#theoremofattraction

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

“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. 

Your silence makes him nervous. 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, “Maybe we can start at the beginning 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, he pulls out several sheets of paper. At the smaller numbers and lack of letters, you calm.

“How about some basic math?” he offers.

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