underneath your piercing gaze and barely covered body, Seonghwa felt like his own body was blazing. He couldn’t get rid of these clothes fast enough. So when you get the next question right, Seonghwa shrugs off his jean jacket and, to your pleasant surprise, unbuttons his dress shirt, letting it rest around his shoulders. 

You move on to the next problem, and Seonghwa’s knees begin to bounce in anticipation. His breathing was deeper, and now he was shamelessly staring. You couldn’t be more turned on even if you tried, yet you continue to solve the fourth problem. 

You’v nearly completed the problem, when Seonghwa watches you hesitate. You twirl the pencil between your fingers and with intention, turn your answer of 31x-4 into a 31x+4. Seonghwa’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You had the correct answer?”

“Oh! Oops,” is all you say before you get up to kick off your sleep shorts. Now in only your sheer underwear, you sit back down and pick the pencil up once again. “Next question?” 

Seonghwa’s eyes trail down to your bare legs and back up your body. He only breathes out deeply, nodding. You decided you liked the game better like this. There was a searing heat radiating off Seonghwa, and you felt a rumbling warmth pooling in your stomach, aching for relief, but you only continued to solve the next problem. 

And get it wrong, of course. 

“You aren’t distributing properly,” Seonghwa says, his eyes glued to your nearly correct answer. He’s unable to look anywhere else, his pants are starting to feel extremely uncomfortable, and he knows you’re doing this on purpose. 

“Oh!” you exclaim again, faking your surprise and standing from your spot, and Seonghwa thinks you’re getting ready to peel off your sorry excuse for underwear, fists tightening at his side. If you were going to be sitting completely naked in front of him, he wouldn’t care if the worksheets got crumpled or if his textbooks were covered in cum, Seonghwa would take you right here, right now on your dining table. His patience was running dangerously thin, and he was, after all, just a man.

But what you did was much, MUCH worse. 

You pad over him, footsteps light, standing beside him. Bending down to look at the worksheet, you squint, moving closer into Seonghwa’s space, your knees bumping his own, until you’ve finally made enough space for yourself to sit snugly on his thighs. Oh, and his hard dick. “Show me where?”

“What?” His voice was strained, and you felt yourself pulsing, your desperation laughably evident. 

“Show me where I messed up,” you say, trying your best not to waver. 

For a moment, Seonghwa doesn’t move, and you’re afraid you’ve pushed too far again. Until his arm wraps around your waist and pulls you flush against his back. 

His jaw is clenched, voice strained, when he repeats, “You aren’t distributing properly,” breath fanning against your neck. Your eyes flutter shut at the warm sensation, thighs squeezing together in search for some form of pleasure. Seonghwa’s low, “Watch me,” has you opening them again, forcing attention to the red pen between his fingers that’s marking over your work. 

He circles the distribution mistakes, voicing his disapproval. “You did so well the week before last, what’s going on?”

“Maybe I just need to take a break. I’ve had a really long day, I think I deserve a break,” you ramble, pushing the worksheet away.

“We’ll keep going until you get one more right,” he pulls the sheet back in front of you. You groan in frustration, unintentionally grinding against Seonghwa. His hold on you tightens, his hips stuttering upwards. 

The friction his jeans creates against your thin panties feels too good to sit through god knows how many more problems, and you let him know, pushing your hips down harder and faster, rutting against the rough denim. You know you’ve wet the material, but embarrassment is the last thing on your mind when you can taste the end of your release.

Only to be stopped by Seonghwa. 

With gentle nips at your neck, he slows your pace, guiding your hips in a steady motion against his, your orgasm fading away. “Not until you get one right.” He’s just as desperate as you, and you revel in the fact, letting the insipid insecurities from the week melt away, before you turn back to the worksheet and start the next problem.

You hunker down as best as you can, the slowness of the pace Seonghwa’s set still distracting you. The stupidly large exponents mock your lack of focus while Seonghwa’s hands at your hips beg for your attention, but you persist, working through the problem. When you finish, you hand him the sheet, finally closing your eyes, relishing in the pleasure, pushing just a tiny bit harder and faster against Seonghwa’s hold.

And you’re so glad he lets you as he reads through your work, taking a longer time than he should be.  

The moment the words good job leave his lips, you’re turning around in his lap, raking your fingernails over his abdomen. His lips quickly find yours and if he weren’t keeping them occupied, you would sigh a big sigh of relief, finally able to have him as you please. 

You know you’re creating smudges on his glasses when your forehead bumps with his as you try to stand, but you can’t find it in yourself to care, dragging him to your couch as fast as you can. In the short distance, Seonghwa shoves his dirtied denim pants off and tosses them over the dining table chair. 

You both land heavily on the couch, lips still intertwined, hands reaching for anything to grab. Seonghwa pulls you onto his lap and keeps your hips attached to his own, but when you feel his cock twitch, you moan, backing away. “Please let me suck you off.”

Heart beating out of his chest, Seonghwa only nods, and you hurriedly get off his lap and onto your knees between his legs. Sliding his boxers down, his dick finally springs free. 

Seonghwa was pretty, and you’d become familiar with the fact. What you weren’t expecting was how pretty his dick would be. He looked heavy, curving inwards towards his stomach, and the tip was a deep shade of pink, begging for attention. Seonghwa shakily breathes out above you, and just for the hell of it, you maintain eye contact as you move in closer to lick the underside of his cock, swirling your tongue when you reach the tip. 

Seonghwa’s only able to look at you for a few seconds before his head tilts back on the couch, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. A soft moan leaves his lips, the sound different from anything you’ve ever heard from him before. He sounds better than he did in your deepest fantasies, and all you want is to hear more. 

So you get to work, adding your hands to the mix. Your swirl and suck, hollowing your mouth, taking as much of him down your throat as you could. 

“Fuck, oh my god, please,” his eyes open to look at you. He couldn’t believe he was here, in the dimmed lights of your living room so warm and cozy, the aroma of your home so comforting, and you, sitting so prettily between his legs, so eager to make him cum. 

Suddenly, as he’s deep in your throat, you reach for the balled fists at his sides. He uncurls them at your silent request, and his eyes widen as you drag them over to your head. He almost cums, but lets his fingers weave between your hair, simply resting there, letting you go at your own pace. 

But you’re unsatisfied with this, and as a result, suck a little bit harder and take him a little bit deeper. When he twitches again, you know you’ve got him. A long, drawn-out “Fuck,” leaves Seonghwa’s lips, his hands grip your hair tightens, holding you down on his cock as he cums. The sound resonates within you, the deepness of his voice making you drip on the floor. The taste of his cum collects in your mouth, and you swallow it all.

When he comes down from his high, his hands are quick to cup your face as you’re moving to sit beside him. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked if I could—”

“Don’t worry, I wanted you to,” you tell him, catching your breath. 

At your response, he shyly looks away. The sight of Seonghwa makes you want to jump his bones. His pupils are blown out, and the fucked out expression on his face is beyond sexy. His usually neat hair is tousled into a poofy mess, and his lips are plump from your assault. But you wait for him to collect his thoughts before you make another move, his overwhelmed body inhaling and exhaling deeply. 

“Can I return the favor?” The confidence in his words was out of place, but you welcomed it with an eager smile. And with that, his lips find yours again. 

Your underwear is discarded quickly as Seonghwa makes his way down your neck and the valley of your breasts. He lifts one of your legs over his shoulder and places the other over the backrest of your couch.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for so long,” he says, reaching the skin of your thighs. “I’ve thought about you a lot more than I should have these past few weeks.” That was an understatement; he’d felt starved of you, only having his recollections and your LinkedIn to keep him satisfied. You’d been the only thing on his mind. 

“God, that’s so good to know,” you respond, rolling your hips against his face. 

This time, Seonghwa’s eyes widened, not in shock, but in realization. You’d thought about him as much as he did about you. In the pause, he looks at the messied sight of your drooling pussy and realizes that that was his doing. Overcome with vigor, he starts strong, licking deep into you, nose nudging your clit in the best way. 

The pleasure feels immediately overwhelming, and you tangle your hands through his already messy hair and tug at his scalp. “Fuck, Hwa,” you cry out, fingernails lightly scratching at his scalp.

The nickname has him wrapping his arms around your thighs and licking past your folds to suck on your clit, teeth gently grazing it. You sharply inhale at the euphoric feeling, crying out his name again and again and again. 

Your hips are stuttering, thighs shaking, trying to buck into Seonghwa’s face. The movement slightly irritates him, and he just wants you to stop moving, but he’s unable to back away from your addicting flavor. So in one selfish move, with his arms still tightly wrapped around your thighs, he lifts your hips upwards off the couch, coming to sit on his knees. 

You think you could have cum from the display of strength alone, but when Seonghwa starts repeatedly lapping away at your pussy, all you can do is whine, “Oh my god, yes, yes, yes!” Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, and the unbearable string in your stomach is about to snap at the burning pleasure. 

Your moans are helpless and loudly unforgiving, and Seonghwa loves every minute of it. His prodding tongue explores inside of you and at your pulsing, Seonghwa sets you down gently on the cushions. He wraps his mouth around two of his own fingers and runs them along your pussy. You’re whining again, hips bucking upwards now that there’s nothing there to stop them. When his long fingers are nicely curled inside of you, you clamp down on them instantly with a cry. 

“More. Give me more please, Hwa.” And Seonghwa does. He repeatedly curls his fingers inside of you, applying pressure to your weeping gummy spot, and keeps his tongue busy at your throbbing clit. With his other hand, he alternately squeezes your tits. You feel like you’re on fire, every fiber of your being drowning in ecstasy. Your building orgasm is at its tipping point when Seonghwa once again grazes your clit with his teeth, and soon after, it spills over.

Your release has you seeing stars, and for a moment, your ears begin to ring. And throughout it all, Seonghwa doesn’t stop. While his fingers have left, his tongue keeps circling your folds, mumbling words you aren’t able to hear just yet against you. Your limbs feel limp, but your thighs begin to shake again at the overstimulation. When the ringing subsides, you hear, “You taste so fucking good, please.” His ardent need had you shaking, the same repetition of words falling from his lips, the vibration building your second orgasm already. 

You jolt at the stimulation, and Seonghwa eats you up, lapping, licking, and sucking until your thighs close around his head and you cum again.

This time, Seonghwa retreats from your pussy, letting you ride out your back-to-back orgasms, and places his small kisses up your thighs and around your stomach. You’re panting, trying to calm your beating heart. When you’ve come to, Seonghwa is sucking a hickey at your collarbones. 

You card your fingers through his hair and pull him towards your lips. He gladly kisses you back, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue. 

He backs away, giving you a chaste peck before asking, “Was… that okay?” You don’t know where the man from a few moments ago has gone. Right now, Seonghwa’s blushing again, as if he hadn’t just given you the best orgasms of your life. 

“Yes, Professor,” you tease him. He nervously chuckles, and in genuine awe of him, you add “That was more than okay.” The red of his face deepens, and he looks to the marks he’s left on your body. When he looks down, you stop him. “Oh, your glasses,” you look at the smeared mess of fingerprints, sweat, and your cum on the frame and glass. You extend your hands to take them off, but Seonghwa stops you. 

“No, wait. I… I wanna be able to see you,” he says quietly. You pause to look at him, the adoration present in his eyes too endearing to take. This time, while you don’t have any words, he softly kisses you. The kiss turns desperate in no time, and the softness is short-lived when he backs away to spot the sight of your wet pussy again. 

Quick to grab a condom, he rolls it down his length, while lips darken the marks on your neck. He pulls back to look down at you. You were so much more beautiful than the confines of his imagination. You were just as, if not more, thoroughly fucked out. Bruises were sure to form on your thighs where Seonghwa’s strong grip had been, and the both of you were littered with love bites. 

With a deep breath, he runs his pretty cock along the length of your soaking folds, relishing your sharp gasp when he slows at your clit. 

“Please Hwa. Please, please, please” you whine, rolling your hips into him. And Seonghwa gives you what you want, slowing his thick cock into you. The stretch feels heavenly, and the two of you sigh once he’s fully situated inside. Seonghwa feels drunk with your hot velvet walls pulsing around him, and he so badly wants to fuck into you thoughtlessly, getting lost in your walls. 

But he waits, controlling his breathing and keeping his lips occupied at the base of your neck and his hands at your hips. 

It doesn't take you too long to give him the go-ahead, and with that, Seonghwa starts moving. You rest wrap your hands around his pumped forearms and let your eyes shut. His thrusts are languid at first, letting you get used to him and him to you, but they speed up in no time, your orgasms building with ease. 

Soenghwa grinds into you, and beyond his glasses, you catch his perverse eyes. He wanted to live out every fantasy he had of you, and you of his, letting you do whatever you want to him and vice versa. He feels as if there isn’t enough time in the world each time he sinks into you, and with that, Seonghwa’s thrusts quicken. 

The curve of his cock reaches so deliciously deep inside you, you feel tears welling in your eyes. His grip on your hips is so tight, and the slap of your skin against his has you repeating Seonghwa’s name like a mantra.  

Sliding your hands down from his arms, you bring them to your stomach, and whimper exasperatedly at what you find. You take one of the hands he’s got gripping your hips and drag it up to your stomach, letting him feel what you felt. He gasps at the feeling, slowing his thrusts down, feeling his cock under your skin. When the realization simmers away, carnal hunger takes its place, and Seonghwa pumps into you harder, this time pressing down on where his cock bulges from your skin. 

You gasp at the feeling, eyes widening at the rough feeling. Seonghwa eyes your expression, and when finds nothing but desire, he hikes your legs up his shoulders and continues to bully his way into your pussy, wanting to mold you to the shape of every ridge of his cock, making you his. 

You whimper pathetically, completely at his mercy, letting your tears finally fall as you take everything he’s giving you diligently. 

After that, it doesn’t take long for either of you to cum. 

Sweat drips from the sloping tip of Seonghwa’s nose onto your chest, making you come to. Seonghwa’s awkwardly balanced on his elbows, trying to not put his body weight on you or fall off the couch. You scoff at the ridiculous position, and pull Seonghwa into your chest, eyes lulling with sleep. 

He can hear your heartbeat slow, and when it seems you’ve fully come down, Seonghwa says, “We should get cleaned up.”

“We will, just five more minutes,” you repeat. 

Seonghwa quietly laughs, relaxing against you. In the meantime, his hands find yours, fingertips ghosting your knuckles, sending a spark up your spine. “Can I do all the things I’ve been thinking about?” he asks, still shrouded by a thin veil of insecurity. 

Your arms tighten around, and you smile. “We’ve got the entire weekend, unless you’ve got somewhere else to be?” you tease, intertwining your hands in his. 

Seonghwa squeezes your hand, thumb brushing your wrists. “I don’t.”

“Then, yes,” you smile, placing a kiss on his forehead. 

His lips turn upwards, and he smiles. Kissing your neck, he rests his cheek against your chest. There’s a pregnant pause, before he says, “What if a couple of those things have to happen in my office?”

Author's Note II: Yay to those who made it all the way through! There will NOT be a second part or bonus parts for ToA, which technically makes this my first one-shot! I'm really proud of this fic would LOVE some feedback! Much love <3

Huffing and puffing wasn’t really going to get you anywhere, but it seemed to be all you could do. 

You stood in the front of the locked and empty rooms of the empty offices with your pinned clothes heavy in your hands. The fabric brushed against your arms, smooth and slippery, the deep red silk and gossamer catching the light with every small movement. It was luxurious but temperamental, a material that shows every flaw in your carefully thought out construction and left no room for error. It felt like it weighed more with every passing second you stood there, a physical and fiery manifestation of your frustration.

The dress you’d painstakingly pieced together was bold, maybe too bold. Its structured bodice was accented with dramatic, asymmetrical pleats that swept across the waist, creating an almost sculptural effect. The skirt fell in layers of sheer gossamer, each edge meticulously hand-cut to achieve a feathered look. A high slit ran up one slide, a daring choice that you were now second-guessing. The pink pins holding the seams in place glittered like stars against the dark fabric, mocking your hesitation. 

You look at them adorning the dark red cloth you were too scared to commit to sewing and lay it along the railing. The fabric shifted under your fingers, the pins catching faintly against the cold metal. Peeking over the railing, you spot a few lingering bodies below. 

Some students were laid drooling over their laptop while others were hunched over their own projects, sketching feverishly over a large canvas while others mixed colors on palette paper, their motions hypnotic in their repetitive intensity. 

The quiet hum of activity down there felt a world away from your current dilemma. With a deep sigh, you turn back toward the locked door. It was impractical to expect any professors to be available half past eleven, you knew that. But the weight of the project deadline pressed heavily on your chest, and with each passing minute, you felt less and less certain about your choices.  

But you did know who would be here. 

Kim Hongjoong. The name alone conjured up mixed emotions, a slurry of intimidation, exasperation, and maybe even a touch of admiration. He was infamous among the design students, and not just for his critiques, which could cut sharper than a rotary blade. He had a presence that made people twice, you among them. Short in stature but larger than life, he carried himself with a confidence that felt earned, his sharp cheekbones and ever-present black eyeliner giving him the air of an untouchable rockstar. 

His hair had been a slew of colors since you’d met him, but this winter, he’d settled on a jet black with red undertones, which despite the color, always remained slightly tousled, as though he’d been running his hands through it all day.

His wardrobe only added to the mythos. He was able to conjure the most colorful of garments, decorated to sparkle and dazzle in the light of both the sun and the moon, but you don’t think you’d seen him in more than a neutral palette which was mostly comprised of blacks and grays. Always paired with his clothes were the chunky black boots that completed his ensemble, their thick soles giving him a boost of height.

You’d never seen him during the day without a scowl plastered on his face. You could still recall the infamous time he’d been forced to attend an early morning orientation for incoming freshmen. He’d slouched at the back of the studio, glaring daggers at the clock, the bags under his eyes visible even from where you were standing. 

You peek into the small workspace he’d claimed as his own, the door slightly ajar. The air inside was tinged with the faint smell of coffee and paper, and you could hear the faint scratch of a pen against a sketchpad. He sat hunched over his desk, his focus so intense he didn’t seem to notice your presence. A steaming mug of coffee sat dangerously close to the edge of the table, threatening to topple over with one careless motion.

At night, when the campus quieted and the studio lights buzzed softly, Hongjoong seemed to come alive. He became a force of nature, especially at night, when caffeine coursed through his veins like electricity when he ran up and down the design building, completing projects.  

“Have you put it on?” His voice cuts through the quiet like a needle pricking fabric. 

“What?” you blink, caught off guard.

“Have you put it on?” he repeats, finally looking up with one arched brow. He clicked his tongue when you didn’t answer immediately. “Don’t tell me you’ve come asking for help before you’ve even put it on. That’s the whole point of that assignment,” he says, gesturing with his pen matter-of-factly. 

You knew that, of course, you knew that. “Okay,” you drag out the syllables, trying to keep your irritation in check. “Well, I haven’t put it on yet, but I was hoping you could just take a quick look at the way the material drapes—”

“While it’s on a hanger?”” he interrupts with a sharp scoff. “Please, waste my time some more, why don’t you?”

Despite his words, he pushes back his chair with a dramatic scrape, the roll of your eyes so desperate for the movement, grabbing his coffee as if it were a lifeline. He takes a long sip before striding toward you with his usual caffeinated energy. His movements were quick and precise, almost jittery, as though his body could barely keep up with his thoughts. 

“Alright, let’s see this supposed masterpiece,” he says, motioning impatiently for you to hold up the garment. 

You lift it carefully, letting the deep red silk and gossamer catch the light. The fabric ripples like liquid fire as it unfolds, the sharp contrast of the pink pins accentuating the bold pleats and dramatic silhouette. He circles you, his eyes narrowing as he takes in every detail, scrutinizing it as though searching for flaws to latch onto.

“It’s… loud,” he finally says, the words falling flat and unimpressed. “The color’s trying too hard. Red’s predictable, it’s like you’re screaming for attention without saying anything meaningful.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. You blink, taken aback by his bluntness, but something inside you flares at the dismissal. 

“It’s not just red,” you snap, your voice sharper than you intended. “It’s crimson, and it’s deliberate. The color represents power and femininity. It’s bold because it’s supposed to be, because women and their bodies aren’t quiet or soft or something that should blend into the background.”

He pauses mid-stride, his gaze snapping back to you. He doesn’t say anything, but the slightest quirk of his eyebrow betrays that you’ve caught him off guard. Still, he recovers quickly, letting out a scoff as he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“And the slit?” he counters, his tone dripping with skepticism. “What are you going for there? A wardrobe malfunction on the runway?”

“It’s intentional,” you fire back, the words coming faster now. “It’s about movement, fluidity. The female body is dynamic, not static. The slit isn’t just a detail, it’s part of the message. Restriction isn’t the goal here. Freedom is.”

His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, you think you see something flicker in his sharp eyes. A glimmer of respect, maybe, or even admiration. But just as quickly, his expression hardens, and he lets out an exaggerated sigh as if this entire conversation is testing his patience. 

“Fine. You’ve got a thesis. Great. But a thesis doesn’t mean anything if it doesn’t translate when someone’s wearing it,” he says, voice clipped. “Right now, all I see is fabric pinned to itself. You’ve got a lot of talk, but if you want me to believe it, you need to prove it, sweetheart.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding. Fuck, he was attractive. The way he looks at you, half-annoyed and half-curious, makes you want to both jump him and prove him wrong. 

“Put it on,” he says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. He gestures toward the dress with a tilt of his head. “Let’s see if your ‘power and freedom’ actually works when it’s on a body, or if it’s just pretty words.”

You narrow your eyes at him, biting back a retort as you grab the dress. His gaze lingers on your for a beat longer than necessary before he turns away, retreating back to his desk with a nonchalant air. But the slight tension in his shoulders gives him away. He’s curious, whether he admits it or not. 

As you head towards the changing room behind his studio space, your grip on the dress tightens. You’ll show him. You’ll make him see this isn’t just pinned fabric, that this is art, your art, with meaning. 

I’ll make him eat his words. 

You remove your clothes in a haste, slowing down to pull the open-pinned dress over your head. 

When you walk back into his studio, Hongjoong only sighs. 

“Tell me, is it meant to be wearing mismatched underwear or is that just your vision for it?” 

Okay, completely bare it was. Without breaking eye contact, you slip off your bra and through the open sleeves of the dress, throw it onto a rack of blank canvases. You struggle with your underwear a little but soon enough are able to pull it out through the slit in the skirt and toss it in the opposite direction. 

A stubborn expression graces your face, and you look at Hongjoong, waiting for him to put together his thoughts, almost as if he’s wasting your time. 

Hongjoong’s sharp eyes rove over the garment with an intensity that could make anyone squirm, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Standing there, completely exposed save for the patches of silk draping select sections of your body, you square your shoulders and tilt your chin up, daring him to find fault now that it’s on.

For a moment, he says nothing. His focus shifts from the sculpted bodice to the pleated waist, and then to the high slit. His gaze lingers on how the fabric clings to your frame, the deep crimson catching the light and cascading like molten lava with every slight movement. You feel the air shift, the weight of his silence thick with thoughts he hasn’t voiced yet.

“Well?” you challenge, your voice cutting through the quiet. “Don’t tell me you’re speechless. I thought you had an opinion on everything.”

His lips twitch, almost forming a smirk, but he catches himself and crosses his arms instead, his fingers tapping against his bicep. “It’s better,” he concedes begrudgingly. “The structure works when it’s actually on. The bodice fits tighter than I expected—clean lines, good tension. The pleats don’t overwhelm as much as they did on the hanger.” He pauses, stepping closer to inspect the skirt.

“But,” he continues, his tone sharp enough to slice, “the slit still feels unresolved. It’s daring, sure, but right now, it looks more accidental than intentional. If you’re going for movement, then the fabric needs to tell that story. Right now, it’s just... there.”

You feel your jaw tighten, his critique grating against your nerves. “It does tell a story,” you snap. “The slit isn’t just for show. It’s about exposing what’s hidden—revealing strength and vulnerability at the same time. The asymmetry makes it human, imperfect. Isn’t that the point of art? Or would you prefer it to be sterile and safe?”

Hongjoong’s expression flickers, just for a second. There’s a brief moment where he looks almost stunned, like he wasn’t expecting that. 

Hongjoong, if nothing, was not safe or sterile in his approach. Ever. But he recovers quickly, letting out a derisive snort as if your words hadn’t fazed him.

“Again, strong words,” he says, stepping back and leaning against the desk with his ever-present air of annoyance. “But words aren’t enough. You’ve got to prove it in how it moves, how it lives on a body. Anyone can wax poetic about their choices, but that’s all you’ve been doing since you walked into my studio.” He gestures at you, his hand slicing through the air. 

“Walk. Show me.”

You blink, taken aback by his demand. “What?”

“Walk,” he repeats with a roll of his eyes, as if he’s bored by the back-and-forth. “Let me see how the fabric flows, how the slit actually works in motion. If you’re so confident in your ‘strength and vulnerability,’ then let the dress speak for itself.”

For a moment, you consider arguing, but the fire in his gaze dares you. So you take a step forward, feeling the silk brush against your legs. The high slit shifts with every movement, revealing flashes of your skin in a way that feels deliberate and powerful. The pleats ripple like waves, catching the light in a way that accentuates their sculptural form. You walk the length of the room and back, your movements growing more confident with each step.

When you stop in front of him, Hongjoong’s gaze lingers for a beat longer than necessary. His expression is carefully neutral, but the tight line of his jaw and the faint crease between his brows betray his thoughts. He’s impressed though you doubt he’ll ever admit it.

“Well,” he says finally, his voice deliberately flat. “It’s... better than I thought it would be. You’ve got something here, but it still needs refinement. The slit works when you walk, but what happens when you stand still? It loses some of its impact. And the pleats—”

“Oh my god,” you interrupt, throwing your hands up. “You’re impossible to please, you know that? You nitpick everything like it’s your life’s mission.”

“It is my mission,” he snaps back, his tone sharp and bordering on unkind. “Do you think anyone’s going to coddle you when you’re presenting at a runway show? They’ll tear you apart if it’s not perfect.” 

He walks over to his own collection of rolls of textiles, flicking through them, and finally, picking out one of a pale white glittering gossamer, not too dissimilar to yours. He strides towards you, the roll in hand, muttering something under his breath. 

His deft hands unravel the gossamer, too impatient to even cut it away from the rest of the roll as it tumbles away from him, and he swiftly wraps it around your waist, cinching it tight and pulling a gasp from you. His fingers graze your hips as he works, his touch firm and efficient. The thin fabric molds to your curves, creating a snug band that accentuates your waistline. 

Still behind you, he turns you to face a long mirror that’s propped up against a supply box. You can feel the heat of his body so close to yours, the scent of his cologne filling your senses.

"See? This creates a more defined waistline," he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear. "It adds structure and draws the eye in." His fingers trace the edge of the gossamer, brushing against your skin. You shiver at the contact, a jolt of electricity shooting through you. 

Hongjoong steps back, surveying his handiwork with a critical eye. He adjusts the fabric, tugging it here and there until he's satisfied. "Much better," he declares, nodding approvingly. The sharp edges of his demeanor seem to dull, and the air between you grows into something more softer. He’s observing you now, not with his usual critique or irritation, but with something quieter. Almost… admiring.

“Wow, didn’t think you were capable of a compliment.” And just like that, the moment shatters, like a dropped pane of glass. 

Suddenly, Hongjoong’s expression hardens. His jaw clenches, and he unravels the gossamer from your waist and gathers it at your wrists, wrapping it tightly around your arms and binding them behind your back.

"What are you doing?" you gasp, a thrill of excitement mixed with apprehension coursing through you as he secures the makeshift bonds. At your voice, the grip of the gossamer only tightens. 

"Helping you see your design through a different lens," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear as he finishes tying the fabric. "What’d you say you wanted to do? ‘Expose what’s hidden’, huh? Why don’t I help you with that?"

He spins you around to face him, his hands gripping your bound wrists as he presses you back against the wall. The silk and gossamer bunch between your bodies, creating a delicious friction that makes you gasp.

"Look at you," he breathes, his eyes dark with desire as they roam over your face. "I think you’d be surprised to know how much you’re actually lying to yourself, sweetheart."

His free hand trails down your body, skimming over your breasts and skimming over the bodice of your dress. He teases one stiff nipple through the thin fabric, rolling it between his fingers until you're writhing against him.

"Where’s that ‘strength’?" he asks, pinching the sensitive bud harder. "Where’s that ‘power’? Because, right now, all I see is this little girl who does a lot more barking than biting."

His touch is electric, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. You can feel the heat of his skin through the gossamer as he caresses your bound wrists, the silk whispering against itself with each slight movement.

The high slit in your dress allows his fingers to easily access the heat between your legs that feels like it’s burning, and he takes full advantage, tracing teasing patterns along your inner thighs before brushing against your sensitive clit. You gasp and buck your hips, craving more of his touch.

"Fuck, you're so wet already," he growls, his voice low and rough with desire. "You like being at my mercy, don't you? Like knowing I could do anything I want to you. All that talk from before, where’d it go, sweetheart?"

His fingers plunge deep inside you, filling you completely. You moan wantonly, the sound echoing through the empty studio. He starts to thrust, fucking you with his hand in a quick rhythm that has you seeing stars, leaning your body against him.

"Such a good girl, taking my fingers like this," he praises, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles around the sensitive bud. "I bet you'd look even better on my cock, wouldn't you? Stretched wide and begging for more."

His dirty words only fuel your arousal, and you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge with each thrust and touch. He must sense it too, because he suddenly pulls his hand away, leaving you aching and desperate.

He slips the dress down your shoulders, suddenly growing careful, making sure the pink pins don’t prick you. Once it’s off, his attitude briskly returns as he kicks it to the side and ties the uncut gossamer back tightly around your wrists. 

Standing completely bare in front him, even without the layer of the see-through gossamer on your dress, has you inexplicably submissive. In the reflection of the mirror, you catch a glimpse of yourself, and you look utterly pathetic. 

The guttural tone of Hongjoong’s voice brings your attention back to him. "On your knees," he commands, pushing you down with a firm hand on your shoulder. "I need to be in your mouth."

With shaking legs, you obey, sinking to the floor and looking up at him through hooded eyes. He unbuckles his belt and shoves down his pants and briefs, freeing his cock. He isn’t long, but fuck, he was thick, his pretty pink tip already glistening with precum. His dick bobs in front of your face, and eagerly, you look up at Hongjoong, eyes begging him to keep going as your pussy drips freely onto the floor of his studio.

"Fuck, well aren’t you treat,” he says, palming your warmed cheek, taking note of the pliant look in your eyes. “Open wide," he says, fisting his hand in your hair and guiding you towards his length. "Show me how much you appreciate my help, sweetheart."

You part your lips, letting him push the thick head of his cock past them and into the drooling heat of your mouth. He groans, the sound reverberating through his chest as he begins to thrust, fucking your face with long, deep strokes.

The gossamer around your wrists tightens as he pulls you closer, using it like a leash to control your movements. You can feel it biting into your skin, the slight itching pain mixing with the intense pleasure of having your mouth filled with his cock.

"That’s it, take all of me," he grunts, pushing deeper until you gag around him. "Fuck, I knew this pretty mouth would look good wrapped around my dick. Isn’t it so much better this way, sweetheart? No more ‘searching for power in your femininity’, just sucking me off like the good slut you are."

And all you do is moan around him, completely in agreement. The fire, the challenge, the need to prove him wrong have all disappeared, and maybe it was the sleep deprivation or maybe it was the stress of the upcoming deadline or maybe you just needed a good fuck, you think. At this point in time, you didn’t care.

He sets a cruelly quick pace, pistoning in and out of your throat without mercy, stopping every five or six thrusts to let you catch your breath. Tears have begun to stream down your cheeks as you struggle to breathe around his thickness, but your pussy only grows wetter with each thrust, the pool of your arousal growing on the studio floor. 

His degrading words just turn you on more, and to get some relief, you press your thighs together in an attempt to create any sort of friction.

Catching this, Hongjoong thrusts into you, letting his throbbing dick sit heavily in your throat, unmoving. "Look at you, choking on my cock like the desperate little whore you are," he taunts, one hand coming up to grip your jaw and force you to meet his gaze. "You love this, don't you? Love having your mouth used for my pleasure."

You can only whine in response, the sound muffled by the thick length resting over your tongue. He takes advantage of your silence, using it as an excuse to push even deeper, and you’re able to feel the heat of his heavy balls against your chin.

He tastes so good and you’re beyond gone, so in response to his words, you collect some saliva in your mouth and swallow around him messily. Hongjoong’s eyes flutter shut as he lets out a low fuck.

"Such a good little cock sleeve," he praises, his voice thick with lust. He thrusts into your throat deeply a few more times, cock twitching when you gag around him. "Bet this cunt of yours is getting nice and wet, isn't it? Getting all slick and ready for me to wreck."

His words send a jolt of pure need straight to your core, and you can feel yourself getting even wetter, if that was even possible at this point. Hongjoong must be able to feel it too, because he suddenly pulls out entirely, leaving you gasping and panting for air.

He stands still observing you again, and in the idle moments, your eyes flicker over the mirror. If you looked pathetic before, you looked like a total slut now. Yet, you didn’t find yourself minding at all, awaiting Hongjoong’s next order.

He tugs on the gossamer, hauling you up and dragging you to the nearest flat surface, which just happens to be where he was working prior to your coming in. 

He pushes you over the worktable, bending you roughly at the waist and forcing your sensitive nipples to press against the surface. The fabric of the gossamer bites into your wrists, but you barely notice, too focused on the feeling of his thick cock pressing against your ass.

"Look at that pretty cunt," he growls, one hand coming down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise. "So wet and ready for me. You want this, don't you sweetheart? Want me to fuck you hard and raw like the little slut you are?"

He reaches around to tease your clit, fingers sliding easily through your soaked folds. You moan wantonly, pushing your hips back against him in a desperate attempt to get more friction.

"That's it, beg for my cock," he commands, rubbing slow circles around your aching nub. "Tell me how much you need it."

"I need it," you whimper, voice shaking with desperation. "Please, I need your cock. I need you to fuck me and make me forget about everything else. Please, Hongjoong."

He chuckles darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. Where’d all that fire go?" he murmurs, pressing the tip of his cock against your entrance. "Where had it gone before when I was fucking your throat, hmm?"

You hear the sound of a condom wrapper tearing open, then the blunt head of his cock is nudging against your entrance. He teases you with shallow thrusts, never quite entering you fully, just brushing against your opening and making you beg for more.

"Please," you whimper, arching your back in a desperate attempt to take him deeper.

"I think you can beg some more, sweetheart. I’m not feeling so… convinced yet," he laughs lowly behind you, one hand coming down on your ass with a sharp smack. "Beg me to ruin this tight little cunt."

"I'm begging you!" you cry out, pressing your hips back against him. "Please fuck me hard, fill me up with your big cock. I want you to use me, claim me, make me yours."

He snarls something that might be a curse or a prayer, then eases into you with one slow thrust. You sigh, quietly gasping at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the table as he starts to pound into you at a relentless pace.

"Shit, so fucking tight," he grunts, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "Like this greedy little hole was made for my cock."

He sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust hitting deeper than the last until you swear you can feel him in your throat. Your tits bounce with every impact, the raw peaks scraping against the cool table and making you gasp.

"That's it, fucking take it," he snarls, angling his hips to hit that special gummy spot inside you with every stroke. His grip on the gossamer tightens, and with his other hand, Hongjoong wraps his fingers around your throat, forcing your head upwards. 

You see the crazed look in his eyes in the reflection of the mirror. Some of his eyeliner is smudged, but you’re not faring any better. 

He smirks down at you in the mirror, taking in the sight of your tear-stained face and the way your pussy is still clenching around his cock. "Look at you, all messy and fucked out," he says, his voice low and rough with satisfaction. "You're so much prettier when you aren’t talking back, sweetheart. All desperate and needy, listening to my every word."

His words send a thrill of possession through you, and you can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. The degrading talk only fuels your arousal, making your walls clench around his thickness.

He lets go and you fall back down onto the worktable with a whine, body unable to hold itself up without Hongjoong’s hands. He looms over you, his eyes dark with lust as he takes in the sight of your naked form, sprawled out before him.

"Nu-uh, I'm not done with you yet," he growls, his voice low and rough with desire. "I want to see you come apart on me, sweetheart. I want to feel this tight little pussy clench around me as you scream my name."

He parts your legs, settling between your thighs and running his fingers through your slick folds. You moan at the contact, your hips bucking up towards his touch as he circles your clit with expert precision.

"That’s it, cum for me you little slut," he says, increasing the pressure on your clit, rubbing tight circles around the sensitive nub. Your moans grow louder, your body arching off the worktable as the pleasure builds inside you.

He growls low in his throat, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chases his own release. Then he's coming with a grunt, slamming into you one final time before stilling, buried to the hilt inside you, twitching as his thick cock fills up the condom.

The feel of his cum painting your insides sends you careening over the edge, and you come with a scream of his name, your cunt clamping down on him like a vice.

Hongjoong leans down, his thick cock still inside you as his body pressed firmly into your back, and whispers, “From this point forward, I don’t want you going to any of the other TA’s besides me, understood sweetheart?”

Author's Note II: I feel like a nervous wreck as I'm in preparation for my interview tomorrow, but the recruiters DID say I was the benchmark for the rest of their first interviews, so that's a good sign, I guess??? 🤪 Anyways, I would really appreciate you leaving your thoughts in the form of comments and/or reblogs! It really helps me out and keeps me motivated to write more, so thank you in advance to those who do! Much love <3

Your rapid footsteps come to an unexpected stop in the middle of the crowded sidewalk. People behind you mumble words of annoyances before walking around you. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you say, incredulously turned to who you thought was your friend. 

“You know I wouldn’t normally do this to you, right? Just this one time, please?” your friend begs. With her situationship still on mute, she looks at you with pleading eyes. Her eyes flicker down to her phone. He’d been on mute for just a beat too long, but when her eyes look up to your unusually angered ones, her attention is fully brought back to you.

“What the actual fuck, dude? You said we’d hang out tonight… without any distractions,” you look down at your outfit. The anger dissipates into sadness. You’d slipped on the loveliest pink sweater for the brutal January winds and even did your makeup.

It wasn’t typical of you to want to be on the streets of your college town, especially on a Friday night. There was an exam next week you had to study for, and it's neatly printed and stapled practice test was waiting to be completed on yet another sleepless night. But here you were, excited, dressed up, and ready to try something new. 

Down the street, a group of already drunk frat students are loudly stumbling out of a bar. With a sigh, you look at her phone. He hadn’t hung up on her yet. The distant setting sun reflected prettily against your sweater under your hefty coat, and the thermal leggings you’d worn under your matching pink skirt felt ridiculous now. Your hair was getting tousled in the cold wind. What a wasted outfit, you think. 

“Whatever, go have your fun, but just drop me back home first,” you tell her with another defeated sigh.

“What! Come on babes, I’ve already paid the fees for the class! At least one of us should go,” she whines with tugs at your arm. You could hear the desperation in her voice. He still hadn’t hung up, but you definitely would’ve by now. She knew her time was running out and the tugs became more eager. 

You didn’t know shit about leatherworking, but it had become your friend’s newest obsession for the week. And you were totally fine with going to a workshop and trying it out for her sake, but not alone. Not without her. 

Now extremely impatient, she starts pushing you towards the entrance of the leather shop. “I’m sure you’ll have the bestest time, and I can’t wait to see what you make! I’ll make dinner for the rest of the month and be your personal driver until the end of the semester. I love you so much, I’ll see you back at home! Bye, babes!” The excited words hurriedly stumble out of her mouth faster than you’re able to catch them, and you don’t have a chance to say anything back before she’s left you on the welcome mat at the inside entrance of Outlaw Leather. 

From inside, you watch her unmute the call and speed down the street back to her car. With an irritated huff, you shrug off your coat and observe the inside of the shop.

Shelves were stacked high with hundreds of rolls of leather. Some were plain and beige, while others were shimmery and textured with patterns. Leatherworking tools and machines were hung on one side and opposite that, an array of electric guitars lined the wall. Behind the register, there was a massive framed poster of David Bowie wearing a leather jacket with a cigarette hanging from his lips. How stereotypical. 

Between some of the shelves, you spotted middle-aged men contemplating their choice of rubber mallets while an overwhelmed younger employee was helping them decide. 

You whip your head in either direction, and very quickly, on the exposed structures in the ceilings, hanging from one of the pipes, you spot a printed sign that says “HERE FOR A CLASS?” which points further back into the expansive shop. 

Following the sign, you’re led to the surprisingly opened interior of the back of the shop. The setup of the wooden lab tables resembles a kindergarten class, but with one quick view of the sharp, jagged tools and annoyingly bright neon orange lighter in the middle, anyone could tell otherwise.

With your coat in hand, you take a seat at a fairly empty table far away from the demo lab. From the six stools at the table, only 2 were occupied by two elderly women deeply engaged in their conversation. The tables near the demo lab were filled with bright-eyed beginners observing the array of different tools at the table. 

The older women at the table seemed content in not getting to know you better, and you didn’t feel like moving tables. So in your boredom, you take out your phone to open the document of the practice test you’d saved beforehand. You wait for your phone to load, and when the struggling bar refuses to load nothing more than the first page, you slip your phone into your pocket with a heavy sigh. 

You start to spin in your seat, taking in the leather pieces that hang on the wall. There was an array of bags, belts, and wallets, but what caught your attention were the corsets. Most of them were black, but a couple were a dark, deep red. 

As you keep spinning, your legs bump into someone else’s, and you come to a stop. One warm hand rests against your thigh as it holds on to the bottom of the cushioned stool.

“Careful, sweetheart,” a warm voice rings above you. When you look up, you’re met with teasing brown eyes. 

“Sorry,” you quietly apologize, but he’s already moving past you and all you can do is look as he makes his way to the demo lab.

You weren’t one to care for appearances, but he looked fashionable. It wasn’t easy to make an apron look good, but the deep brown leather that hung around his neck was delectable on him. His bleached blonde hair was swept back, and you find yourself wanting to count each of the dangling pieces that hung from his ears. He brings one hand to brush his hair back, and on his pretty hands, you spot varyingly colored fingernails. On the tips of his fingers, you see climbing vines of ink extending to his arms from under his white button-up.

As if he can sense your eyes on him, he turns your way and shoots you a toothy grin. You quickly look down at the bare table and readjust your pink sweater. In the crowd of simple linens and leather jackets, a fuzzy pink sweater stood out like a sore thumb. With yet another sigh, you smooth down the fabric and don’t turn back towards the handsome, aproned employee until he begins the workshop. 

“Good evening, everybody. Nice to see some familiar faces, and to the rest of you,” his eyes catch yours and a smirk decorates his lips, “welcome.” He walks behind the demo lab and places his palms flat on the table. “My name is Hongjoong, and I’ll be guiding you through the workshop today. That’s my assistant, Jongho,” he points to the guy you’d spotted earlier on your way in. Jongho sends a short wave to the class. “Should I be busy, he’ll be more than happy to help you. Now, who’s ready to get this show on the road?”

As he begins to demonstrate, people stand to hover around Hongjoong’s table. From over an older lady’s shoulder, you watch him confidently slice through the sheet of leather and explain what you were making. 

You were signed up in an intermediate class to make a tool roll. A tool roll. You didn’t own any tools, save from a double-sided screwdriver the previous apartment renters had left behind, and you knew for certain your friend wasn’t one to hide tools in her bedroom. What the hell am I supposed to do with a tool roll?

Nonetheless, you watched Hongjoong’s demo carefully. If you had to make a tool roll, you were going to make the best goddamned tool roll you could. Maybe you’d even actually get around to buying tools for it. 

Hongjoong’s thin fingers expertly flatten the cut leather into his desired shapes. Then, he began to stitch a pocket shut. Turning the leather in his hands, he cuts off the excess string and pulls a lighter out of his apron. His thumb runs over the grooved gear, and a tall flame appears before him. He lights the ends before pressing them into the leather. He passes the leather around for everyone to observe as he answers someone’s questions. 

When it finally arrives in your hands, you’re impressed at the neat and straight stitches he’d done in such a short time. Two perfectly circular black dots are stamped into the leather where Hongjoong burned the end of the stitches. You run your thumb over the hardened thread and pass the piece along. 

When the unfinished tool roll is back in his hands, he takes a fork-shaped tool from his apron and drops it into the pocket he’d just created. “There you go,” he says, rolling the leather and showing it to the rest of the class. “That’s the jist of it. Obviously, you guys are gonna have to stitch in a lot more pockets.” With light laughs, everybody disperses back to their tables and begins to work on the leather Jongho had passed out.

Maybe sitting so far away from the instructor wasn’t a good idea, and it was definitely too late to move now. The beginners near the front kept Hongjoong from venturing further back into the classroom where you sat, utterly confused, and Jongho was proving to be frustratingly useless, not straying more than a couple of feet away from Hongjoong’s side. With a downturned face, you look down at your uncut leather and decide it’s better to start than being left behind. 

Taking a silver pen and ruler, you measure out the areas of the leather you wanted to cut. After double-checking, you take the pizza-cutter-looking tool and stand to cut along the soft lines you’d left on the dark brown hide. You hold up a rectangular piece of leather in your hands, feeling proud.

Next, you pick up a tool that looked similar enough to what Hongjoong had used and start marking the leather. Standing up, you begin to mark the folds of pockets. As you forcefully start pressing into the hide, you’re surprised when a thin string of leather comes up with it. That didn’t happen when Hongjoong marked his leather. Your eyes widen, but you’re already several inches down the length of your leather and decide it’s too late to stop. 

In your speechless state, you’d failed to notice Hongjoong standing at the corner of your table. “That’s an advanced technique,” he says with a laugh, and you feel your cheeks warm. “But you probably want to use a scratch awl for this part,” he adds. 

Great, I’ve successfully made a fool of myself in front of the cute leather guy. 

Boys were not on your radar, and for good reason, you think. You’d seen too many freshmen caught up in the new freedom that university provided them, reveling in the alcohol and hookups, only to turn around and get their hearts broken by a boy that doesn’t know any better. Grades slip, moods worsen, and next thing you know, they’ve wasted thousands in tuition. 

Your friend had become the most recent and most unfortunate example. Granted, you were seniors right on the cusp of graduation, but that didn’t stop her from behaving like a naive freshman. That could not and would not be you. Never in this lifetime. 

But, that didn’t stop you from having crushes on obviously attractive people. 

Hongjoong looks around the table, and when he fails to find an extra scratch awl, he pulls his own out of his apron. “Here,” he hands you a tool sleeker than the used and abused tools at the table. “Let’s leave the advanced techniques to the experts, shall we?”

You want to roll your eyes, but the embarrassment is overbearing and all you can do is take the scratch awl from Hongjoong’s hands. Thankfully, he’s called over by the more eager students in the front, and you’re left holding on to his tool in your palms. 

The deep dark brown of the wooden handle feels cool between your fingers, and with a cleared throat, you begin to mark the leather again. Hongjoong’s scratch awl is sharpened and glides across the leather smoothly. You spend an ample amount of time hunched over the piece of leather marking out even pockets. Slipping Hongjoong’s scratch awl in your skirt pocket, you grab a spool of brown thread and two needles. 

After a couple of mishaps, you think you’re really getting the hang of the saddle stitch. Pulling the thread taut, you double-check the back of your project to find a neatly aligned row of brown stitches. Not once did you go through the thread. With a satisfied smile, you flip the leather back over to the front and snip off the additional thread. 

You look for the neon orange lighter on the wooden table. When you finally look up, you find the rest of your tablemates have already completed several rows of stitches. You spot the lighter near the edge and grab it before drawing your attention back to your piece. 

Don’t bring yourself down, dumbass. It’s literally your first time trying this. This is an INTERMEDIATE class. You breathe in and nod at the voice in your head. 

With the lighter in hand, you copy Hongjoong’s movements from the demo. Nothing. You run your thumb over the grooved gear and roll it down. Again, nothing. 

You sit up straighter and crack your neck. Thumb over gear, run it downwards quickly. Nothing!

“Need help?” Hongjoong’s voice pulls you away from your frustrated actions. He’d rounded his way into the back of the room again and had been watching your amusing struggle for a few moments now. He leans across the table, elbows resting inches away from your hand. You try one more time before dropping the lighter in his outstretched palm. 

“I think something might be wrong with it,” you tell him without meeting his eyes. It was absolute bullshit. You knew it worked. He knew it worked. Your elderly tablemates, who’d used it ample times prior to you, knew it worked. 

You hear him jokingly scoff before closing his hand around the lighter. Rolling it between his fingers, he waves it in front of you. When you finally look at him, you wish you hadn’t.

With a knowing smirk plastered on his face, he holds the lighter some inches from your face. He places his thumb over the gear and runs it down quickly, pressing the red tab into the metal of the lighter. A quick flame appears and behind it, you can see it reflecting in his dark eyes. 

He drags your leather closer to him and burns the end of the wax threads. The ends of the brown thread glow yellow before quickly turning black. With a quick flick of his wrist, Hongjoong uses the bottom of the lighter to press the ends down into the stitches, and you can’t stop staring at him. 

You’re not sure, but as his eyes bounce between the burned and flattened ends, you think there’s glitter on his lids. Your eyes flicker down to his exposed arms. His long sleeves have been rolled up, and you're finally seeing the details of the ink that's decorating his skin. The black painted on his fingernails is neat, not crossing into the pink of his skin. He’s so pretty. 

With a smug smile, he turns your piece in between his palms. “Well, would you look at that? Looks like it’s working just fine.” But he’s also so cocky, so in response, you snatch the piece back with a mumbled thanks.

You keep your head down and focus on stitching the other side of your first pocket into the leather. When it comes time to cut the excess thread and burn the ends, you end up asking one of the ladies at your table, who sympathetically helps you. 

Before you know it, Hongjoong’s complimenting everyone on doing a great job and wishing everyone a good night. You look down at the singular pocket you’d managed to stitch into your leather. It seems as if there are endless sighs encapsulating your body, as yet another one escapes. You shove the leather into your bag and slip on your coat as the workshop begins to empty.

“Hey!” 

You turn and find Hongjoong leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He tilts his head and takes in your outfit. Under his gaze, you feel silly in your cream thermal leggings, pink sweater, pink skirt, and even pinker winter coat and shift your legs as Hongjoong moves to stand in front of you. With an outstretched palm, he says, “My scratch awl.”

Your eyes widen, and you pad the pockets of your skirt. Hongjoong watches your bag slip off your shoulders as you search one pocket, and then the other. The last thing you wanted was to look like a thief. You knew Hongjoong could tell you were only a novice, but you prayed he could also tell you weren’t planning on doing more leatherwork than you’d done today and his scratch awl would be of absolutely zero realistic use to you. 

Feeling the smooth wood under your skirt, you pull out the scratch awl from your pocket and place it in his palms, wordlessly. Being attracted to him was bad, but being embarrassed in front of Hongjoong was worse, you decide. 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says with a deep smile. “You know, a girl really should know how to turn on a lighter,” he shrugs as you’re readjusting your bag over your shoulders. You roll your eyes and turn to the front door. “See you soon!” he shouts just as the door closes behind you. 

Yeah, right.

*****

“So, how was the class?” your friend slyly asks, sliding down into the empty seat next to you in the lecture hall early the following morning. At your fiery eyes, she slides a warm coffee towards, “Hey! Look, I came with a peace offering!”

“Fuck you,” you tell her with a sarcastically sweet smile, taking the coffee from her hands. Digging through your bag, you finally pull out the unfinished piece. 

She plucks the piece from your hands. “Hey, look at this! Couldn’t have been that bad if you ended up making a… a…” she hesitantly turns the leather in her hands. “Sorry babes, but what the hell is this supposed to be?”

“It’ll become a tool roll,” you shove the piece back in your bag. “Eventually,” you add, leaning back into the lecture hall’s uncomfortable chairs. 

“Eventually? So you’re going back?” she asks, pulling out her laptop.

“God, no. The instructor was a dick.” Failing to mention the fact he was also hot as hell, you continue, “But I’m sure I can figure it out on my own.”

You were naturally inclined to be determined. It was easy to rely on people and just as easy to be disappointed by them. So if there was work to be done that you could do by yourself, you would do it by yourself. 

The rest of the day passes as every day before it. You stuff as much information as you can down your throat, and when you get home, you print off practice worksheets and exams to prepare for the following week. 

As you make your way through the packets of paper, Hongjoong’s piercing gaze flashes across your mind more often than you’d like. You know, a girl really should know how to turn on a lighter. You cynically shake your head. What good would knowing that information do? You weren’t going to be stranded on an island anytime soon. A lighter would be the last thing on your mind should a nuclear war break out. Besides, you knew how to light matches. What more could you possibly need?

Taking a break from the practice exam, you pull the unfinished tool roll out of your bag. You knew at the very least you’d need a spool of thread and a needle to finish it. Looking online, you’re left more confused than when you started. Threads have different thicknesses? You run a finger over your stitches, unable to gauge a sense of thickness. Minutes into researching the needles, you slam your laptop shut and figure it’d be better to suck up your ego and begrudgingly give Outlaw Leather another visit.

With sleep no longer on your radar, you print off another practice exam and flip through the pages. Sleepless nights weren’t new to you. In fact, it was an unfortunate fact how common they’d become. Leaning back in your chair, you decide to take a walk to the convenience store underneath your apartment to grab some snacks to accompany your late-night studying endeavors.

The fluorescents of the store shake the remnants of sleep that were lingering, and with a sigh, you rummage through the selection of packaged foods. Creating a combination of possibly the most heart attack inducing foods and pain medication, you fill your basket to the brim and make your way to the register. 

The convenience store clerk starts scanning the myriad of late night snacks and pain killers. As you’re watching the total climb higher and higher, you flick your eyes to the plastic container in front of the register lined with standing lighters. 

A lighter would be more useful than matches during an apocalypse. You could reuse it several more times than a wooden matchstick. With a scoffed laugh, you roll your eyes. Hongjoong’s cocky stare still irritated you. But the other part of you feared he was right; you should know how to light a lighter just in case an apocalypse was on the radar. 

With a shake of your head, you card through the patterns, find one decorated in pink and red hearts and place it next to your unscanned items. “I’ll take one of these, too.”

*****

Several sleepless nights pass by before you’re eventually too frustrated looking at the incomplete tool roll sitting pathetically on your desk. On the following Friday after classes, you walk into Outlaw Leather with a mission in mind: Get some needles, get a spool, and get the fuck out. 

“Back already, sweetheart? Did you miss me that bad?” Hongjoong calls out from behind the register. 

You were better prepared this time around. You had straightened your back and smoothed out the ruffles in your pink skirt before stepping foot inside the shop. “Please, you’re like the stereotype personified. If I had to take a guess, I’d say your shitty motorcycle’s parked out back, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is,” he steps closer to you. “Want me to take you on a drive sometime?”

“Ugh, as if,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. 

“Okay, sweetheart,” Hongjoong says, his smile never faltering, “Why are you here then?”

You unzip your backpack and take out your leather roll, and maintaining eye contact with Hongjoong, you toss your unfinished piece on the counter. “I have to finish this. It doesn’t look the way it should, and I need it to look the way it has to. Besides, I don’t have any of the supplies I need to make any progress myself.”

Hongjoong picks up the leather and runs his fingers along the groove of your stitches. Suddenly, the self-conscious shame creeps its way up to your cheeks. Looking at Hongjoong’s finished and polished pieces on the wall was more than enough to feel incompetent, and you can’t help but wonder how silly he thinks you look mocking an actual expert like him with your badly cut and sewn tool roll. 

But if he does think you’re mocking him, he doesn’t mention it, instead saying, “It doesn’t have to look any certain way, you know that right? What I did during class was just a template. You’re supposed to customize it.” When you don’t respond, he observes your piece with a sigh and adds, “But I guess I can get you headed in the right direction.” He rounds the register and holds the piece out for you to take. 

You follow him as he weaves through the store, picking out a pair of needles and a dark brown threaded spool. As he explains the differences between the sizes of needles and thickness of the thread, you try to follow along as best you can. The sleep you’d gotten the night before was abysmal and classes had been an absolute horror today, but you don’t think you can go home only to stare at an incomplete project that definitely should’ve been done by now.

“Thanks, I’ll just do it at home,” you take the spool of thread and the needles from him and turn towards the register. 

“You know, the labs are meant for people to come and work at,” he says. The mischievous look takes over his face as he adds, “Besides, we don’t want you taking another trip down here in your pretty skirts now, do we? The weather isn’t very forgiving these days.”

You look down at the thread and then your outfit. If you went back home and your friend saw you with a spool of thread hunched over this stupid piece of unfinished leather, you’d never live it down. And it was chilly outside. And you didn’t want to go home only to be distracted by your assignments. “Okay,” you tell him. Hongjoong points you to the back of the store with a toothy grin, and you take a seat at the empty lab tables and watch him linger for a moment before turning back to the register with a smile.

It takes you some time before you’re able to get in the groove, but once you’ve marked out the remaining pockets on the leather, you take a deep breath and start sewing. And as the hour passes, you think you’re doing quite well, stitching in pocket after pocket, until you’re not.

“Joongie!” a shrill voice calls out from the front of the shop. In clicking shoes, a not-so modestly dressed girl comes running into the store. After pushing past a confused Jongho, she sprints towards Hongjoong. 

“Hi,” a sweet giggle rumbles in his throat. He holds his arms out, and the girl finds her away into them, settling her jaw over his shoulder and ruffling his hair. “Alright, alright,” he says, pushing his hair back. “Ready to get your measurements taken?”

The girl nods, and Hongjoong leads her away to what looks like an office which just happened to be so unfortunately in the direct line of your vision. 

You try your hardest not to look or listen to them, forcing your eyes down on the half-sewn pocket, but when the girl shrugs off her fur coat, you can’t help yourself. She’s dressed in a tight black cropped tank top that surely does nothing to protect her from the cold. She tosses the fur coat over a chair and laughs at something Hongjoong says. There’s a low ringing in your ears, and momentarily, you’re glad you can’t hear their conversation.

You watch Hongjoong take a measuring tape from a desk drawer and frown as he wraps it around her waist. It deepens when he measures the curve of her breasts next. All while happily conversing with her, he takes a final measurement of her hips. 

You look back down at your nearly finished tool roll and sigh. An unfamiliar emotion bubbles in your chest, and you think you certainly must look ugly. Your head aches from being in a frustrated frown all day, and you think the beginnings of blisters are forming on the pads of your fingers from pinching the thick needles for hours on end. 

It was jealousy. It felt misplaced and dirty in your system, like a bottomless pit eager only to take and never to give. Here you were sitting in your own misery, shaming a girl that you’d never met and judging her clothing. You zone back into the row and diligently stitch along the line. 

When you finish the row and decide to take a break, your eyes and ears find their way back to Hongjoong’s little office. 

“What color?” he asks her.

As she’s slipping her coat back on she responds with, “Hot rod red.”

Hot rod red. She wanted the corset to be hot rod red. Hot? Rod? Red? Would you ever have the nerve to wear something so daring? Probably not. You turn back to your unfinished roll, and with an angered vigor, you start stitching again. 

The girl leaves giving Hongjoong yet another tight hug and ruffling his hair, but you’re still sitting on the uncomfortable stool, sewing away a storm. Your neck is in a world of pain, begging for a release, but you’re adamant on finishing.

The shop is quiet, and after taking the girl’s measurements, Hongjoong has been locked away in the office. The sun has since set, and besides Jongho’s occasionally sweet voice conversing with customers or humming along to the quiet radio, the silence in the store leaves you in a focused trance. Just a half-hour before closing, you finish burnishing the final corners of the roll.

When you stand, you want to immediately sit back down and sleep against the rough grain of the lab table, but you place one foot in front of the other and make your way to the register where Hongjoong is now seated.

“Not bad,” he says, with a cocky smile. He looks at the tool roll clutched tightly between your hands. He sees the leather cinching around the stitches but chooses to not tell you your stitches are too tight when he notices how exhausted you look. Your shoulders are slumped, head low, and fingers are red. The smile disappears from his face, and just as you’re grabbing your receipt from his hands, he stops you, rounding the register. 

“Whoa, hold on a second,” he says, taking your hand between his. He looks at the reddened and raw pads of your fingers. “You should’ve worn the protectors, sweetheart. Come here,” he takes your hand and leads you to the sink near the back of the workshop. 

Cool water runs over your fingers, and you sigh, letting your eyes shut momentarily.

“What are you thinking about?” Hongjoong asks, studying your finally relaxed face.

“An exam I have next week,” you lie, opting to omit the truth. And it wasn’t entirely untrue. You did have an exam next week. You should probably print off a practice exam when you get back. 

“God, you need to shut that brain of yours off and get some sleep,” he says, no malice in his voice.

You open your eyes and watch the water splash over your fingers. “Yeah, that’d be a real miracle,” you reply with a scoff. 

“Have trouble sleeping?” His grip on your hand loosens. 

You shrug while curling your fingers under the gentle stream of cool water and respond, “Only since the last semester. Probably just stress. I think I’m good now.” You take your hand from Hongjoong’s and shake off the dripping water.

“Hold on,” Hongjoong bends down and open the drawer underneath the sink to pull out a first-aid kit. He flips the kit open and grabs a tiny tube of cooling gel. “I went through like a dozen of these when I was starting out,” he sighs, squeezing out a little green gel. When you slightly wince, he sighs again and gently spreads the gel over the pads of your fingers saying, “Just wear the protectors next time, okay sweetheart?”

You probably weren’t coming back here. You probably won't run into Hongjoong again. You didn’t think any more leather projects were on your radar, and your friend had already moved on to a different hobby. 

Nonetheless, you watch Hongjoong’s fingers run over yours, spreading the gel, and nod.

*****

You were back.

Now that you were finished with that god-forsaken tool roll you had no tools for, your life should’ve continued on normally. You should’ve gone straight to the library after your classes to get started on a presentation that was due next week. You should’ve. You knew you should’ve, but here you were standing outside the entrance of Outlaw Leather a week later. 

You couldn’t think straight at all for the past week, although that may have been due to the lack of sleep. When you found your feet taking you downtown to Hongjoong’s shop, you tried to justify your need to be there. Now, at the entrance, you still had nothing. 

Taking out your lighter, you run your thumb over the grooved gear and run it down. A flame appears. You let go, and it disappears. With some late-night practice and tutorials, you were eventually able to figure the lighter out. You repeat the process over and over again while internally debating whether or not you want to go in. 

Eventually, Jongho’s peeking head appears through the slightly opening door. “Are you planning on coming in or are you just gonna stand there?” You take a shaky step towards the entrance of the shop and let Jongho hold the door open for you with a small thanks.

During the early evening, the shop was quiet with a few lingering customers. With padded footsteps, you make your way to Hongjoong’s office, no clear indication of why you were gracing him with your presence on a Thursday evening.

He’s sitting at his desk, sketching out a pattern for a project you can’t make out. You stand for a moment, watching his laser-focused eyes following the graphite of pencil. His downturned lips and furrowed brow soften up his rough features, and you can’t help but think how cute he looks when he’s not smirking. 

At the thought, you shake your head and clear your throat to get his attention. 

The chair swivels around, and his signature smirk makes its way to Hongjoong’s face. “Thought you’ve already finished the tool roll?”

“That’s not why I’m here.” Why AM I here?

Twirling the pencil between his pretty fingers, he leans back into the chair. “Oh? Then how can I help you, sweetheart?” 

You say the first thing you could think of, which unfortunately for you, ends up being, “I want a corset.” I do?

“You do?”

“I do.”

His smirk only deepens as he turns around to pull a sheet of paper out of one of his drawers. Attaching to a clipboard, he hands you the sheet and turns around to stack the sketches into a pile. “Fill that out, and we’ll get started.”

You look down at the sheet. A large portion for it is for Hongjoong, requiring specific measurements, but the top portion is for you. 

Thankfully, Hongjoong’s turned around and clearing off his desk when your eyes widened comically at the listed price without any special embellishments. Fuck it. You start filling in your name and address. 

“I’ll take your measurements today and have a guide ready to go by tomorrow. When you come in tomorrow, I’ll double-check my initial measurements and see how they fit, and then I can start. That sound good to you?” He leans against his now cleared desk.

“Yeah,” you tell him, not looking up from the clipboard. Having mercy on your bank account, you decide to forgo any embellishments and hand the clipboard back to Hongjoong. As he’s scanning your information, the cockiness splattered across his features has you believing this is resting face.

“Okay sweetheart, let’s make you a corset.” You nod at him, awaiting his next instructions. He stares at you, the twirling pencil in fingers slowing when you stare back. His smirk deepens. “The sweater’s gotta come off.”

You had clearly not thought this through. You just had a simple bra under your thick knitted sweater, and you didn’t have an extra camisole or tank with you. You tug at one of the stitches on your sleeve, “Can’t you measure over the sweater?”

“No can do, unless you want to pay me to make something that’s not going to fit you,” he shrugs. 

You look outside the door of Hongjoong’s office. Jongho was restocking some inventory, and the few customers inside had their back turned to you while deciding how much of a roll they wanted to cut. At your hesitancy, Hongjoong’s teasing takes a break, and with a gentle voice, he asks, “Do you want me to close the door?”

You nod at his offer, and he steps in front of you to click the door shut. As the door closes, the room opens up, and you’re able to spot an unmade queen size bed in the corner. 

“You sleep here?”

“Sure do,” he says, hands resting on his hips. With a deep breath, you lift the sweater over your head. Hongjoong’s next remark catches in his throat when you’ve pulled off your adorable pink sweater and are left in only with an equally adorable lacey pink bra that wraps snuggly around your chest. He shakes away the interrupting thoughts before saying, “You are standing in my bedroom, after all.”

The conversation distracts you from the chill you feel standing almost naked in an attractive guy’s bedroom. Holding the sweater in your crossed arms, you ask “This is your bedroom?”

“Yeah,” he says with a little laugh. He rounds your body and grabs the tape measure from his desk. You hold your breath when he takes in your covered torso. “The sweater’s gotta go all the way, sweetheart,” he says, rolling his desk chair between the two of you. 

With a pout, you hang your sweater over the back of his chair, and let your arms dangle at your sides. Hongjoong rolls the chair back to its spot and steps closer to you. The fire you had in you retires to the back burner when Hongjoong’s scent fills your nose. He taps your elbows with a quiet, “Arms up,” as he steps even closer to round the measuring tape around your body. 

The tension is palpable, and Hongjoong has dove headfirst into getting accurate measurements in silence. Normally, you wouldn’t mind it, but he smells like a godly combination of spice and leather, you’re embarrassingly horny now, and you’re standing partially naked in his bedroom.

Taking a look around his room, your eyes flicker over a wall of pictures, some polaroid, some printed, some cut out from magazines. On his desk, there’s a half painted shoe next to a fully painted shoe. Many more clothing items are hung near or around his desk with patches cut out from the fabric of the arms and the back. 

When you turn to look back at his bed, you’re surprised at how comfortable it looks. While it's clearly unmade, the plaid gray sheets look clean and homely. The pillows and duvet are well used, and the thought of taking a nap here sounds a little too nice. 

“Your room doesn’t match your aesthetic,” you tell him when the cool plastic of the tape measure makes contact with your hot skin.

You feel Hongjoong’s breath against your neck when he tightens the tape around your waist. “Oh, yeah? What’d you expect my bedroom to look like?”

With a light shrug, you ponder out loud, “I don’t know, I thought it’d be more edgy and less… wholesome.” You nod at the smiling pictures of him on the wall.

Hongjoong quickly follows your trailing eyes and laughingly scoffs again. “So, just because I work with leather, you expect me to sleep on a cow hide or something?” You’re embarrassed at what you’ve implied and shrink in on yourself. “You’re so tense. It’d help you to relax,” Hongjoong laughs with a light poke at your hips. 

The fire finds its way back to you at his relentlessly teasing tone. “I don’t want to relax, I want a corset.”

To measure your hips, he kneels on one knee and looks up at you. “Mhm, and what are you going to do with a corset?”

“Wear it,” you answer down at him, brows furrowed as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“What, and mess up your cute sweater numbers? I don’t think you would, sweetheart,” he says, standing back up. “Besides, I don’t really think it matches your aesthetic,” he says, throwing your own words back in your face.

It should’ve been off-putting and unattractive, this behavior. You should’ve been rolling your eyes and cringing at his words. But instead, your nipples were hard, and you were praying they weren’t visible through your bra.

“I will wear it,” you say with stuttering confidence. 

“Mhm,” Hongjoons says, writing down the measurements onto the slip you’d filled out earlier. “What color?”

“What?”

“What color do you want it to be?”

The words hot rod red are begging to fly out of your mouth, but if you were going to be paying for a custom corset, you figure it should at least be to your liking. “Can you do pink? Like this kind?” you ask, pinching the fabric of your pastel pink sweater between your fingers.

The corners of Hongjoong’s lips curve into a smirk, and he nods, writing it down on the checklist. “Yeah sweetheart, I can do pink.”

*****

The next day, you walk into Outlaw Leather much later than you were supposed to. Just as Jongho’s turning you away while pointing at the hours posted on the door, Hongjoong emerges from his office. 

“I’ve got this, man. You can clock out.” And with a wave from Jongho, you and Hongjoong remain in the empty store. 

Hongjoong quietly leads you to his bedroom. “You can wait in here, just give me a couple minutes to close up.”

His room looks cozier with the harsh tube light turned off, letting only the golden glow of the few lamps illuminate the space. His bed’s still unmade, but it looks extra comfortable in soft yellow light.

On his desk sits a thick strip of black-dyed leather. Taking it in your hands, you feel the rigid strip fold under your touch and run your fingers along the textured front. It felt cool and rough, but you stroke the strip between your fingers nonetheless. 

“That’s not for you, sweetheart. Although, I’d be happy to make you one,” Hongjoong’s voice startles you, and you turn to see him in the doorway. His eyes flick down to your hips, and you gently place the belt back on his desk, warmth pooling in your stomach.

“Sorry,” you wipe your hands on your pants and look at the pink leather in his hands. 

The tint on the leather is a delicate pastel, just like you asked, and the cut of the hide has your breath hitched. The stitching in the corset is delicate, but striking. Even in your awe, you were confused. The corset looked finished, polished and ready to wear; even if there were adjustments to be made, you were sure there wasn’t much he could adjust now. 

Nonetheless, you grab the edges of your sweater. When you slip it off over your head and hang it on his chair, you miss the disappointed look that fleetingly flickers across Hongjoong’s face. You’d worn a camisole underneath your sweater today to save yourself from the embarrassing predicament you’d put yourself in only yesterday. 

Moving behind you, he orders, “Arms up.” Hongjoong wraps the corset around your waist and pulls you flush to him, closing it. You gasp in a surprised breath when your back collides with his hardened chest. “So, so tense, sweetheart,” he breathes into your neck, and you can hear his smile. Goosebumps rise up your back, and you don’t respond to him, keeping your breath held. “Is this too tight?”

“No,” you swallow the collecting saliva in your mouth. Hongjoong backs away, slipping the corset away from your torso.

“Alright,” he moves around your still body, laying the corset next to the black belt and adds, “I’ll condition the leather, and it’ll be ready for you to pick up tomorrow.”

Well, that was fast. “Thanks,” you send him a short smile and reach to grab your sweater off the back of his desk chair, hiding your disheartedness. You wanted to stay longer and do something, you didn’t want to go home. You wanted to stay in this room and not think about your assignments or exams. Over your shoulder, you look back at Hongjoong’s bed.

“You know, I read an interesting article the other day,” Hongjoong’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts.

“Didn’t peg you as a reader,” you say, but when you catch Hongjoong looking stupidly sexy rolling his big, beautiful eyes at you, you add, “What’d you read?”

His hips lean back into his desk, arms crossed over his chest, shrugging, “It wasn’t much, but it did say something about how beneficial orgasms are at helping insomniacs.”

You freeze, and your eyes widen. Of course, you’d already known this. After the first couple of sleepless nights passed, you did extensive research trying to find the best remedy for yourself. 

Relax your body. This can be done through a variety of different methods. To most effectively and efficiently relax your muscles, let your body experience somatic arousal.

You’d shut your laptop and settled on trying aromatherapy and meditation instead. When days turned into weeks, you’d gotten desperate and brought a tiny vibrator which you carried around. Just in case.

“Yeah, I know,” you say with a sigh. The tiredness that ran through your body had dissipated the shame you’d usually felt, and you reach into your bag to pull out the hot pink vibrator and dangle it in front of Hongjoong’s face, “But if this hasn’t been able to get the job done, I don’t think anything will.”

For a moment, the shock is vividly apparent on Hongjoong’s face, and the shame in your body is ready to resurface with a vengeance. But just as quickly as it comes, it disappears when Hongjoong’s face twists into a smirk. The same cocky smirk you’d been using to get off in these past few weeks. 

The smirk turns into a mocking pout as Hongjoong snatches the vibrator from your hands. “You poor thing. How many orgasms do you give yourself every night?”

The warmth in your cheeks spreads down your neck and pools in your stomach. “Uhm, I— just one, usually,” you say, looking down at the floor of Hongjoong’s room. 

You hear him scoff and look up to see his haughty attitude return. “You think one orgasm’s going to put you to sleep?”

“Yes?” you respond incredulously. The mixture of emotions swirling through your mind were doing a great job at confusing you, but never did you think you’d stand in Hongjoong’s room while he judges how you choose to cure your insomnia.

“One orgasm is hardly going to do anything, let alone relax you enough to sleep,” Hongjoong says, polished nails thumbing through the settings on the vibrator. “In fact,” he says, stepping much too close to you, “I’m willing to bet you’ve never even experimented with the higher settings.” His soft breath fans across your face, and you look away from him, focusing your attention on anything else in his room.

You hear a chuckle rumbling from his chest as your silence proves him right. His thumb gently grabs your chin, and he redirects your eyes back to him, asking, “Would you like to?”

You dryly swallow and stare at him. Fuck it all to hell. You eagerly lean into his lips and kiss him fervently. When you feel his stupid, cocky smile against your lips, you press harder and let your teeth teasingly sink down on his lower lip. Accomplished pride blooms in your chest as he gasps and pulls away.

“You know the color system?” When you nod, he pulls you closer, “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” you breathlessly respond, and his lips are back on yours. Hongjoong roughly grabs at your hips, slipping his hands under the thin pink camisole. He pushes you towards his bed, and when your knees collide with its frame, he pulls away again.

“Sit,” he orders, and you follow. With your hands on either side of you, you look up at Hongjoong from his plaid gray sheets excited, enamored, and eager. Hongjoong releases a shuddered breath at your pliant eyes before he kneels in front of you.

Today was exceptionally cold, and you’d opted to overgo your pink skirts in favor of a pair of thick pants. Hongjoong’s hands bunch at the material to tug it down your legs, and you back up further onto his bed and raise your hips in effort to help him. Once they're off, he tosses them carelessly onto his floor and pushes you to lay back against his pillows. 

Other than your pants, Hongjoong made no effort to remove any of your other clothing, letting his lips slot against yours once again. His hand finds the warm flesh of the skin between your thighs, and with the other he caresses your jaw. Unable to keep away, you reach for his neck and feel the dangling silver of his earrings tickle your fingers.

“You’ll be good for me, won’t you sweetheart?” His request is soft and whispered against your lips, but at your delayed response, his roughened hand kneads your thigh harder. “Won’t you?”

You pull away from him to answer, “I will,” and try to chase after him, but much to your disappointment, Hongjoong leans back.

A low buzz comes from between his fingers, and you realize your forgotten vibrator was still in Hongjoong’s hands. At the noise, you feel yourself getting wetter, your underwear now uncomfortably clinging to your skin. 

Squirming to adjust yourself, your thighs close around Hongjoong’s hands. He smiles at the action and takes his hand away from your jaw. “Hands.”

Confused, you stop your squirming and bring your hands between your bodies. His hands wrap around your wrists, pushing them above your head and pressing the vibrator over your underwear in one quick motion. 

A surprised whimper escapes your lips. The tight grip of his hands feels so good around your wrists, but the stimulation from the vibrator felt torturously low over your cotton panties.

“Feels good, right sweetheart?” He wiggles the vibrator over your clit and laughs lowly when you roll your hips to meet his movements. “This is what you’re used to, isn’t it? Level 1?” It doesn’t take long for your orgasm to build even if the buzz of the vibrator was dull. 

Usually, this process would take you much more time. It’d have to be well into the night, your roommate fallen asleep long ago. The work at your desk should no longer have the capacity to take any more of your attention, and sleep should be the last thing on your mind. You had a playlist, a hot celebrity’s shirtless picture, and most importantly, privacy. 

But the woody smell of Hongjoong’s cologne, his calloused hands at your thighs, and his cocky self-satisfied smile had you close in no time.

“Please, please,” you ask, rolling your hips. Hongjoong presses against you and holds the vibrator down, and you whimper pathetically.

“Gonna cum already?” Hongjoong asks, devilishly smiling down at you. “That’s okay, sweetheart. Go ahead and cum for me.”

And you do. With your eyes closed, you let your head fall back against Hongjoong’s pillows and slightly tug your hands in his grip. Your orgasm comes quick and hard, the buzz finally falling away from your clit. 

Catching your breath, you open your eyes to look up at Hongjoong zeroed in on the sight between your legs. Unfortunately for you, you now feel more awake than you’ve ever felt and letting the reality of the situation sink in, shut your legs. 

Hongjoong doesn’t let your actions faze him, and instead, he moves to rub the skin of your hips. “Felt good?” You nod, but before you could let your overthinking thoughts interrupt him, he adds, “I bet it did, but look at you. There’s a mess in your cute panties, and I can hear your heart beating from here. I’d barely call this relaxed, barely enough to get you sleeping.”

“I—” You knew that, but you truly thought one would do the trick. Instead, your hips felt stiff, and the stickiness in your underwear was begging to be taken care of. I want more, I NEED more. Collecting your rambled thoughts, you look back at Hongjoong who’s patiently waiting for your explanation. “Can you help me, please?”

An evil smile overtakes Hongjoong’s face and makes you clench disappointedly around nothing. “Of course I can help you, sweetheart.” You can feel yourself gushing, breathing out a sigh of relief when Hongjoong moves down to take off your underwear. 

“What a pretty mess you’ve made,” he says, hungrily looking at the result of your first orgasm. Your arousal leaked through your underwear, and you just know you’ve stained his sheets. Your cheeks warm with embarrassment, but you still whine, wanting the panties out of the way.

Catching your intentions, Hongjoong simply laughs, grabbing the vibrator once more. It comes to life again, this time loud and more aggressively. Level 2.

Level 2 was uncharted territory. The night you’d gotten the vibrator, you’d turned on each setting while twirling the device between your fingers. 1 was fine, it felt low and steady. But having 2 turned on for only a minute numbed the pads of your fingers. You’d avoided Level 3 out of sheer fear, never even letting the setting touch your fingertips. 

Hongjoong doesn’t take your underwear off, no matter how much you squirm. Instead, he rubs your slick through your panties and wet his lips as he lets the vibrator rest against your thighs.

Slowly, he trails the pink bullet closer and closer to your pussy. Frustrated at his pace, you raise your hips in search of the vibrator. “You said you’d be good for me, sweetheart,” he teases. When he asks for your hands again, you give them away at record speed, only prompting more teasing. “I told you I’d help you, and I will,” he says, pinning your arms tightly above you.

The smile decorating Hongjoong’s face is dangerous, and then you realize you would do anything he asked you to. Here, in his room, on his bed, you were ready to become what you avoided so well for the past four years.

At your hitching breath, he nestles the vibrator onto your clit, the stimulation making your head spin. Letting him take away your arms felt good, too good, and when you tug against them, his hold only tightens, making you gush. 

“How’s Level 2 feel, hmm?” Hongjoong asks, kissing up your neck. It felt good; you know it did. It was stronger and made your leak with need, but the presence of your underwear was too overpowering.

With a newfound devotion and growing distaste of your wrecked panties, you tug again. “Joongie, please,” you whine. “Take them off,” you plead. 

As the nickname falls out of your lips, Hongjoong’s eyes darkly narrow and his smile falls away. Again, much to your disappointment, he lets your arms go. Moving the vibrator in slow, calculated circles, he takes his free and hooks his thumb under the waistband. 

“You come into my store, looking all pretty in pink, like a fucking angel, and you know what it makes me want to do, sweetheart?” You shake your head, and at the motion, the humming of the vibrator falls away from your clit. You feel a swift slap against your thighs. “Do you know what it makes me want to do?” Hongjoong enunciates for you, placing the vibrator back onto your clit, pressing down harder this time.

“No, I don’t know,” you breathlessly respond. Your thigh feels like it’s on fire, and you know your underwear is beyond saving. The stinging from the slap only builds your orgasm faster when Hongjoong speaks again. 

“It makes me want to ruin you,” he says, letting the band of underwear snap against your hips. “Will you let me ruin you?”

You’d think you would have learned your lesson by now, but you nod yet again and feel another slap against your other thigh. “Yes, I will! Please ruin me, please!” you beg as your second orgasm crashes down on you. 

Hongjoong turns the vibrator back down to Level 1 and leans in to give you a deep kiss. Your breath feels like it’s been knocked out of your lungs, and you let Hongjoong explore, letting him take more and more of your air as you ride out your high on his sheets.

You let your hands tangle in his hair, and you pull him closer. Bringing your knees towards your body, your knee grazing against Hongjoong’s hardened length, prompting you to pull away. 

“You okay, pretty girl?” You barely have time to register the new pet name before Hongjoong’s peeling your ruined underwear off. When the cool air of his room finally touches your exposed, wet pussy, you shiver before it’s quickly replaced with a moan when the vibrator makes contact with your clit again.

“Yes, but I…” you start, eyeing the unfinished belt on his desk before flicking your eyes back to him, “I want more.”

“Fuck,” he laughs following your line of sight. “Is that what you need, baby? You need someone to take your control from you? Be mean to you? Tie you up?”

You nod desperately. You feel like you’ve never wanted anything more, just letting Hongjoong give while all you do is take.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he gives you a quick kiss. Making quick of your response, Hongjoong gets off the bed and laughs at your poor state as he takes the vibrator with him. Taking the black belt from his desk, he hovers momentarily over your form, taking in your blown out eyes and panting chest. Your hardened nipples poke over your camisole, and there’s a glittery sheen of sweat across your collar. 

Hongjoong’s cock strains against the material of his pants at the sight of you so fucked out for him, but he quickly files the feeling away for later. Gliding his fingers between yours, he pushes them up to the wooden rails of his headboard, wrapping the leather of the belt and securing it around your wrists.

The leather feels cool on your steaming skin, and when Hongjoong has you tied up, you feel oddly relaxed, glad your hands are restrained, leaving yourself for Hongjoong to give you as much as he thought you needed. 

He leaves a soft kiss on the sides of your arms and trails downwards. Over your camisole, he places open kisses on your nipples, and you arch off the mattress, hungry for more. You wanted Hongjoong everywhere on your body, all at once. 

As the vibrator is back on your bare pussy, he bites at your nipple, his tongue wetting the thin material. Your eyes shut tightly in ecstasy, and incoherent words are tumbling out of your mouth, begging Hongjoong to not stop when he moves to give the other nipple the same treatment.

His deep laughter reverberates in your chest. “I don’t plan on it. More?” 

“Yes, please,” you ask through whining gasps, and he listens, trailing his kisses up to your neck. Sneakily, he ups the level on the vibrator, and the sudden, intense pleasure of Level 2 on your overwhelmed clit feels exhilarating, making your eyes cloud over with dark lust. 

“You’re such a good girl, asking so sweetly to be ruined,” Hongjoong says into your neck, biting little marks into the skin. “Poor thing, hmm? You just want a good night’s rest, right sweetheart?” 

“Yes,” you sob, that’s all you wanted. You thrash against the bed, feeling insatiable. You hear the switch of the vibrator click again. Level 3, and it’s brutal. The vibration is unforgiving in its strong rhythm, and the way Hongjoong is pressing it just right onto your clit doesn’t help.

“Just want someone to shut that brain of yours off, fuck you dumb?”

Yes! You want to cry out as he plucks the thoughts from your mumbled mess, but the words never find themself and you choose to cry out pitifully instead. When the first tear rolls down your hot cheeks, Hongjoong’s dick painfully hardens in his pants. 

Behind the haze of your eyes, Hongjoong finds your thoughts leaving as your orgasm builds. He wants it all gone, all the exams and assignments melting away into nothing. Eager to please, he stuffs two fingers deep into your wet walls, and all it takes is a small, gentle curl of his fingers grazing against your sweet spot and you’re cumming with a soft cry.

The vibrator’s taken away from you again, but his fingers remain in your pulsing pussy, still curled deliciously. The phantom buzz of the ruthless Level 3 is still present on your clit, and you can feel another orgasm building from nothing. The sensitivity feels like a well-intentioned punishment, but your brain feels fried from the onslaught, ready to retire for the night.

Hongjoong splays his hand over your thigh, pushing them out of the way and takes in the mess he’s left at your weeping pussy. A wet patch of your dripping arousal and your pretty, swollen cunt throbbing around his fingers has him swallowing down his desire. “Okay, sweetheart, just one more. Can you take one more for me? I’ll put you to sleep, I promise.”

“Joongie, I can’t anymore,” you tell him through sobs, tugging at the belt. White spots are dancing in your vision, and you seriously think you’re going to pass out. Not that you would mind.

“Don’t you wanna sleep, pretty girl? I thought you wanted my help,” Hongjoong mocks from between your legs, cruelly curling his fingers upwards. At your desperately broken cries, with a softer voice, he travels up to kiss the shell of your ear, whispering, “Color?”

His gentle voice grounds you enough to let you respond, “Green.” You’re sure whatever else you’re saying makes no sense, but your legs part anyway, wanting everything Hongjoong wants to give you. 

“That’s my good girl,” he sends you a sweet kiss on your furrowed brows before he scissors both of his fingers inside of you, pumping and curling steadily. The pleasure has you releasing a stream of steady tears, slurred requests echoing in his room. 

His fingers are gone too soon, but feeling his hand at your jaw, you open your eyes. His fingers are dripping with your slick, and with wide eyes, you shamelessly lean forward and take them in your mouth, tasting yourself. Your tongue swirls around tasting the effects of Hongjoong’s efforts. 

“Fuck, you’re so precious, sweetheart,” you catch him saying as he takes his fingers out and wraps his hand around your throat. Your heartbeat quickens, but Hongjoong doesn’t apply any pressure, simply letting his hand rest around your throat as he pulls you in for a kiss. 

As his tongue explores once more, you roll your hips up, grazing his cock. You’re not sure how he’s able to stay so composed, not wanting or expecting reciprocation, but you grind upwards once more in hopes to relieve him a little. 

The pressure of hand just slightly increases, and he releases a deep, guttural groan, pulling away from you and pinning your hips into the bed, “Not tonight, pretty girl.” He leans back and lets his teeth graze his previously left marks, sucking them darker.

Trailing his hands up your body, he squeezes at your breasts under your camisole and nips at your exposed tummy. You’re grateful for him giving you time to recover from your back to back orgasms, but in this time, you feel your body’s pleas begging for sleep. Your eyelids were drooped, the exhaustion of everything weighing down on you. Your lethargic arms tugged at the belt, wanting to run your hands through Hongjoong’s hair. 

At your frustrated whine, Hongjoong looks up from your tummy to find your lips folding into a cute pout, and he sends you a sweet smile. Moving back, he kneels in front of your tired body. With his cool hands, he grabs the underside of your thighs and pushes them back, head dropping down to your delectable pussy. Shooting you a smug grin, his tongue attacks, sucking away at your far too sensitive clit.

Feeling your thighs tense in his hold at the pleasure, Hongjoong moans into your cunt, sending delicious vibrations up your body. His warm tongue flicks back and forth, spelling out something into your pussy. In your unfocused trance, you try to make out the letters and let out a hiccuped cry when you realize what it is. S, W, E, E, T, H, E, A, R, T. 

He takes a break to suck at your clit, nipping and licking away. And it feels heavenly, different than the vibrator, better than the vibrator. You find yourself thinking you might never need it again when Hongjoong groans against you as you roll your hips into his face. You don’t think you’d ever feel this good, afraid of becoming addicted to the drug-like euphoria. 

Your last orgasm comes quickly, Hongjoong’s tongue making quick work with your overstimulated clit. You come with a strained cry, trying to close your trembling legs around Hongjoong’s head. 

You let all your thoughts and worries fall away, jerking against Hongjoong’s bed, rutting yourself onto his tongue. Your sharp whines and tiny cries do nothing more than make Hongjoong irresistibly want you, but flicking his eyes up to your obliterated form, he falls back, choosing to caress your shaky legs through your orgasm. 

You’re not sure how, but you feel weightless and heavy at the same time. Your eyelids refuse to open, and on your exhausted limbs, you can feel Hongjoong’s warm breath peppering kisses onto the heated skin as he undoes the belt around your wrists. You feel him gently place tender kisses to each wrist, whispering soft words of praise, before sleep overtakes your body. 

Sometime later, your heavy eyelids blink open when you feel a warm rag against your thighs. “You can sleep, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you,” Hongjoong’s deep voice says, lulling you back into a well-deserved deep sleep.

Author's Note II: What'd you guys think? There's actually a nearly completed scene I wrote for this fic that just didn't fit into the actual story, but I'm thinking of releasing it as a bonus sometime in the next few weeks (wink wonk) so definitely look forward to that :) Thank you so much for reading, much love <3

As each second ticks by, you think you surely must be taking years off your life with the stress you’re failing to manage this semester. Watching teammates reorganize the report you had so perfectly formatted weeks ago in an attempt to add their parts only a few hours before the submission due date, you anxiously pick at the glue on the lab table.  

The smell of the leather and the grooves on scratched lab tables relaxed you normally, but this semester was shaping up to be by far the worst and not even the divots of the lab tables could comfort you today. You turn to face away from the formatting you were going to have to fix before the report could be turned in.

Jongho was working on a project of his own at the register, lightly humming to the radio. His semester had wrapped up a few days earlier than yours, but his presence at the shop could always be heard. He had managed to score an internship in the city, but he still was able to take up odd shifts at Outlaw, thanks to Hongjoong, and apparently also have time for his own leather projects. 

It was impressive and you were happy for him, yet you felt under accomplished sitting at the lab table whining about a silly report.

Behind the register, you spot the heart-shaped pink sticky notes you’d left with cute messages for Hongjoong and sigh. 

More and more of you had started making its way into Hongjoong’s room and his store, just like he had suggested. On Hongjoong’s desk sat a pink leather cup filled with your highlighters and pens and in his bathroom, your toothbrush stood next to his.

This relationship was real, but it was slow. Well, as slow as it could be when you’ve had sex before your first date. 

Underneath his endless smirks and cocky attitude, Hongjoong was soft and caring. He did, in fact, let you ruffle his hair in front of Jongho and smiled sweetly at you when you came to him. You felt comfortable, confident, and happy to be with him, and you were glad he felt the same.

Yet, at times like this, you think why? You wish you could leave your body behind and slink into someone else, someone more confident and reassured. Someone that could handle a stupid report and incompetent teammates. Someone that could seamlessly juggle an internship and a part-time job. 

One of your groupmates manages to delete the entirety of the table of contents trying to add his name to the title page. You groan louder than you meant to and lay your forehead down on the table, the cool wood temporarily relieving the ache in your boiling head. 

“Sweetheart?”

You turn your head to the side, your cheek squishing against the table instead, and look at Hongjoong. “Oh, hi.”

The upcoming spring weather has prompted him to leave behind the deep maroons and reds and opt for lighter colored shirts. Today, he was dressed in a washed out green tee. A plush black beanie keeps sliding down his forehead, and he readjusts it before asking you, “You doing okay?”

I have shitty groupmates. “Yeah, I’ve…” I’ve been thrust into a leadership role that I didn’t ask for. “I’m just a little overwhelmed. It’s really nothing.” You’re being irrational. Hongjoong’s an adult, with actual adult problems, and you’re complaining about a school report? Grow up.

“You know when you say it like that, it makes me worry more, right?” Hongjoong observes your distracted face for some moments, your distant eyes, bitten lips, and fidgeting fingers a clear indication that something else was definitely going on. “Let’s take a walk,” he reaches his hand out to stroke your cheek while the other straightens the bent frills of your rosy pink skirt. 

You sigh again, but sit up to face him properly. “Joong, I’m fine.”

“Mhm, it’s for me,” he says, reaching and tugging on the fabric of your matching pink cardigan.

“Joong,” you whine lowly. Your presence on the doc was necessary. Your glowing icon felt like a strict teacher watching over her students, and if you closed the tab, you were guaranteeing the fact the report wouldn’t be turned in until minutes before it was due. 

“I’ll get you back here with plenty of time to get your work done,” he pleads gently. You’d unfortunately made a habit of shutting down and zoning in on your work during extreme times of stress, and Hongjoong had come to learn you had to be dragged out of the environment before you inevitably crashed and burned. Of course, he wouldn’t be pulling you away from the lab table unless it was absolutely necessary, but he’d been watching you sit hunched over your laptop for the better part of the past several hours. It felt like the least he could do. “I promise,” he adds.

Soon enough, Hongjoong’s pulled you off the stool and is speeding towards the entrance of the shop before you’re able to protest while shooting a short We’ll be back in an hour! to Jongho. 

The sudden change of air cools your body and makes you realize how stale the air inside the shop felt. Hongjoong silently takes your hand in his and starts walking downtown towards the campus park. 

Your footsteps are dragging, but you do feel lighter than you did some minutes ago. When you deeply breathe the fresh air in, you’re momentarily grateful for the fact that Hongjoong hauled you out of the store.

The buildings in the downtown area are lined with blooming trees, all looking like giant cotton balls standing on toothpicks. Hand in hand, the two of you walk quietly in the spring air, watching the wind rustle the greening leaves, the budding flowers getting ready to bloom, and the chirping birds flying from tree to tree. The campus park is surprisingly empty when you arrive, but in the distance, you can see some people having a picnic, while someone else leans against the trunk of a tree with an open textbook in hand. 

Hongjoong pulls you over to an empty bench facing the setting sun, and you sit down next to him with a thump. The momentary peace is disturbed when your churning thoughts think back to the report on your laptop, and you sigh again. 

Running the roughened pads of his fingers over along the lines of your palm, Hongjoong leans back on the bench. He takes in your dejected figure and racks his brain for something, anything, to say to distract you. He figures this isn’t the best time for a stern talking to when his eyes flicker to you once again.“You know I made your corset practically overnight?” is what he settles on. 

Your dull thoughts stop on their own. You’d suspected then that the corset had been completed awfully quickly, but you still turn to Hongjoong in shock as he drops the information on you. “Really?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he laughs at your surprised expression, relieved at the successful distraction, your pretty eyes wide with shock. He pulls your hand in his lap and continues, “I felt like I had to impress you, I wanted to impress you.”

You sit up straighter and turn to him. “You wanted to impress me? Why?”

“I wasn’t lying when I said I like you. Finishing your corset was the least I could do, and the other gifts were, I suppose, an extension of that.” A cool breeze passes through the leaves of the trees and you inhale the air deeply again, shutting your eyes. “Feel better?”

“I do actually, thank you,” you admit. “The wind feels nice in my hair.” Opening your eyes, you look at the black beanie adorning Hongjoong’s head, uncharacteristic in the warming spring weather. You had watched him embroider the soft brown squirrel onto it a few days ago, sleeping under his sheets. “Are you gonna keep your beanie on?”

“Well, I kind of had a surprise for you…” he says, trailing off. His demeanor shifts, and he almost looks nervous.

It wasn’t often that Hongjoong was this tense. In fact, in the time you’d spent with him, you’d never seen him blushing. But right now, under the budding trees and setting sun, there’s a blotchy smattering of reds colored across his cheeks when he says, “It’s nothing much, and I was actually going to wait when we got back to the store to show you.”

“Why?”

When he turns back to you, he gives you his all-too-familiar smirk, but it looks funny with his blushing cheeks. With a laugh, you repeat your question with a gentle shove. 

Tugging his beanie off, his now baby pink hair plops down over his forehead in a staticky mess. The shade is pastel and matches much of your wardrobe and the toys Hongjoong had made for you. Your breath hitches at the sight, and your fingers immediately reach for his strands. “When did you get this done?”

“Yesterday,” he watches your twinkling eyes as your fingers tousle the pink lengths of his hair. “I was trying to make it brighter, but I thought you’d like it better like this.”

“I do. You look pretty,” you sigh yet again, although this time relaxed, removing your hands from his hair. The wind blows against you again and flips several locks to fall over his forehead. You brush them, reach for his hand, and close your eyes again. The air smells suddenly much sweeter, full of the budding florals, and you lean your head against Hongjoong’s shoulder.

“So do you, my pretty girl.” Hongjoong eyes your slightly slackened form. You look significantly less rigid and frustrated than you were just half an hour ago, prompting a relieved smile from him.

Some time later on the walk back, his gentle fingers stroke the knuckles of your intertwined hands. There’s unspoken words between the two of you, and you can hear Hongjoong organizing his own thoughts in his head before he finally speaks up.

“You know, sweetheart… You overthink a lot, and that’s okay,” he starts, swinging your joined hands lightly. “It just means every now and then, you’ll need to get fucked until you can’t think anymore.” The shock on your face is apparent when you turn your head to see if anyone could hear the raunchy yet comforting words. But Hongjoong continues, “And believe me, pretty girl, I’m more than happy to be of service, but you can’t drive yourself into the ground like this. Promise me you’ll try to be better.”

His words make you pause, but you respond in the next beat, “I promise.” You feel a rush of bravery building in the moments afterwards when you’ve had a chance to process his words and tighten your grip around his hand, trailing off, “So… the flogger…”

Hongjoong laughs at your brazen response to his thoughts. Your eyes were always quick to wander to the flogger that sat on the corner of his desk, and he’d be a fool not to notice your lingering eyes or bottom lip tucked tightly between your teeth when you were laying in his bed. Spanking wasn’t new to you anymore, the stinging of his handprints felt permanently delicious on your ass. He squeezes your hand at the thought of marking your skin with the flogger. 

“I’ll take care of you, I always do and I always will,” your smile brightens at his words, but your lips are quick to form a pout when he adds, “but only after you’ve turned in your report.” He only smiles at your expression, playfully swinging your hand as you make your way back to the store. 

You enter the shop refreshed and ready to finish this damned report, whizzing past Jongho, who’s still occupied with his project. With confident and steady steps, you grab your laptop from the lab table and settle on Hongjoong’s comfortable bed while he takes a seat at his desk, working on a commission for another client. 

Slowly but surely, the remaining blank sections start filling with words. The hours pass by agonizingly steadily, but soon enough, you sit up on Hongjoong’s bed, watching each of your teammates exit the document and sending you a text of their completion one-by-one. 

With record-breaking speed, you start to reformat and proofread the document, and when you finally do submit the report an odd hour later, you slam your laptop shut with a heavy huff, rubbing at your aching eyes. There’s a light sheen of irritation washed over you, the unfairness of the amount of work you’d done for this group project weighing heavily on you. 

Nonetheless, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand, unable to sit still anymore, and softly pad over to Hongjoong’s desk. There’s a comforting ambience in the room that you’re finally able to notice as a small rotating blows a gentle breeze across the room. Hongjoong’s playlist is at its lowest possible volume, and while you can’t catch any of the words, the bass rhythmically beats from the speakers. 

As you quietly move closer, you’re able to hear his pencil scratching against his sheet of pattern paper. His hands are moving quickly over the sheet, double checking the measurements on his clipboard before he marks areas with his pencil. You watch him for a few more moments, but when his oversized green shirt slips off his shoulder when he reaches for his eraser, you spot his tattoos and move even closer. “Joong?”

“Hmm?”

You lean over his chair and look at the designs he’s sketched out on the splayed sheets of paper before drawing your attention back to his jet black tattoos along the curve of his collar. You press soft kisses over his oppositely clothed shoulder. Moving past the material of his loose shirt, you lick over the ink that stops at the nape of his neck and hear him exhale deeply. “I turned my report in,” you say against his skin.

“Oh, yeah?” You hum, breathing his scent in. “You’re not tired?” You slightly shake your head in the awkward position, but when Hongjoong doesn’t get a proper answer, he turns the chair to face you. He pulls you between his legs, and you wrap your arms around his neck and nuzzle yourself back into his neck, nipping at his skin. “You did good, pretty girl. I’m proud of you.”

You smile at his compliments, feeling more fulfilled than irritated now. “Will you take care of me? You promised,” you ask, pulling away from his inviting neck. 

“Of course I will, but you’re sure you’re not tired?” he asks, searching for the tiniest bit of hesitation in your eyes. His honest eyes look soft in the yellow light of his room, and his pink hair only amplifies his beauty. Suddenly, all you want is his lips against yours.

The distance between your lips feels so short yet so far away, but you find it in yourself to respond, “Positive,” before leaning to closing it.

At the contact, you relax in his hold and let his soft lips taste yours. You couldn’t be close enough to Hongjoong, and at the realization, you slip your tongue into his mouth, searching for his. His hands bunch at your pink skirt, pulling you flush to his chest. The movement of his lips roughens, the pressure increasing and with it, your arms snake around his neck to graze against the short pink strands at the base of his neck.

When your nails outline the sensitive shell of his ear, Hongjoong pulls away with bated breaths to take in your dazed, yet eager form. “I need to warm you up,” he says, and you nod. You can’t find the words to tell him you’ve been uncomfortably wet for hours now, but you suppose he’ll know the minute your panties were peeled away from your sticky legs. 

He stands from his desk chair to grab the handcuffs and flogger off his table, and you gulp in excitement. This was finally happening. 

Hongjoong pauses to gauge your reaction to the heavy leather in his hand, and when he can only find desperate desire, he smirks and in the next moment, his lips are back on yours. 

He pushes you further and further until the back of your legs brush against his gray sheets. With a gentle push, he plops you down onto the bed, climbing over you. When you reach for his lips, he disappointedly backs away. 

Setting down the toys, he looks deep into your eyes. The pink of his hair casts a delicate shadow against the sharp features of his face. You wait in a quiet pliance for his next words, relishing in his beauty. “Do you trust me?” he finally asks. 

His features are twisted in concern, and to soften them, you reach to cup his face between your hands. “Always.”

His eyes soften at your touch, and momentarily, he shuts them before he opens them yet again to add, “We won’t do anything you don’t want to.”

“I know,” you nod, and he takes your hands in his and places them at your side, his hold on them comforting.

“I want you to enjoy this as much as I will.”

“I know,” you repeat. 

“I’ll only do what you’re comfortable with.”

“Joong, I know,” you say, with a roll of your eyes. If anything, you hoped the sarcasm masked how heavily his sweet words were affecting you as you continued to rub your thighs together for some friction. 

Hongjoong’s eyes catch your not-so-sly movements, and his smirk returns. He hides it temporarily to ask you one final question. “You’ll tell me the second you’re uncomfortable?”

“Yes,” you reassure him. 

And with that, he lets go of your hands, smirk resting louder than ever on his face. His hands begin pushing up the soft material of your pink skirt.

“Okay, pretty girl,” he starts ghosting his fingers up your warm thighs. “Tell me the color system.”

You sigh in relief when his grip on your thigh tightens and are proud of yourself when you can find the words to respond, “Red is for ‘stop.” His fingers trail higher up your thigh, dipping deeper into your flesh when you continue, “Yellow is for ‘slow down.’” When his fingers tap your clit over your panties, your eyes flutter shut as you say, “And green is for ‘all good.’” 

“Good job, sweetheart, and what’s your color right now?”

“The greenest of greens,” you say, fighting the urge to buck your hips upwards. 

“The greenest of greens, huh?” Hongjoong’s smiles mischievously at your impatience, and from your position, you see him pondering his next movements. Before you can question him, he holds the bands of your panties and swiftly rips them in half and dives in your soaking wet pussy.

“Fuck,” your eyes roll to the back of your head at the long-awaited stimulation. Your searching fingers tangle themselves in the pink mess of Hongjoong’s hair, tugging slightly, pulling a groan out of him. His tongue takes turns licking thick stripes up your pussy and sucking harshly at your clit, and at the sudden assault makes your moans grow louder.

He picks up the pace, sucking away at your leaking pussy relentlessly. The sounds are loud and lewd, but Hongjoong wouldn’t have it any other way. He tips his head to the side, his nose nudging your clit as he licks away. 

You tug on his hair again, and normally, Hongjoong would love the feeling, but today, the pull stings at his sensitive scalp. Not wanting to pull away from you, he hooks his arms under your thighs, spreads them even further, and reaches for your hands. He intertwines them with his own, resting them by your plush hips, and you moan again at the feeling. 

Looking at his pastel hair blending into the material of your own skirt between your legs silences you momentarily, his determination at pleasing you overwhelming your senses. At your silence, Hongjoong opens his own eyes, meeting yours in worry. For a second, you’re worried he’ll stop, and before you can tell him you’re fine, he sends you an unprecedented and cocky wink. 

The action prompts a little giggle from you, and Hongjoong’s fingers squeeze yours. It felt intimate, romantic and rewarding in the dirtiest way possible. Your wandering eyes focus on a spot on the ceiling of Hongjoong’s room, and soon, your whimpers pitch up and your vision starts to blurry. Your approaching high makes you buck your hips against Hongjoong’s face, and he lets you reach your high on your own. When you cum with a long whine, he tightens his hold on your intertwined hands and lets you ride it out.

Once the ringing in your ear subsides, you’re able to catch his next words. “Fuck, lemme stretch you out, pretty girl,” Hongjoong says, his eyes never leaving the messied sight between your thighs. You were wetter than before and you had no doubt you could take him without any struggle, but you let him pull your legs to the edge of the bed and give your clit a small kiss before tracing his fingers up your thigh.

From your position at the edge of the bed, you’re able to see your arousal is smeared across his jaw and even his cheeks, but he looks like a man starved, ever so eager for more. 

He slips one finger into your hot velvet walls, and immediately, you clench around him. Hongjoong lowly chuckles at the wetness between your legs and says, “Fuck, you’re always so ready for me, aren’t you?” Smoothly, Hongjoong pulls out and very quickly replaces his presence with two fingers as you whine underneath him. 

Curling them up, Hongjoong presses up against your gummy spot, and he revels in the breathy whines that follow from you after. The repeated action has you hurtling towards another high, but before you’re able to orgasm, Hongjoong pulls out. 

Catching your breath, you watch his fingers emerging from between your legs, and you wet your lips, thinking he’s coming your way. Your breath hitches in your throat when instead, he slides them into his mouth with a groan, and you watch in awe as he licks your arousal hungrily off his fingers. 

“Can’t have you cumming so quickly, can I, pretty girl?” your gaze is glossy, but you nod your head at the statement anyways, letting your eyes flutter shut for some seconds. 

In the few moments Hongjoong gives you to recover, he decides to toss the cuffs behind him, opting out of them tonight for your sake. Even if you said you weren’t, the exhaustion had been steadily radiating off your form the entirety of these last few weeks of the semester, and while Hongjoong wanted to give you what you wanted, he had no intention of wearing you out this quickly. 

He looks at your recovering form, and with the flogger in hand, he lets the tendrils softly rest at your neck, trailing them down your body. At the touch, you slightly jerk in place, opening your eyes. 

With its repeated use over these past few weeks, the leather of the baby pink handcuffs had loosened and had begun to feel softer against your wrists, but the flogger? It lay untouched in the box Hongjoong had used to give it to you, sitting in the corner of his large desk. The leather was stiff with no creases. It felt cool against your skin, and you were unabashedly dripping with need as Hongjoong traced it along the curves of your body. 

Hongjoong lets the leather tendrils softly glide over your body, leaving goosebumps on your skin in its wake, and your eyes stay on his mesmerized ones, following the way they twinkle at your body’s reaction to his creation.

When you squirm against the rustled sheets, he’s broken out of his trance and lets his knuckle graze against your warm cheek. Adjusting himself, he pats his thighs and beckons you over to him, “Flip over for me, sweetheart,” and you follow his command. 

This time, the flogger tickles your shoulder blades and begins its journey down your back. When it finally reaches a stop on your plump asscheeks, Hongjoong leans down to whisper in your ear, “Don’t cum.” 

He had never denied you before, letting you control when and how many times you wanted to cum, but you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t want to wander into uncharted territory with him. And so, like the good girl you were, you pliantly respond, “I won’t.”

Though you can’t see him in this position, he smiles knowingly and with a satisfied hum, he continues “Will you count for me, pretty girl?”

“Yes,” you nod into the pillows. His warm hand rounds your ass before bringing the flogger down. You jolt at the feeling, gasping for breath. It felt different from Hongjoong’s hand, something you’d gotten used to over the past several weeks. 

Where his hand felt warm, rushing with blood, the flogger felt coolly stern. Fairly quickly, Hongjoong’s hand is gently rubbing over the area where the flogger had just come down.  

“What’s your color?”

You turn your head to the side to beg, “Green. Please keep going, please.”

And with your approval, Hongjoong continues using the flogger and rubbing the areas he hits after. He asks for your color after every few rounds, and you respond with green everytime. The burn feels refreshing, the baby pink tendrils plucking the thoughts from your overheating body with each smack. The warmth of Hongjoong’s hands followed by the bitterly frigidness of the flogger had your pussy clenching around nothing, weeping for some sort of contact. The tears are quick to collect in your eyes.

At your whines and tearful eyes, Hongjoong feels his dick hardening. Each time his flogger comes into contact with your skin, he watches the twitch in your toes move up to your thighs, your sniffled whines turning him on further. He feels stiflingly hot in his clothes, wanting nothing more than to be free of the sweaty garments and inside of you instead.

He grits his teeth and brings the flogger onto your reddening skin again. “My pretty girl, my sweetheart, you just wanna be taken care of, don’t you? Wouldn’t it be so good to let me take care of you?” His warm hand rubs over the thin welts he’s left. 

At his words, you nod, letting the tears run down your face, and not long after, your face is wet with your streaming tears, matching your soaking pussy, and you try to rub your thighs together for some relief, but being positioned face-down over Hongjoong’s lap makes it a challenge. When he sees you squirming, he wipes at your wettened eyes, asking, “Are you doing okay?”

“Need you inside, Joongie, please,” you beg, turning to face him as best you can.

Within the blink of an eye, you’re off of Hongjoong’s lap and he’s situated behind you, pulling you against his clothes cock as he reaches for a condom. You can hear a shuddered exhale at the messied sight between your pussy, your ignored clit pulsing for any attention from him.

Combined with the way the frill of your soft pink skirt lays over the reddening welts from the flogger, Hongjoong can’t resist the sight of you and brings his face even with your pretty cunt to give it a sloppy kiss, which has you shivering, before running his cock up and down your slick. “My sweetheart,” he says, inching into you while he gently palms the flesh of your ass. 

Wincing at the sting, your tears flow freely, calling out repeatedly for Hongjoong. Out of the corner of your eyes, you catch your laptop balancing on the edge of Hongjoong’s bed and nightstand, and find it ridiculous when you can’t remember the focus of your frustrations when Hongjoong’s cock rubs deliciously against your gummy spot, tightening around him.

Hongjoong grunts at the sensation and thrusts into you harder, pressing his weight on you as he leans in to leave marks at your shoulders. Soon enough, he leans back to watch your ass jiggle at each of his thrusts. He loves your ass, but he loves it even more when your pretty pink skirts stay on, letting him fist the delicately frilled material to pull you back on his cock faster and stronger. 

The marks from the flogger are darkening as the seconds tick by, and Hongjoong’s dick twitches at how pretty they look under the sheer material of your skirt. Hongjoong felt carnally insane. Your hot, wet walls were pulling him back with desperate fervor. Every so often, he’d wear you out quicker than he meant to, your hazy, sleepy eyes forcing him to slow down, but today? Today he felt selfishly insatiable, wanting to pull countless more orgasms out of you and himself.

There’s a sudden surge of frustration in his system when he remembers your deflated form from earlier, and his touch is suddenly rougher. “Fuck your stupid teammates, hmm? Stressing my pretty girl out, filling her head with useless thoughts,” he pulls you back onto him with a low groan. Hongjoong spots your eyes rolling back, each and every single thought except for him melting away. The moment his fingertips touch your sensitive clit, he has you cumming against him. 

Your walls impossibly tighten around Hongjoong’s throbbing cock, and he grits through his twitching cock’s desperation to cum. He manages to resist, but he’s sure he can’t hold on for much longer with how creamy and tight you feel around him.  

“You feel so fucking good, sweetheart. One more, baby girl. Give me one more,” he asks, fucking into you. Your moans are broken, your tears running out, but you let Hongjoong push you further. 

The overstimulation has your senses turned up to eleven, and you can feel everything, the ridges of his pretty dick molded your walls to his shape, his sweat dripping onto the small of your back, the welted skin of your ass rising, your drool on his sheets.  

Yet another orgasm is bubbling inside of you, and the moment Hongjoong’s cool fingers come down to rub at your clit, your thighs begin to shake, and you writhe in his hold. The stimulation is too much, pushing you over the edge, and your jaw falls slack when white spots fill up your vision. 

Your body falls heavily onto Hongjoong’s bed, unable to hold itself up. When you cum around his cock for the last time that night, Hongjoong pulls your body flush against his, feeling your slowing heartbeat as he finally cums soon after. He slowly pulls out, your walls missing his presence the moment he leaves. 

As you drift in and out of sleep, you can feel Hongjoong shuffling around in his room. You can feel him cleaning you up, a warm rag wiping down your skin. You can feel him slipping you into one of his silky shirts. Before sleep can overtake you completely, you can feel him opening the cap of a familiar cooling gel and slathering a generous amount over your pretty cheeks and with a contented sigh, you finally drift into a stress-free slumber, letting the past few weeks’ worries fade away until even in your dreams, all you can think of is Hongjoong.

Author's Note II: Whew, okay, this is the official end to the series that was never meant to be lol. I'd love to know what you guys think of this bonus bonus <3

To put it simply, the store was in utter chaos. Much like the fallen jumble by the door, there were books strewn everywhere, the messy heaps neverending, forcefully stacked and piled against one another with no formality. With a crooked neck, San finds the rest of the long and dim store in a similar manner. 

The state of the mess has San standing still, and as he observes his surroundings, his disbelief only builds. This store was like a thief’s playground. 

First of all, the store was entirely too dark, and there were no clear sightlines for San or any employees to keep an eye on the entirety of the store’s layout. The register was located in a strange corner to his right, and San was unable to spot any cameras. San wouldn’t even know how to begin to take inventory when the inventory itself was scattered so carelessly in every corner of the store. To his left, there was a brown leather couch nestled in another corner, and on its cushions slept a very much not alert gray cat. 

Opposite the couch was a box computer that looked to be older than San, a logo bouncing from edge to edge on its screen, and just behind that was a wire spiral staircase leading up to the second floor. And, there was still no employee in sight, despite the ringing of the bell that hung above the door and the thudding of the stack of books San had knocked over. 

If anyone did decide to steal, the store owner would be none the wiser. 

This was starting to piss San off. If a call had come into the precinct to report a theft of any kind, there would be little to nothing they could do, and their report would be a measly one page, lacking any and all substance. And he knows that after the fact, the precinct would still be bad-mouthed by the store owner or even a local newspaper, written aside to be lazy.  

He feels his chest constricting again and decides the mattress store will just have to do. He turns back towards the door he’s just come through, but through the window, he watches the rain pour, drizzling down heavily onto the pavement and roads, darkening them. Begrudgingly, he faces the interior of the bookstore again. 

He hears a gentle clicking of shoes against the wooden panels from the creaky floor above him, and suddenly, descending the wire staircase, you peak your head out. Oddly enough, the anxiety he was feeling only moments ago vanishes as you come into view. 

You seem misplaced in the store, the whites and cream of your apparel far too contrasted with the dark and moody interior. Your long cream skirt drags slightly along the floor, and there’s a dirtied apron tied securely around your waist smeared with a combination of sugar, butter, and flour. As you move closer, San can smell baked goods.

Unlike the artificially and sickly sweet smell coming from the bakeries and pastry shops from the parallel street, you smell real. San doesn’t know how to describe it, but he momentarily shuts his eyes, taking in your scent.