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private lessons | 𝙆.𝙃𝙅

₊˚⊹ CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: frequency indicators

ao3. masterlist. series masterlist. chapter twenty-three.

pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)

genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut

summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.

chapter-specific warnings: mdni. explicit sexual content, dom/sub power dynamics, academic roleplay/discipline, punishment/reward, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, p in v sex, oral sex (m receiving), throat fucking, cockwarming, spanking/impact play, pussy spanking, hair pulling, manhandling, praise kink, degredation/humiliation, dacryphilia, overstimulation, nipple play, biting, marking, language barrier, creampie, posessive behavior. please tell me if i missed any!

word count: 16.9k

note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. thank you all for your patience with this chapter! life has been busier than ever lately and my stupid ass decided to make this update the longest one yet, so... i hope you enjoy some more cute couple things and maybe some not so cute what who said that

"Iced chai, oatmilk, light ice, vanilla sweetener... or did you want brown sugar?"

Hongjoong stops short on the concrete walkway, the plastic cup sweating against his palm. He stares at you with wide, mildly panicked eyes behind the black rims of his glasses. "It was brown sugar, wasn't it? Don't worry, stay here, I can go back—"

"Joong, relax," you laugh softly, nudging his arm to motion for him to keep walking with you. "Vanilla's perfect. Thank you."

He deflates a bit, his tense shoulders dropping. A sheepish, relieved smile breaks through his worry as he hands the cup over. The exchange is clumsy—his bare knuckles brush against your freezing fingers—and a little jolt of warmth skitters up your arm despite the biting winter chill.

You bring the drink to your lips, taking a sip through the blue paper straw he picked out for you. The spice of the chai, mellowed by the vanilla, hits your tongue exactly the way you love it. You hum, peering up at him over the rim of the cup. "Was he working today?"

Hongjoong stiffens. His hand flies up to grip the strap of his backpack while he pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. "...He was."

You glance at the drink in your hand, then back at him. "Did he make this?"

"Of course not," he murmurs, his tone turning oddly clipped as his attention snaps away from you, suddenly very invested in the flock of pigeons circling the stone arches of the nearest building. "I told his manager I didn't want a trainee making my drink."

The straw slips from your lips as you stare at him. "You made the manager make this?"

"...Yes."

"Joong."

He pointedly avoids looking at you, but you catch the tiny smirk on his lips anyway.

You can't hold in your laugh as you fall back into step beside him. Every few seconds, your shoulders bump together lightly beneath your coats, accidental touches neither of you makes any effort to avoid.

Over the past week, this has somehow become your routine. Hongjoong walks you to your morning class, peels off at the last second to rush to his own lecture, then practically tears back across the quad the moment he's free again so you can spend the afternoon together. The two of you have been attached at the hip ever since last Thursday: the night that had started with a near cooking disaster and ended with the two of you sprawled across his living room floor in a tangle of limbs and laughter, kissing between songs while his records spun one after another until sunrise. Although Hongjoong had an eight a.m. class the next morning, neither of you had been willing to call it a night.

Ever since then, the last traces of awkwardness between you have finally started to disappear. Things feel real now. Hongjoong is your boyfriend, and you are Hongjoong's girlfriend. There are still occasional stumbles between the two of you—flustered silences when someone says something romantic, your cheeks burning whenever his hand slips near your waist, the way he loses his train of thought whenever you look at him for too long—but the uncertainty that once hovered between you is gone. Now, things are good. Unbelievably good.

You reach the doors of your foreign policy lecture with two minutes to spare before class officially begins. The hallway is still relatively quiet as Hongjoong slows to a stop beside you. His gaze flicks down both ends of the corridor, quick and careful as he checks for wandering students, professors, or anyone else who might pay too much attention to a university-employed tutor lingering a little too close to one of his students.

Once he's satisfied the coast is clear, he steps closer. He dips his head and presses a quick kiss to your lips, brief enough to stay hidden if anyone happened to glance over.

"I'll see you in an hour," he murmurs with a little smile.

And then, before you can answer, he turns on his heel and begins speed-walking down the hallway, his backpack bouncing as he races out of the building to make it across campus in time for his own class.

You stand paralyzed against the wall. A helpless grin stretches across your face as you watch him disappear around the corner, your lips still tingling from the kiss. It's only when a noisy group of your classmates spills into the hallway from the opposite end that you finally snap out of it. Clearing your throat, you tighten your grip around your drink and hurry into the lecture hall before anyone can ask why you look so flustered.

You make a beeline for your usual seat at the far end of one of the middle rows as the last wave of students funnels into the room. You shrug your bag from your shoulder and let it fall beside your chair, listening to the sounds of backpacks hitting the floor and laptops snapping open.

At the podium, your professor adjusts her microphone and taps on it twice.

"Good morning, everyone," she projects, offering a polished smile to the large crowd of students. "Today, we'll be discussing the evolution of global cyberwarfare and its implications for modern diplomacy."

You open a blank document and type out the date along with a neatly formatted heading, but that's about as far as you get; your fingers are moving on autopilot more than anything else. The moment your cursor begins blinking beneath the title, your attention slips. Your professor's voice drones on at the front of the hall, but it gradually blurs into white noise as your mind floats right back out that classroom door, chasing Hongjoong across campus.

It started on Friday. Neither of you had actually planned to see each other again so soon. After all, the two of you had stayed up until sunrise the night before. Logically, a little distance should've followed. A few hours apart, at the very least.

That idea lasted until Hongjoong realized you don't have any classes on Friday. His text came through not long after.

Hongjoong: I know we just saw each other, but do you want to

You didn't even finish reading the text before you responded.

You: Yes.

The embarrassingly quick reply probably killed whatever was left of your dignity, but it also seemed to help erase the awkwardness between the two of you.

A soft smile pulls at your lips as you rest your chin in your hand, staring absently at the blinking cursor. Though it's only been a week, the past few days replay like an old movie behind your eyes. You've spent every single day together. Driving aimlessly through the winding streets of your college town with the windows cracked just enough for the cold air to slip inside, his hand tapping against the steering wheel while your favorite albums played on repeat for the fifth or sixth time. Stopping at terrible restaurants on purpose after the two of you discovered how fun it was to hunt down places with catastrophically bad Yelp reviews. Sitting in the passenger seat with greasy paper bags spread across your laps, laughing so hard over soggy fries that your stomachs hurt afterward. There were quieter moments, too, like trading ideas for novels you’d always wanted to write and songs he was hoping to produce someday. You’d even gone back to the Yoons’ grocery store on Sunday, where Mrs. Yoon had pinched his cheek and teased him about you until his ears turned bright red.

And, of course, there was the studying.

Or, rather, the complete lack thereof.

Every time you actually managed to open a Korean textbook in his bedroom, you inevitably ended up distracted, laughing over a mispronunciation until his hands found your waist, pulling you down to kiss you senseless on his couch until you couldn't remember your own name, let alone basic grammar structures.

You've been so wrapped up in him that you've barely seen your own friends. Half the messages in your group chat have gone unanswered for hours because you keep getting distracted midway through replying whenever he calls. You even skipped your usual Tuesday grocery run with Yunho after what was supposed to be a quick lunch with Hongjoong somehow stretched into nearly four hours of arguing over whether BIGBANG's If Youis a skip. Yunho only sighed when you apologized at dinner afterward, muttering something about "abandonment issues" while stealing some fries off your plate.

San, on the other hand, is a different story.

San is getting mad. He texted you late last night, practically begging you to just bring Hongjoong over so he didn't have to keep coming home to an empty dorm. But you're hesitant to merge your two worlds just yet. You know your friends. The moment San sees the two of you together, he'll never let you breathe again: the teasing will be relentless. And while you know he means well, you also know how fragile things are.

You and Hongjoong have only been together for one week. The last thing you want is for outside voices to crash into your relationship too soon.

Besides, it's not exactly difficult to avoid your dorm when you and Hongjoong have his apartment to yourselves most of the time. Seonghwa is still around, of course, and every time you walk through the door, he greets you with some new flirty joke. However, now, you're fairly certain he's only doing it for a reaction. Hongjoong's, specifically. The moment Hongjoong levels him with one of his murderous glares, Seonghwa grins, raises his hands in surrender, and disappears into his room.

You're lost in a memory of Hongjoong singing Lemon Tree shyly in the driver's seat, your lips curving unconsciously, when—

Ping.

You scramble to turn your laptop's blaring volume down as a small banner slides into the top right corner of the screen.

From: Choi Jongho ([email protected]) Subject: Final Exam Details and Preparation

Your fingers suddenly go cold as you click the email open. You knew finals were approaching, obviously. But awareness and reality are two very different things, and the second your eyes skim over the bolded date near the top of the message, you nearly gasp.

Two weeks.

Your Korean final is in exactly two weeks.

Because of your whirlwind week of absolute bliss, you've accidentally ignored all your lectures and forgotten to complete approximately four assignments. And you definitely haven't been studying outside of class, because every time you and your tutor sit down to review vocabulary, you lose focus within five minutes.

You quickly click the little 'X' in the corner of the screen, shutting the email out of your mind. You don't want to think about this right now, not when you've had such an amazing week. Trying to swallow down the rising knot of dread in your throat, you force your eyes toward the whiteboard at the front of the lecture hall.

The moment your professor finally dismisses the class, you're moving. The final "see everyone next week" has barely left her mouth before you're snapping your laptop shut. Around you, students linger to finish conversations or gather their things, but you quickly shove your laptop into your bag, sling the strap over your shoulder, and bolt for the doors.

Since his Thursday morning class is only fifty minutes compared to your hour and fifteen, you know Hongjoong is already waiting for you outside.

Sure enough, the second you push through the doors into the bustling hallway, you spot him leaning against the wall across from your classroom. A pair of silver headphones rests over his ears, and his head is tilted downward as he scrolls through something on his phone, one foot propped up behind him. But the instant he registers the sound of the lecture hall emptying, his head snaps up.

His eyes scan the crowd, and the moment they lock onto you, a smile breaks across his features. He quickly pulls his headphones down around his neck, sliding his phone into his pocket as he pushes off the wall to meet you halfway.

"How was class?" he asks as he falls into step beside you. The two of you merge into the flow of students moving through the hallway, letting the crowd carry you toward the main quad as you head nowhere in particular to grab lunch.

You grimace as you stare at the sea of backpacks and winter coats ahead. "It was fine until I got an email."

Hongjoong's eyebrows pull together. "An email? From who?"

"Professor Choi," you say, the dread creeping back into your voice. "My final is in two weeks."

Hongjoong blinks. "Oh." You watch as he mentally works through the timeline and realizes that the two of you have accomplished about eleven total minutes of actual studying in the past week. Slowly, a guilty little smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Do you..." He clears his throat. "...feel ready?"

You stop walking to level him with the flattest, most deadpan look you can manage.

He laughs, shaking his head. "Okay. It's okay. Don't start panicking," he says. "I know we're supposed to have our official tutoring session tonight, but... I'll cancel it."

Your eyebrows shoot upward. "You can do that?"

"Well... I've done it before, haven't I?" he teases, getting a reluctant laugh out of you. His smile softens at the sound, though the amusement fades as he starts piecing together a plan. "I'll tell the Language Center I'm sick again. And I'll email Professor Choi to excuse you from this week's recording. I'll explain that you had a bad experience with the last substitute—which isn't exactly a lie—and aren't comfortable working with anyone but me right now."

"But... are you sure that's okay?" you ask slowly. "If I'm not meeting with another tutor instead? Couldn't that get us in trouble?"

"If it were happening every week, maybe. But once? No one's going to care," he assures you. "Instead of meeting in the Center, I'll reserve one of the study rooms in the library. And we'll actually study. Not in my apartment. This time, a strictly academic environment."

You bite the inside of your cheek, eyeing him skeptically, though the crushing anxiety in your chest is finally starting to loosen its grip. "Okay. At our usual time? Five o'clock?"

"Five o'clock," he nods, his eyes softening as he looks down at you. "I'll bring food, too. We'll need it if we're going to cram a week's worth of grammar into one night."

"Okay," you breathe out. "Thank you, Joong."

He smiles, his gaze dropping to your lips. He leans in closer, maybe to whisper something more, maybe to steal another quick kiss, when a loud voice interrupts you from down the hallway.

"____! I was looking everywhere for you!"

You catch the blur of movement over Hongjoong's shoulder, and your blood instantly runs cold. Striding down the corridor from the opposite direction, waving a hand high in the air, is an entirely too cheerful Yunho.

Before you can distance yourself from Hongjoong, Yunho is walking right up to the two of you. His bright eyes dart between your frozen deer-in-headlights expression and Hongjoong's mildly confused one.

"I need your help," Yunho breathes, coming to a halt in front of you. He ignores Hongjoong, flashing you a grin. "I accidentally locked myself out of my dorm, and I need to get my laptop before my next class. But Yeosang's stuck in a Psych lecture for another hour, San's all the way across campus at the gym, and you're the only other person with a spare key. Do you have it?"

You blink at your best friend, your brain taking an embarrassingly long moment to catch up. "I—uh..." Your gaze flickers from Yunho to Hongjoong and back again. "What?"

"I know, I know. I can't believe I did it again," Yunho says with a long-suffering sigh, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth hints that he isn't the least bit distressed. "The key, ____. Do you have it on you or not?"

"I... let me look," you stutter, your face flushing as you shrug your bag off your shoulder and set it on a small bench along the wall. Your fingers fumble with the opening before digging through the main compartment, pushing aside notebooks, loose pens, crumpled receipts, old granola bar wrappers, and tangled headphones.

This is exactly what you've spent the last week trying to avoid: your two carefully separated worlds colliding without warning.

The second your eyes drop into your bag, Yunho turns his full attention to the man standing quietly by your side. He thrusts his hand out, a giant smile stretching across his face.

"Hi. I'm Yunho, by the way," he introduces himself. "You're the famous tutor, right?"

Your hands freeze mid-rummage as your heart skips a beat. Slowly, you lift your head and stare at your best friend in complete mortification.

But Hongjoong doesn't seem caught off guard at all. He chuckles as he pulls one hand from the pocket of his pants and reaches forward to shake Yunho's.

"That's me. Hongjoong," he says, his voice incredibly calm compared to your nervous pulse. "It's nice to meet you."

"It's great to finally meet you, too," Yunho replies, his grin somehow growing even wider as he shoots a teasing glance at you. "I've been trying to for the past week, but someone is a little embarrassed of her friends, so she's been keeping us—"

"Yunho! I'm not embarrassed!" you interrupt, shooting him a glare. "You guys are just... a lot. And I don't think Hongjoong really wants to deal with—"

"I want to meet your friends."

Hongjoong's interruption makes your mouth snap shut. You blink at him.

"You... do?"

"Of course I do. You've... well, you've certainly already met my best friend, for better or worse," he says, ignoring Yunho for a moment as he looks into your eyes earnestly. "I know we technically have to keep our relationship a secret on campus. And I know we have to be careful. Still... I want to meet your friends, too. I want to be a part of your whole life, not just the part that's tied to this school. ____ the person, not just... my student."

Your lips part, but no words come out.

Something warm unfurls in your heart at his words, a small, touched smile forming on your lips as the anxiety you've been carrying about merging your two worlds finally begins to melt.

"Great! We'll set something up," Yunho declares, apparently deciding for everyone involved that Hongjoong's request has already been granted. "Tonight? Pizza at my place? You guys, me, San, and Yeosang? We can all hang out and finally get to know—"

"Not tonight," you say quickly, thinking back to Professor Choi's email. "We're getting a study room in the library since I need help getting ready for the Korean final. I have to catch up on everything I missed this week. But... yes. Okay. We can do that soon. Pizza." You pause, holding Hongjoong's gaze. "I promise."

His eyes soften. "I'll hold you to it."

"Perfect!" Yunho grins before immediately pointing at you. "But seriously. I really do need my key. Do you have it or not?"

You glance down at your still-open bag, everything inside shifted and pushed aside until the bottom is finally exposed—and missing what you were hoping to find. "Um... I think it's sitting on my desk in the dorm."

Before you can apologize or offer him a spare notebook to use instead, he hooks his arm through yours. "Alright, come on then."

"What? Hang on—"

"Let's go! I have class in thirty minutes!"

He starts marching down the hallway without waiting for any further resistance, pulling you along with him. Your shoes scrape against the floor as you stumble to keep up with his pace.

"Yunho, wait—"

Twisting around mid-step, you glance back behind you. Hongjoong is still standing where you left him, chuckling, one shoulder leaning against the wall with both hands tucked back into his pockets.

"I'll see you at five!" he calls out over the rising hallway noise.

"Yeah! Uh—okay!" you stutter back, managing an awkward wave over your shoulder just before the crowd swallows you. Hongjoong lifts a hand in return, smiling as Yunho steers you around the corner.

The moment the two of you are officially out of Hongjoong’s line of sight, Yunho drops your arm. His urgent pace calms to a casual stroll, and you stumble a bit without his momentum, catching your balance and adjusting the strap of your bag as you glare up at him.

"Really, Yunho?" you snap. "We were about to go get lunch! You seriously need your key right this second?"

He reaches into the front pocket of his coat and calmly pulls out a yellow lanyard. Dangling from the metal ring is a shiny brass dorm key. "Nope. I have it," he says cheerfully, giving the lanyard a little shake so the metal jingles between you. "I just needed an excuse to get you alone."

Your mouth drops open. You stare at the dangling piece of metal, then up at his smug face, before lifting both hands and shoving him squarely in the chest. "Yunho! Are you serious?"

He barely even budges. Laughing loudly, he easily catches your wrist mid-air and loops your arm right back through his, trapping you against his side once again.

"Oh, please. You've been with him every day for the past week. You've neglected your best friend! Come on, walk me to class. You have a lot of explaining to do."

You let out a long groan, though you don't actually resist as he pulls you down the hallway. "Fine."

Yunho's pleased grin widens as he looks down at you. "So? Tell me what's been going on!" he prompts. "How have things been going since you guys made it official? What have you been doing?"

The annoyance begins to drain out of you as you think back to your week. You try your hardest to fight it, biting down on the inside of your cheek, but you can't stop the goofy, lovestruck smile from overtaking your face.

You tell your best friend everything as you walk through the halls. You tell him about driving aimlessly around at night, the afternoons that somehow turned into evenings without either of you ever noticing the passage of time, and, reluctantly, about the fact that you haven't actually studied once in the past week. That every session starts with good intentions and ends the same way—books abandoned, notes forgotten, and the two of you tangled up together on his couch instead.

Yunho listens attentively as you ramble, grinning at you the entire time. "Okay, I hate to admit it because you skipped our grocery run..." He jokingly rolls his eyes, which makes you laugh. "But you guys do sound pretty cute."

"It's been... really nice," you admit quietly, feeling your cheeks warm.

"I do have to say, though," Yunho says as you step outside into the cold air. "He is much more handsome than Mingi made him out to be. He left out the part about how intense his eyes are. And god, ____, how are you not afraid of that smile? I can't tell if it makes him look like an angel or the devil."

You let out a startled laugh, almost tripping over a crack in the walkway. "You talked to Mingi about him?"

"Obviously. You've been purposefully keeping me away from him. I had to do anything I could to make sure he was actually a good match for you," Yunho says matter-of-factly. "But he actually seems really nice. I respect him a lot for saying he wants to meet us. He wants to be a part of your life. I like that."

Yunho stops walking, and you stop with him underneath the bare branches of an oak tree. He pulls you into a quick one-armed hug, resting his chin on the top of your head. "I like him," he decides firmly. "I'm so happy for you, ____."

You shrug him away with a little embarrassed scowl. You drop your gaze to the frost-bitten sidewalk as you keep walking, shivering slightly and kicking at an imaginary chunk of ice on the concrete. "I guess," you murmur. "Yeah. I... I like him. I'm... I'm really happy too, Yunho."

"You look happy," Yunho agrees, laughing at your flustered face. He studies your profile as you walk, his eyes scanning your features before dropping to your neck. "Less marked up, too. Has he calmed down since that first night?"

"Yunho!" you screech, ripping your arm away from his and slapping his shoulder as hard as you can through his coat. "Why would you ask that?"

He throws his head back and laughs, dodging your attempts to hit him again. "Hey, it's okay to talk about this stuff!" he says through his laughter. With his ridiculous height advantage, it takes him barely any effort to catch both of your flailing wrists in one hand and give them a playful shake. "You have no idea how many conversations San and I have had about how surprised he is that Mingi's a bottom—"

"Yunho!" you shriek, your eyes going wide as you rip your hands out of his grasp to cover your burning ears. "I do not need to know that!"

He loses it, cackling so hard he has to bend over and clutch his stomach. "Okay, okay! Fine!" he concedes as he manages to catch his breath. "But seriously, you don't ever need to be embarrassed about this stuff. Especially not with me. You guys are adults. You have sex. It's normal."

"I guess," you mumble, staring down at the scuff marks on the toes of your shoes. You yank the collar of your coat up a little higher around your chin, trying to hide your flushed cheeks from him. "But..."

You trail off, and Yunho immediately senses the shift. He slows his long strides, dipping his head down to duck into your line of sight, trying to catch your stubbornly averted eyes.

"What?" he asks, watching your shoulders tense and putting the pieces together. "Have you guys... not?"

You swallow and wordlessly shake your head.

Yunho blinks, surprised. "Not since that first night?"

You keep your eyes glued to the sidewalk.

Despite the wonderful shift in your relationship over the past week, you and Hongjoong haven't actually slept together since the night you confessed.

It's not that you mind the slower pace, exactly. You've loved every second of just talking with him, absorbing every detail about his present, his past, and what he wants his future to be. But you also can't deny that Hongjoong is an insanely attractive man, and that being around him every single day has left you perpetually needy for more.

All those nights in the passenger seat of his car, all those afternoons supposedly studying in his room—they always led to making out. Breathless, desperate making out that leaves your lips bruised and your head spinning with desire. You can see it in his eyes, too: his gaze turns a shade darker, his jaw clenches, his breathing turns shallow, and his hands grip your waist tighter, but right when the tension peaks, right when you feel like he's about to take things further—he pulls back.

He swallows hard, takes a shuddering breath, and rests his forehead against yours with his eyes squeezed shut. And then, with that thick, raspy voice, he loosens his grip, presses a lingering kiss to your temple, and gently changes the subject.

And you have no idea why.

"Are you both too scared to initiate?" Yunho asks, his footsteps slowing to match yours.

You offer a helpless shrug as you bury your cold hands into your coat pockets. "Maybe. I know I am. I don't want to mess up what we have going right now, but..."

He studies you for a long moment before asking: "How rough was it?"

You whip your head to stare at him. "Huh?"

"I'm just saying, I get a vibe from him," Yunho continues. "And that vibe is telling me that beneath that cozy sweater, he might be a lot more... intense than Mingi and I originally suspected."

"Why are you and Mingi suspecting things in the first place?" you hiss, looking around to make sure no passing students are eavesdropping.

"Because, like I said, you refuse to tell me anything, and we're curious!" he shoots back shamelessly. "Anyway, focus. Did he hurt you last time? Because if he was really rough with you, he might be overthinking it. You know, scared of accidentally hurting you again, especially now that you guys are together."

"No," you say quickly, heat rushing to your face as the memories of that night flash through your mind. "He didn't hurt me. But, um..." You swallow, nervously picking at the cuff of your coat sleeve. "It was pretty... yeah. It was a lot."

Yunho nods, and to your surprise, he doesn't tease you. "Then maybe you really do need to be the one to initiate it. Think about it. That first night was pretty emotionally charged, right? You guys had just confessed to each other, and he was already jealous seeing you come home from a date with his best friend. If he lost control a little, he might be getting in his own head now, thinking he scared you off."

"But I told him I liked it," you argue weakly, your face burning.

"Yeah, but if you haven't realized by now, guys are stupid, ____. He's probably still overthinking every move he makes with you, trying to be a respectful boyfriend. He probably doesn't want sex to complicate or ruin this little honeymoon phase you guys are in," he reasons, allowing his advice to sink in. "I bet that if you give him a clear signal that you want it, he'll fuck you in no time."

"Please lower your voice," you hiss, hiding your face in your hands as you try to speedwalk ahead of him.

His laughter echoes across the busy quad as he jogs a few steps to catch up with you. "You'll get more comfortable talking about sex the more you have it, trust me."

"Okay, well, check back with me in a year, and maybe I'll consider giving you a thumbs up," you mumble from behind your fingers.

"Sure, sure. Go at your own pace," Yunho beams, slinging a comforting arm over your shoulders as the two of you continue the walk toward his building. He flashes you one last grin. "But just a heads up: if you really wanna give your tutor that signal, a private study room is a pretty damn good place to start."

The library is surprisingly busy for five o'clock on a Thursday evening.

Normally, the first floor is relatively empty by now, save for a handful of students unfortunate enough to land Friday classes during registration. For most of campus, however, Thursday marks the unofficial kickoff of the weekend. Typically, by this time, people are already starting to migrate towards sticky frat basements, crowded bars, and cramped dorms packed with cheap takeout and pre-game liquor.

Tonight, though, nearly every seat in the library is occupied.

Students sit barricaded behind laptops and towering stacks of notes, while others jog through the sprawling lobby, balancing cardboard trays of espresso for study groups crammed into every available corner.

You figure the timing isn't coincidental. Professor Choi's final exam announcement landed in your inbox only a few hours ago. Judging by the sea of stressed faces surrounding you, you're willing to bet nearly every other professor on campus had chosen today to send out the exact same announcement.

Everyone is scrambling, including you.

A quiet sigh slips from your lips as you follow the flow of students through the lobby. Everyone around you seems so focused, so determined to review material until it's burned into their brains that it makes you anxious. You've spent the entire week mentally checked out, adrift in a haze of your own making, incapable of stringing together a coherent academic thought for more than ten minutes. How exactly are you supposed to walk into a study room and suddenly become your usual productive self?

More importantly, how the hell are you supposed to focus with the cause of your problem sitting right across from you?

You pull out your phone to ask Hongjoong where he is, only to find three unread messages already waiting for you.

Joong: I'm in B1005 when you get here. Joong: It's in the basement. Joong: In case the B wasn't clear.

A tiny crease forms between your brows as you stare at the screen. B1005? You mentally rifle through your limited knowledge of the basement layout, trying to picture the room number. Though you have to admit that you don't spend much time down there, you could've sworn the study rooms maxed out at four.

Shaking off the confusion, you swipe his messages away and make your way toward the nearest stairwell. The basement of the library is notoriously silent, usually reserved exclusively for exhausted grad students and sleep-deprived undergrads desperate enough to pull an all-nighter before an exam. As you begin your descent, the silence becomes oppressive. You cringe with every step you take, wincing as the squeak of your rubber soles bounces off the concrete walls and echoes down the stairwell, likely disturbing every student on the floor.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, you turn toward the bank of study rooms tucked against the far wall. They're lined up in a row, each one large enough to comfortably seat eight people around an old, creaky wooden table that's certainly seen better days, undoubtedly witnessing about thirty years' worth of academic meltdowns. You slow your pace, scanning the small metal plaques mounted beside the glass-paneled doors.

B1001. B1002. B1003. B1004.

Just as you suspected, that's where the sequence ends.

You linger there for a moment, leaning in to peer through the glass of each door, just to be sure, but Hongjoong is nowhere to be found.

Did you misread his text?

You pull back and sweep a glance around the basement's open floor plan instead, searching the labyrinth of desks and shadowy corners for any sign of him. Your gaze darts from face to face, and soon, a few of those faces begin to notice. A guy with neat braids and thick glasses snaps his head up from his laptop, giving you a pointed glare after your third lap. A few desks over, another one with a bleached-blonde buzzcut follows you with mild curiosity before returning to his notes.

Suddenly, your eyes snag on a movement inside B1003, locking you in unfortunate eye contact with one of the four girls studying together. She pauses mid-highlight to stare you down, sweeping a slow and critical look up and down your frame with piercingly blue eyes. You flash her an awkward, tight-lipped smile and immediately scurry away, ducking behind the nearest row of bookshelves to reopen your texts with Hongjoong.

You: Where are you? B1005 doesn't exist.

The gray typing bubble materializes instantly.

Joong: It does. Behind the shelves in the far left corner. Joong: I can come show you if you're lost.

You narrow your eyes at the screen.

You: No, I'll find you.

The message sends, and before he can offer any further commentary on your poor navigational skills, you start walking. You pass the main seating area and head deeper into the belly of the basement, venturing into a section you've never actually set foot in before. You're certainly no stranger to this building, but your time is almost always spent on the upper floors. For you, the basement was only ever a last resort during midterm season—the sad little corner you crawled into when you accidentally overslept and arrived to find every decent study spot on campus already claimed.

But this particular section seems as though it hasn't been touched by the presence of an actual human body in years.

The organized rows of desks disappear, giving way to towering bookshelves packed incredibly close together. Overhead, the lights grow noticeably dimmer, their intermittent flickering becoming more and more frequent the further you venture. The shelves back here are older, probably the oldest in the whole library. You trail your fingertips along the cold, rusted edge of one as you walk, glancing at the faded labels: decades-old university records and bound archives covered in dust. The deeper you go, the quieter it becomes.

Eventually, the towering shelves begin to taper off, leading to a dead end against a dull cinderblock wall. You slow to a halt. There, tucked into the very back corner, exactly as Hongjoong promised, is a single, isolated door.

The little tarnished plaque next to it reads B1005.

Unlike the study rooms near the staircase, this door is plain wood, devoid of any windows or glass paneling—leaving you without any way to see who's inside. You stare at the handle apprehensively, praying Hongjoong is actually the one behind this door... or you're about to have yet another awkward interaction with a very stressed and likely hostile student. With a final glance at the plaque, you reach for the handle and slowly push the door open.

You immediately breathe a sigh of relief.

Thankfully, Hongjoong is there, seated at the far side of the square table. At the click of the latch, his head snaps up, and a warm smile instantly crinkles his eyes.

"Hi," he says softly.

"Hi," you breathe back, stepping inside. The door shuts behind you, cutting off the faint rumbling of the library's HVAC system.

As you expected, he's already prepared to begin: his laptop sits open at the center of the table, flanked by a textbook to the side. One of his forearms rests casually over his stack of notebooks, while his collection of multicolored pens and highlighters is somehow even more organized than usual.

You glance around as you step further inside. This study room is significantly smaller than the others. Instead of a long, rectangular eight-person table meant for large study groups, this one is square, built to seat four at most. A wide whiteboard spans across the wall behind Hongjoong, blank except for a thin ledge of black markers. Otherwise, the room is entirely empty. There are only two light fixtures hanging above, and one of them seems to be permanently burnt out, leaving the room half-washed in a dim, secluded glow.

Yunho's parting words from earlier today slip uninvited into your mind: If you really wanna give your tutor that signal, a private study room is a pretty damn good place to start.

You swallow hard, setting your bag down on the table. You pull out the chair directly across from Hongjoong and sit, your eyes darting a little anxiously between the whiteboard, the empty corners of the room, and his patient smile.

"Why..." you start, your voice wavering slightly. You clear your throat. "Um... I've never been back here before. How did you even find this place?"

He chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. It pulls the fabric of the button-down he changed into at some point taut across his broad shoulders, briefly accentuating the hard lines beneath. You swallow and rip your eyes away before he catches you staring. "It's an old archival room," he explains. "I don't think most undergrads even know it exists since it's buried so deep in the stacks. I found it by accident at the beginning of the semester. Seonghwa threatened to throw my laptop out the window because he was sick of hearing my demos on repeat, so I had to find a more secluded place to work. Ever since then, this has been my go-to when I need to focus. No distractions."

You peer around the room, taking in the hairline cracks marring the cinderblock walls. "So you're serious about us focusing tonight."

"Of course I am," he says. "The last thing I ever want to be is the reason your final goes poorly. I... I really like being your boyfriend, ____. But I'm still your tutor, too. It's my responsibility to make sure you do your best."

The rush of warmth in your chest is sweet enough to momentarily banish the anxiety of Yunho's teasing advice from your mind.

"And," Hongjoong continues, pulling his bag onto his lap and unzipping the main compartment before digging around loose sheets of music and tangled charging cords, "Before I forget. I stopped by the Yoons' on my way here."

He begins unloading a miniature feast onto the scarred tabletop: two rolls of kimbap, still warm enough to fog the plastic wrap, a bag of honey butter chips, and a couple of chilled canned drinks. He slides one of the rolls and a can across the table, an encouraging smile returning to his lips as it stops just inches from your hands. "Have whatever you want. Eat up, because we've got a long night ahead of us."

And then, just like that, the switch flips.

Hongjoong reaches for his textbook, thumbing through the pages until he finds the chapter he's looking for. You wait in silence, hands resting awkwardly in your lap, watching as his focus settles solely on the task at hand.

Without a word, he rises from the chair. He plucks one of the black dry-erase markers from the ledge and turns his back to you, facing the whiteboard. A moment later, lines of neat handwriting begin appearing in the top left corner, breaking down the evening's agenda into four bullet points: frequency indicators, the clausal connective 고 나서, 면서 (while -ing), and compound verbs.

You wince at the squeak of the marker against the board, the only sound filling the room other than your own nervous breathing. Once he's finished, he snaps the cap back onto the marker and sets it aside. He turns back to the table, bracing one hand against the wood as he leans over his laptop, scrolling through a PDF of the course syllabus.

Watching him like this requires a conscious effort to swallow past the knot tightening in your throat. Focus looks unfairly good on him. The way his eyebrows are furrowed as he reads the syllabus is enough to make your pulse quicken. But before your thoughts can wander anywhere near the dangerous territory Yunho had mapped out for you earlier, Hongjoong speaks.

"According to the lesson plans for this week," he says, tracing a line down the PDF with one finger, "everyone was required to memorize the list of frequency indicators in Chapter 13. Correct?"

Pink floods your neck, rushing straight up to your cheeks as your mind goes blank.

What frequency indicators?

"Um..." You force yourself to sit up a little straighter. "Yes. We were."

Hongjoong finally lifts his head from the laptop. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and levels you with a long, assessing stare through the lenses. One eyebrow slowly rises.

"Good," he says after a beat. "Then we should be able to get through this first section pretty quickly."

You manage a tiny nod, but beneath the table, your fingers tighten around the fabric of your skirt. You don't have a single clue what he's talking about. Frequency indicators? Does that mean counting? Days of the week? Time expressions? Something else with numbers?

Hongjoong flips the textbook forward, dragging his index finger down the page until it stops beneath the header of a bolded vocabulary list.

"Repeat after me, then translate," he says. "자주."

You blink, momentarily startled, but luckily, the sounds click into place in your mind. You recognize the word. "자주. Often," you answer, your voice gaining a fragile bit of confidence.

He offers a singular nod of approval. "Good." His finger slides down a millimeter. "Next. 매일."

The knot in your stomach loosens. This one is familiar, too; these are all previous vocabulary words. "매일. Every day."

Another nod. This time, you catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips, gone before it can fully form. But before you can get too comfortable, his finger stalls over a longer string of characters.

"한 번도 안."

Every ounce of your hard-won confidence drains from your limbs. You try dissecting the phrase in your head, separating the syllables, but he'd spoken too quickly for anything to stick cleanly. You caught the word 한—which means one—so maybe it translates to once?

"한... 한..." You trail off, the rest of the phrase escaping your memory. You swallow hard under his patient stare. "Can you... say it again? Slower, please?"

Hongjoong watches you over the rims of his glasses. After a beat, without comment, he complies, his pronunciation now slower and the syllables more elongated. "한 번도 안."

You nod quickly like that helps, rushing to mimic him before the sounds can slip away again. "한 변도 안."

He pauses, then shakes his head once. "번, not 변. Try it again."

Your tongue suddenly feels clumsy against your teeth as you force yourself to slow down. "한 번... 도 안."

"Good," he says. "Can you translate?"

You clear your throat, your glaring lack of certainty making your voice quieter. "Um... once? One time?"

Another small shake of his head. "The last word is 안," he says, tapping against the page. "What does 안 do to a verb?"

Your cheeks burn; this is a foundational rule, one of the first you ever learned. "It's the negation," you answer quietly.

"So do you want to rethink your translation?"

You slide your hands onto the table, twisting your fingers together, your nails pressing little crescent marks into your palms. "Not... once?"

"Right. It means never. More literally, not even once."

You nod quickly, embarrassed at the simple mistake.

"Next one," Hongjoong continues, his finger shifting down to the next line. "한 달에 두 번."

This time, the words sound like absolute gibberish to your ears. You squint at the textbook, trying to read the phrase despite the fact that it's upside down. "Um... 한... 달에... 도 번?"

He lets out a quiet puff of air. "You said 도, but it's 두," he corrects calmly. "A rounded 'u' sound, not an 'o'. Say it one more time."

"한 달야에 두 번," you attempt quickly, trying to overcorrect the vowel.

But his head shakes again. "Good, but you added a 'y' sound into 달에. You had it right the first time. Again."

You gulp, the heat in your face rising steadily. "한 달에..."

And just like that, the correct phrasing vanishes from your mind again. Your frustration peaks as you watch him gaze expectantly at you, waiting for your answer. Why did he have to change his shirt before coming here? What happened to the cozy sweater he'd been wearing this morning? His button-down is doing horrific things to your focus; his sleeves are rolled up high, exposing the veins in his forearms. Every time he takes a breath, the fabric shifts against his broad chest. It's an unfair disadvantage. Doesn't he realize he's making it impossible to focus on your vocabulary?

"Um... 한 달에 도 번," you mumble, feeling your tongue revert right back to your first mistake.

Hongjoong doesn't correct you this time. He studies you for a long moment, taking in the way your fingers are squeezed together on the table and how your cheeks are painted with an incriminating pink. Slowly, he leans back in his chair without breaking eye contact.

"____," he says quietly. "Have you even looked at this list yet?"

You nearly scoff, your first instinct screaming at you to lie, to swear up and down that you had studied and are simply having an off day—but looking into his eyes, you know he already knows the truth without you having to say a word.

"I... didn't really have time," you stammer, the excuse tasting bitter as you drop your gaze to your hands. "We were always—"

"Is having a boyfriend an excuse to neglect your assignments?"

You go still. Your head snaps back up. "Joong, we were together all—"

"As your tutor," he interrupts, not unkindly, but with a firmness that clamps your mouth shut, "it's my job to help you earn the best grade you're capable of. But I can't help you if you're not doing the work on your end when you're supposed to. At the end of the day, it's your GPA that'll suffer, not mine. You are the one responsible for putting forth your best effort."

You gulp as his scolding bites. He's never spoken to you like this before. But then again, he's never had a reason to. In all your past sessions, you'd been a model student: prepared, attentive, and ahead of schedule, with all your assignments completed and all your vocabulary words previewed a week in advance. Being on the receiving end of his disappointment feels wrong. Shameful. Humiliating.

Hongjoong exhales slowly. The strict set of his mouth eases. "But... I'll let it slide this time," he says at last. "Not completing your work may not have been entirely your fault."

He picks up the same black dry-erase marker he'd used earlier and extends his hand across the table, offering it to you.

You blink, your eyes darting from the marker up to his face.

"Go up to the board," he says softly, a subtle tilt of his head gesturing behind him. "I'll say the phrase in Korean, and you write down what you hear. We'll use the whiteboard so we can erase mistakes quickly."

Your mouth forms a small, involuntary pout. You bristle slightly at the blunt assumption that you're going to mess up; Hongjoong always has confidence in you. Usually, he trusts you. You sink back against your chair, resisting the urge to cross your arms. "What if I don't make any?"

Hongjoong's lips twitch into a smirk. "You know I believe in you. But you did just make three mistakes on the same phrase."

You let out a little huff through your nose, but you know he has you there. Resigned, you grab the marker from his hand, ignoring the flutter in your stomach as your fingers brush his. Standing up, you push your chair back and make your way over to the whiteboard.

You hear the scrape of wooden legs against the floor behind you as you uncap the marker. The sound draws your attention enough that you glance over your shoulder in time to watch Hongjoong circle the square table and slide into the seat you just vacated, positioning himself for a better view of the board. With one hand, he grabs the corner of the textbook and spins it toward himself. One ankle hooks over the opposite knee as he settles back in the chair.

"There are quite a few phrases, so start as close to the top as you can and write small," he instructs, his eyes lifting from the page to hold yours. "I want you to be able to see the entire list together once you're finished."

You give him a small nod and turn back to face the board, grateful for the excuse to put your back to him. Raising your arm, you position the tip near the upper corner and wait.

"We'll start with one you already know," his voice drifts from behind you. "자주."

The top of the whiteboard is deceptively higher than it looked from the table. To reach the space adjacent to Hongjoong's written agenda, you're forced to push yourself up onto your tiptoes. As your arm extends overhead, the unfortunate realization hits: your skirt. It's your favorite, a short, black pleated one that's a perfectly appropriate length for walking around campus, sitting in lectures, or grabbing a coffee between classes. But now, with the stretch of your torso, you can feel the hem creeping dangerously high.

You drop back onto your heels, your face warming as you discreetly tug it down with your free hand. You take a breath, try to adjust your posture, and reach back up, but the moment your weight shifts to your toes, the fabric slides right back up your thighs.

You press your lips together, determined to ignore the air hitting the backs of your legs and focus on the board. You scrawl the characters for 자주as fast as humanly possible, eager to finish and lower your arm before the situation becomes any more embarrassing. You don't know exactly how far your skirt has ridden up, but you know your sweater isn't long enough to cover anything. Thankfully, because of the cold weather, you're wearing tights—though, truth be told, they probably aren't doing much to mask the curve of your ass, given that the sheer material stops at the tops of your thighs, just below the hem of your panties.

You sink back onto your heels and stare at the ink on the board, your breathing now a little shallower than it had been a moment ago. Slowly, you turn your head over your shoulder, waiting for confirmation that you'd spelled it correctly.

But Hongjoong isn't looking at what you wrote. He isn't looking at his textbook anymore, either. He's staring directly at your skirt, directly at the spot where the fabric had ridden up.

His facial expression is neutral at first glance, but his eyes are giving everything away. You recognize that look: it holds the same darkness that slips in just as his hands slide beneath your shirt, trailing up your back to hover over the clasp of your bra before he forces himself to pull away. You freeze as he bites down on his bottom lip, his pupils blown wide as his eyes devour the curve of your ass beneath the pleats.

His gaze crawls up your body, lingering over your waist, your chest, your neck, and finally, your eyes.

"Correct."

His voice is rougher now. He leans deeper into the chair, the muscles in his forearms flexing as his arms tighten hard against his chest. But a second later, his eyes trail right back down the line of your body, right back to your legs.

"Add the translation next to it," he murmurs. "Remind me... what did 자주 mean again?"

The rush of heat blooming between your thighs makes you suck in a breath. You grip the marker tighter to keep your hands from trembling.

"O—often."

"Good," he says softly, his tongue pressing briefly against his bottom lip. "Write it down."

You swallow hard and turn back to the whiteboard, pushing yourself up onto your tiptoes once again.

This time, you feel it. With the high reach of your arm, the skirt rides up halfway, leaving your panties exposed to his view. Your hand trembles against the glossy surface, the marker stuttering as you force yourself to add the English translation beside the characters. You don't look back, but you can feel his gaze all the same.

"That's it," Hongjoong murmurs once you fall back on your heels. Your face is in flames. You don't dare turn around. When he falls into a long silence, you keep your eyes glued to the board, the marker slick against your sweaty palm as you wait.

"Next one," he says even lower. "일주일에 한 번쯤."

Your breath hitches. Why is he suddenly skipping ahead? He'd spoken so quietly that you barely caught the blur of the final syllables. Panic tangles with the heat already coursing through your veins. Gulping, you push yourself back up onto your toes, your skirt lifting to that dangerously illicit height once more. Under the pressure of his gaze, you take a guess, desperate to get something on the board quickly. Your hand shakes as you scrawl: 일주일에 한 번점.

The second you drop your arm, you hear the click of Hongjoong's tongue behind you.

"Incorrect."

You drop back onto your heels, closing your eyes as embarrassment floods through you. The sting of getting the answer wrong is bad enough on its own; it's only magnified tenfold by the knowledge that his eyes were on you the whole time.

His chair suddenly scrapes against the floor again. In a room this small, his footsteps seem amplified as he bridges the short distance between the table and the whiteboard. You keep your eyes locked stubbornly ahead, staring at the characters you've written as your pulse begins to climb.

Hongjoong stops right behind you.

Slowly, he reaches past your shoulder. His arm traps you in, pinning you between his chest and the board itself. His rolled-up sleeve whispers against your hair as his fingers close around yours, gently easing the marker from your trembling hand.

Using the side of his thumb, he wipes away the final character you wrote, smudging the ink into a faint gray streak. He presses the marker back against the board, replacing your little mistake with the correct answer.

"일주일에 한 번쯤," he murmurs, spoken so close to your ear that his breath fans against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. "About once a week. You forgot the double consonant."

He caps the marker with a soft click. He lowers his arm casually enough that it could have been accidental, but the brush of his hand against your side feels anything but. His palm grazes the dip of your waist, slowly traveling lower. His fingers smooth the rumpled pleats of your skirt, tracing the curve of your hip before sliding over the contour of your ass and finally coming to a rest against the back of your thigh.

A gasp slips free from your lips. Your fingers twitch, aching to turn around and press your body into his, craving more of his touch.

Hongjoong tilts his head down, and you look up over your shoulder. Your eyes lock. Up close, his pupils are blown, transforming his eyes into twin pools of hungry, liquid black. His gaze drops to the breathless parting of your lips, and you freeze in place.

He lifts his hand, using the cap of the marker to tap the whiteboard twice, right next to your temple.

"Focus on your vocabulary, ____," he murmurs, his voice a strictly whispered warning. "Not on your tutor."

Hongjoong straightens and withdraws his touch. You can only watch, trapped in a daze, as he circles the table and slides back into his chair, flipping to the next page of the textbook as if nothing happened, leaving you stranded at the board, burning alive.

Your mind is reeling from his touch, and it shows on the board as you attempt to finish the rest of the list. Your hands fumble through the remaining phrases, leaving at least one glaring spelling mistake on each one. Every string of characters seems to disintegrate somewhere between your ears and the tip of the marker. Even with the foundational terms you'd aced on previous quizzes, double consonants disappear. Vowels end up in the wrong places. At one point, you even begin writing a character in Mandarin before frantically wiping it away with your sleeve.

Yet through it all, Hongjoong doesn't get up to correct you again.

Your fingers shake as you squeeze the marker to finish the final phrase: 일 년에 두 번쯤. You stare at the completed list for a moment, frowning at how it slopes to the left halfway through, before stepping aside, leaving the board unobstructed for his evaluation.

Behind you, pages rustle as Hongjoong glances between the textbook and the whiteboard. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, rolling the marker over and over between your palms, waiting.

"Good," he finally says, the syllable clipped. "You can sit down now."

You quickly cap the marker and flee back to the table, sliding into the chair opposite him. You expect the tension inside you to finally dissipate, but the moment you dare to look at his face, you see how rigid his posture has become. He's staring down at the open textbook with his jaw clenched, and his fingers rest unmoving on the page without flipping it. His eyes aren't moving. He isn't even reading.

Your stomach plummets. Is he upset? Irritated at how unprepared you are for your own final exam, at how easily your brain turned to mush the second he touched you, at how he's had to coax every correct translation out of you like a child? He was right earlier—it's your own GPA on the line, not his. You shouldn't have crawled into bed the second you returned to your room after spending the night with him; you should have opened your laptop, made the time, and done the work.

You clear your throat, the noise dripping with shame. "I... I'm sorry," you begin quietly, your eyes cast down. "I know I should've studied more this week. I should've previewed the words on my own instead of making you waste time on the basics."

Hongjoong slowly reaches out and closes the textbook. He lifts his head, his hands flattening against the cover.

"Do you really think that's why I'm..." he trails off and gulps, his voice betraying a shakiness you didn't expect. His eyes have gone even darker, the pupils so blown that they swallow up his irises, leaving only a thin ring of dark brown. "Do you even know what you do to me?" he whispers. "Hearing you stumble through those words, repeating after me... standing up there on your toes, and that skirt..." He cuts himself off, swallowing hard, but his gaze never wavers. "Every time... every single time I hear that sweet voice try to speak in Korean... I... I get hard, ____. Did you know that?"

You suck in a breath. Your head shakes in a mindless, stunned negative, at a loss for words.

He huffs out a humorless laugh. "Every single time, since our very first session. I don't know why. It's just... it's you. Your voice. How hard you try. You have no idea... no idea what it feels like to sit across from you and have to watch you study."

You can only stare at him, your mind in complete and total shock. Is he serious? Is he telling the truth? Is this the reason why he looked so rigid, why his jaw was clenched to the point of pain? Because... because he's...

In the back of your mind, Yunho's voice echoes one last time, loud and clear: I bet that if you give him a clear signal that you want it, he'll...

Your eyes dart toward the door. There's no lock, but it's closed. The room is private and hidden away in the most forgotten corner of the library basement. No one is coming down here. Barely anyone even knows it exists.

You want this. You want him. And looking at the hunger burning in Hongjoong's eyes, you know he wants it just as badly.

You don't say a word.

Slowly, you slide out of your chair. Hongjoong's gaze tracks your body, his eyes widening in real-time as you disappear beneath the table. His breath catches loudly in his throat as you lower yourself to your knees on the floor between his legs.

The cold tile of the floor seeps right through your tights, but you don't care. You reach out, the palms of your hands gliding over his pants, and rest them on his thighs. Had you tilted your head back, you know you'd find him staring straight down at you through the gap between his knees, but you keep your eyes locked on your own hands out of the fear that meeting his gaze would leave you too nervous to continue.

You slowly slide your palms up his thighs. Beneath your touch, his muscles are locked and trembling with anticipation.

The instant your fingertips brush over the bulge straining hard against the fly of his pants, he groans from above.

It wasn't a lie. Hongjoong is hard. For your voice. For your effort. For you.

Your hands are trembling so fiercely that your fingers slip against the metal of his belt buckle.

Hongjoong rushes to reach down without a word, his fingers brushing against yours. To your shock, his hands are shaking just as badly as yours are—if not more. He unbuckles the belt and drags his zipper down the moment it gives way, his eagerness making his breath shallow in the quiet of the study room.

Your lips part of their own volition as he frees his length, which is already fully erect and throbbing with blood. He wraps his fingers around the thick base, his palm sliding up in a slow stroke that leaves the tip glistening. Kneeling there, all you can do is watch, biting your lip at his girth.

You finally tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

He's staring down at you, his eyes glazed over with lust. His eyebrows are lowered, his mouth parted open as he continues to stroke his hand up and down his length, watching your wide, needy eyes.

You can't resist it any longer; the look in his eyes makes you desperate to please him. Leaning forward, you press a hesitant, wet lick straight up the underside of his cock.

Another deep groan rips from the back of his throat. He throws his head back, his free hand flying out to grip the edge of the table, the wood creaking above you. Emboldened by the sound, you lean in closer, tracing your tongue up one side, tasting the hot, salty warmth of him. His head snaps back down, his eyebrows knotting together like the pleasure is paining him to bear.

He shifts his hips forward, dragging his sensitive tip across your lower lip, leaving a slick bead of precum behind. Your mouth opens wider, silently inviting him inside. He taps the broad head against your tongue twice, letting out a sound eerily close to a whine.

You close your lips around the tip, swirling your tongue in wet circles as you swallow down the first few inches. He's so thick, stretching your jaw so wide that it aches, but you somehow slide him deeper into your throat without gagging.

"아, 씨..." he groans, his thighs locking as you begin to bob your head back and forth, hollowing your cheeks to work your tongue against him. "You have no idea... how much I've thought about you sucking me off under that table."

That table. The Language Center.

His confession elicits a muffled moan from your throat right around his cock, and the vibration tears another stuttering whine from his chest. His hand reaches down to bury his fingers deep in your hair, his head falling back against the chair again as you press the flat of your tongue to the sensitive underside of the head. His hips jerk forward like he's fighting the urge to grab your head and ruthlessly fuck your throat.

"So... so good," he rasps, his hand pulling at the strands of your hair as your head bobs up and down, your tongue memorizing every vein. "Nice and slow... that's it..."

Hongjoong sinks lower into the chair, his knees spreading wider to grant you unfettered access. But your slow pace is torturous. His hips begin to thrust gently against his will, guiding his length into the back of your throat—and somehow, your body relaxes, taking all of him.

"아, 씨... you're doing so well... taking my cock so deep..."

Slowly, the rhythm picks up. Your throat opens fully for him as his hips begin to roll faster, burying himself deeper and deeper with every tilt of his pelvis. The brutal stretch brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but you don't even entertain the thought of pulling back. Pride blooms in your chest at the sound of his voice, broken and whining for you. You're making him feel so good, correcting every single mistake you made earlier.

He bucks his hips harder, burying himself to the hilt. Your throat constricts, and you gag around his thickness.

Watching you choke on his cock only makes him groan louder. "____," he chokes out, his other hand coming down to tangle in your hair. "Don't stop."

He holds your head steady with both hands now as he rolls his hips deep into your throat. You can feel his cock beginning to throb against your tongue, pulsing with the onset of his orgasm. You moan around him, your hands gripping his trembling thighs as you realize he's seconds away from cumming down your throat.

"____... I—I'm gonna..."

Suddenly, his grip on your hair tightens, and Hongjoong yanks your head back. He gasps as the suction breaks, your warm, wet mouth ripped away from his length.

You gag one last time at the sudden release, your hand flying up to wipe a trailing slick of saliva from your lips. You squint up at him as you try to catch your breath, confused.

Why did he stop?

He's panting hard, staring down at you with a wild look in his eyes. His legs are still spread wide, his chest is heaving under his half-unbuttoned shirt, and his hard, glistening length is still twitching between his thighs, desperate for release.

"I... I shouldn't be letting you do this," he rasps out, his voice shaking as he chews hard on his lips. His eyes are locked onto your mouth, which is still coated in a shine of your spit and his own precum. "We... You need to focus. We came here to study for your exam."

You stare up at him as his words echo in the cramped, heated space beneath the table.

Is he serious?

You glance down at his length, twitching just inches from your face, practically begging your mouth to close back around it, and then slowly drag your gaze back up to meet his blown-out eyes.

You wet your lips, your mouth still slick with his taste, and pout at him. "But you're the one who's been distracting me this whole time, Joong."

Hongjoong raises a single eyebrow, his grip in your hair tightening enough to tilt your head back further. "Is that so?"

"You were the one who just admitted you get hard watching me study."

Hongjoong's jaw tightens as he stares down at you. For a split second, you swear he's about to break—that he's about to wrap his hand around the back of your neck and shove his cock right back down your throat as his gaze drops to your wet lips. But then he squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them a moment later, his lust has been shoved behind a wall.

"I also said you need to focus," he murmurs. You watch in a daze as he slowly releases his grip on your hair, wipes a drop of his slick off your bottom lip with his thumb, and tucks his aching length back into his pants.

But you notice that he doesn't buckle his belt.

"Up," he says shortly, breaking eye contact as he reaches for something on the table above your head. "Do I need to remind you that you're going to fail your final if we can't stay focused for more than a few minutes? Get back in your chair."

You desperately want to stay exactly where you are, to drop your head back to his lap and finish what you started, but Hongjoong doesn't look down again. He's serious. Your face burns as you push yourself off the cold tile floor, and your knees are weak as you climb back into your seat, feeling ridiculous as you smooth down your skirt.

Across from you, he tears two clean sheets of lined paper from his notebook and reopens the textbook. He begins aggressively jotting a column of English phrases down the left margin of one—every single frequency indicator from the list.

He slides the papers across the scarred wood, placing his black pen on top of the blank one with a shaky hand.

"Write the correct Korean phrase for each English translation," he instructs lowly.

You look down at the list, your stomach twisting. "Joong... I won't be able to. I don't know any of them."

Hongjoong's stare darkens. "Do your best."

Swallowing hard, your fingers close around the barrel of the pen. You stare at the English words—often, every day, about once a week, rarely, sometimes—and your mind blanks. How could he expect you to take a practice quiz minutes after he'd had his dick halfway down your throat? Does he really think you'll be able to focus? You try to recall the syllables he coaxed out of you at the whiteboard, but everything that just happened has wiped your cognitive slate clean.

Your hand shakes as you press the pen to paper. It's a disaster. You manage to scribble down 자주 and 매일 correctly, but after that, you start guessing, butchering the spelling of every subsequent attempt, and ultimately leaving three of the harder expressions blank.

And the worst part is that Hongjoong's eyes are on you the entire time.

When you finally push the paper back across the table, you want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

Hongjoong flips the sheet around towards him. Without a word, he reaches over to his neat pile of supplies and selects a red pen. He uncaps it and begins to grade.

You sit in silence, forced to watch as the red ink bleeds onto the page.

Slash. A red line through your third answer.

Slash. Another one through the fourth.

With each new mark defacing the paper, your heart sinks further. You knew you did poorly, but watching him dissect your failure question by question is just plain humiliating.

When he reaches the bottom of the page, he caps the red pen and sets it down. His eyes stare down at the bloodied paper quietly, and you realize that despite the nature of what he's doing—grading his student's practice quiz—his eyes still haven't lost a single drop of their darkness.

"There were thirteen questions," he says so quietly that it makes the hairs on your arms stand up. "Would you like to guess how many you missed?"

Your cheeks flare. You wrap your arms around your own stomach, shrinking back into your chair. "Um... six?"

Hongjoong lets out a huff of laughter through his nose, though it's devoid of amusement.

"Ten," he corrects. "You missed ten."

Your heart sinks. Ten?

He leans back, his shoulders squaring as he crosses his arms over his chest. You can't tell what's going through his head, but his eyes have since clouded over with frustration.

"You know..." he begins, his gaze tracing over your flushed face, down to where your trembling hands clutch your stomach. "You're usually my best student. Your assignments are always done on time, your dialogues are submitted without flaw, and your quiz scores are always at the top of your class." He pauses. "But today... you're not the same student I've grown accustomed to tutoring."

You drop your gaze to the table, unable to bear the criticism. Hearing this from Professor Choi would've been easy to brush off. But coming from Hongjoong, it stings.

"I'm disappointed, ____. This isn't your best. But you already know that, don't you?"

You manage a tiny nod, your eyes burning with the threat of tears as you keep them glued to the desk.

Hongjoong sighs. You sit perfectly still, waiting for the inevitable order to try again. To rewrite each phrase until your hand cramps and your spelling is flawless.

Instead, he draws in a breath.

"Come here."

Your head snaps up so fast it hurts your neck, your eyes widening.

Hongjoong's expression is deadly serious. He doesn't offer any type of teasing smile, and he doesn't repeat himself. He sits there and waits expectantly.

On legs that feel like jelly, you shakily push yourself out of your chair. Your breath trembles in your throat as you step around the side of the table. When you reach him, he refuses to meet your eyes. He gives a small nod of his head toward the flat surface of the table.

"Bend over the table for me."

Your mouth drops open. You stare down at him, desperate for any sign of a joke, for a twitch of his lips that would give him away, but he isn't even looking at you anymore. He's staring straight ahead at the opposite wall.

He can't be serious. Why the hell would he need you to bend over? What exactly is going through his head? Your mind is racing, but he still doesn't repeat himself. Once again, he waits expectantly.

Gulping down the lump of anxiety in your throat, you slowly turn. With your back to him, you stare at the whiteboard and lean forward, laying your chest flat against the surprisingly cool wood of the tabletop. Your trembling palms press down beside you, carelessly shoving the textbooks, pens, and uneaten snacks out of the way to make room for your torso.

Hongjoong doesn't say a word, but the scrape of his chair tells you he's standing up.

A second later, you feel the feathering brush of his fingertips tracing along your waist, right where the dip of your spine curves over the table. Slowly, those fingers slide down the sides of your hips, trailing lower, mapping your shape, until they land just below the curve of your ass, right where the mesh of your tights meets your skin. He pauses, the pad of his thumb brushing along the raised seam.

"I like these," he murmurs. A shiver racks your frame. "They're pretty."

His warm palms glide further up the back of your thighs, gathering the rumpled pleats of your black skirt. He pushes the fabric fully up and out of his way, bunching it around your waist. Your legs begin to shake uncontrollably as you wait in blind anticipation. His hand glides over the lace of your panties, his touch maddeningly teasing.

He rubs light circles over the thin fabric, and because the room is so deathly quiet, you can clearly hear the unevenness in his breath even though you can't see his face. His fingers slide down to the seams, hooking under the elastic. With a gentle tug, he pulls the fabric aside—not removing it, but shifting it just enough so that both your bare cheeks are exposed to the air of the room. His palm flattens over your bare skin, rubbing warmly against your shivering flesh.

"Since we're learning frequency indicators," he says calmly, his grip on your body tightening, "I'd like you to count for me."

You try to turn your head over your shoulder to look at him, to gauge his expression, but his firm hold on your hip makes it too awkward for your body to twist the right way.

"Count... count what?" you whisper, your voice shaking so badly the words barely clear your lips.

"You missed ten questions," he states simply. You feel his shadow shift to the side, the rustle of his clothing indicating he's stepping into a better position while his palm remains flat against your bare skin. "Hopefully, this will fix your focus as we continue. I think one spank per missed question sounds fair, don't you?"

You suck in a panicked breath, your lips parting to stutter out a protest—

Smack.

Before a word can escape, a sharp, blistering slap lands right across your bare cheek.

The loud crack of his palm against your skin echoes through the room. Your body jerks at the impact, your fingers frantically clawing forward to grip the far end of the wooden table to keep your balance. The struck skin instantly blooms with a throbbing heat.

"Joong..." you whisper, shocked, humiliated, and dizzy.

"Count."

Your chest heaves against the cold wood as you squeeze your eyes shut, choking out, "O—one."

He chuckles lowly from behind you. "Did you forget why we're here?" he asks, a mocking reprimand. "Count in Korean."

He spanks you again, his palm hitting the opposite cheek with even more force. The raw sting bites deeper this time, and a pathetic whimper tears out of your throat as your hips try to arch away from the pain.

"하… 하… 하나," you manage to whisper. One.

His hand returns to your burning skin, but this time, he rubs it in slow, soothing circles, chasing away the immediate sting of the strike.

"Good," he murmurs, pulling his hand away. "Keep counting."

His hand rises and falls again before your lungs can draw a full breath.

Smack.

"둘," you gasp out, your fingernails digging into the table as the heat sears across your skin. Two.

Smack.

"Ah—셋." Another soft whimper tears from your throat, and you hear him chuckle. Three.

Smack.

"넷..." your voice cracks down the middle. His strikes are relentlessly quick, leaving you no time to recover in the blistering seconds between them. Four.

You brace yourself, squeezing your eyes shut as you wait for the fifth impact, desperately trying to pull the next number to the forefront of your melting brain. But this mix of pain, humiliation, and burning arousal is turning your thoughts to mush.

Smack.

You flinch, but the word is nowhere to be found in your mind. You're silent for a beat too long.

"You don't know?" Hongjoong asks. "This is basic counting, ____. Week one material. Do I need to start us over from the beginning?"

"No!" you choke out, shaking your head against the table. You squeeze your eyes shut even tighter, forcing your brain to push through the fog until the vocabulary clicks. "다... 다섯! 다섯!" Five.

His palm settles onto your burning skin, but instead of another punishing strike, he gives you a little approving pat.

"Good girl."

But he doesn't let you linger in the dizzying relief of his praise for long.

Smack.

"Oh—여섯." Your hips begin to twitch under his hand, desperate to escape the sting. Six.

Smack.

"일곱," you whine, high and needy. You can feel your skin turning a bright, angry crimson beneath his touch. Seven.

Smack.

"여... 여덟..." Eight.

By the time the eighth word leaves your lips, you're tearing up, the wet hitch in your voice giving your limits away. From behind you, the rustle of his clothing signals another shift. The leather tip of his shoe hooks behind your ankle, nudging your leg outward to widen your stance as his hand flattens against your bare backside. His fingers rub the skin again, soothing the vicious throb of his own handiwork.

"Does it hurt?" he asks softly.

You nod your head against the wood, your bottom lip trembling uncontrollably. You're not even sure if he can see the pathetic movement from where he stands, but at least he's allowing you a moment of comfort, letting the heat fade—

Smack.

His palm drives forward at a new angle, striking you between your thighs, right against your swollen, aching core.

The blinding shock of it rips a loud, filthy moan from your lips, which echoes shamelessly off the walls. Your knees nearly buckle, your knuckles turning white as you clutch the table, paralyzed by the pure pleasure and pain crashing through your lower abdomen.

Hongjoong's thumb sweeps over the sensitive spot he just struck through your panties. You can hear the faint smirk in his voice as he whispers, "That feels better, huh?"

Your voice refuses to form a coherent word to answer him as you pant against the table.

"Last one," he promises. "열."

Smack.

The tenth and final strike lands in the exact same spot, a sharp slap right against your core. A teary sob rips from your throat, melting instantly into a needy, drawn-out moan as your body arches into the blow, chasing the contact.

As your forehead drops against the wood, Hongjoong keeps his palms pressed against you, rubbing your skin tenderly. His thumbs work in slow circles to soothe the throbbing ache of his final strike. He lets you stay draped over the table to catch your breath for a quiet minute, listening intently to the only sound in the room: your soft, shaky sighs.

Contrasting his earlier brutality, he gently hooks his fingers back under the elastic of your panties, pulling them carefully back into place to cover your reddening skin. He reaches down to gather your skirt, smoothing it neatly over your ass until your modesty is fully restored.

Sensing that you're about to foolishly attempt to stand on your own weak legs, his hands wrap around your waist. He guides your torso up off the table, pulling your back flush against his chest. He holds you steady against him, letting you lean your full, exhausted weight into him as you try to stop shaking.

He tilts his head down, looking at your flushed, tear-stained reflection in the whiteboard. The pad of his thumb reaches up, brushing a tear away from your cheeks with beautiful tenderness.

"You did well, 자기야," he whispers against your ear.

Hongjoong lowers himself back onto his chair, pulling your body along with him until you're sitting on his lap, resting on his right knee. You look at him through your damp lashes, your erratic breathing finally beginning to even out.

His arm reaches around your waist, holding you against him as the other slides a fresh, blank sheet of lined paper toward you alongside his black pen.

"Try again," he instructs softly, though his tone brooks no argument.

Your mouth parts in disbelief. "Joong... I—I can't, I need..." The words die in your throat. Your face burns, mortified to confess aloud how desperately horny his discipline left you.

His eyes darken as he reads the helpless look on your face. His fingers reach up, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes. "Do you remember the very first time we texted each other?" he asks quietly. "The night after I asked for your Instagram?"

You give a small, hesitant nod, wondering why on earth he's thinking of that right now.

"When I saw your story at that bar with your friends, I thought you looked absolutely beautiful. But for some reason, you didn't quite look like you." His hand lowers to your cheek, the pad of his thumb wiping away a dried tear. "I thought for a long time about why that was. My mind drifted back to our session from earlier that day, and that's when it clicked: you looked so carefree in that picture. But not in the way that's right for you. Beautiful, yes, but mindless. That's not who you are."

His hand settles against your waist, pinning your hips into place on his thighs.

"You're not mindless," he murmurs. "You're disciplined. You're brilliant. You hold yourself to a high standard, and you're the hardest-working person I've ever met. That's the girl I admire. That's the girl I like."

You stare into his eyes as his words melt something inside you.

"So I replied to your story to get your mind back on track," he continues, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "You'd prefer an A in Korean over partying with your friends, wouldn't you?"

You nod immediately, captivated by his voice.

He chuckles. "But you were such a brat back then, trying to tell me that one night wouldn't hurt your grade. Weren't you?"

You nod again, an instinctive apology forming in your wide eyes, your lips parting to speak.

But Hongjoong shakes his head. "Don't say you're sorry. It didn't take much for you to come around. I remember realizing back then, at that moment, that I needed you. That you weren't just my pretty student with a cute voice and the same taste in music. You were the first person whose drive could match my own. The first person whose mind I really respected. You're exceptional, ____. You really are."

Your breath catches, tears welling in your eyes.

"And if you let me," he murmurs, "I want to make sure you never settle for anything lesser than your best ever again. Not in the classroom, and certainly not in my lap."

His hand moves down the curve of your thigh, his fingertips catching the tab of his zipper. Your eyes helplessly follow as he slides it down.

"Do you want to know a secret?" he asks softly. "That night, the moment you called me Mr. Kim... I've never finished faster in my life."

He frees his thick, aching cock, which springs loose against his stomach, glistening and angry.

"Now, you're gonna stay focused for me, just like you promised back then, right?"

You nod quickly, your breath catching as your wide eyes dart between the fire in his gaze and the thickness between his thighs.

Hongjoong's lips curve.

"I'd expect nothing less."

Without warning, his hands clamp onto your waist, catching you by surprise as he lifts you, your back to his chest. His fingers sweep the soaked lace of your panties aside as he pulls your hips closer and lowers your body straight down, sinking you right onto his cock.

You moan as the slick, wet sound of him sliding deep into your drenched pussy fills the quiet study room. Hongjoong groans right against your ear as you sink all the way down, burying every inch of him fully inside you. His hands squeeze your hips so tightly that the bone aches, locking you in place and refusing to let you move or grind to find an ounce of relief. Deep inside you, you can feel the thick length of his cock pulsing, growing harder, and twitching non-stop against your stretched walls.

"Pick up the pen," he whispers shakily into your ear, his hot breath sending goosebumps cascading down your neck.

Your trembling fingers reach out, fumbling against the table until you manage to grab it.

"Try again," he commands lowly, his clothed chest expanding against your back. "Prove to me that you can do this. If you get every word correct... I'll give you what you want. A reward for focusing. How does that sound?"

Your whole body trembles at the overwhelming, tight fullness of him stretched inside you, your mind fighting to latch onto the vocabulary list while your core throbs around his stationary length.

"Whenever you're ready," he whispers against your ear, sliding his handwritten column of English terms into your line of sight.

You swallow hard, forcing your blurry vision to lock onto the pale blue lines of the notebook paper. You have to focus. You have to block out the throbbing heat radiating from where your bodies are now joined. You have to ignore the maddening ache between your thighs, begging you to grind your hips against him.

With a shaky breath, you press the tip of the pen down and begin to write.

The first few phrases are rough, the ink wobbling with the tremor in your hands, but they're correct. You fix each spelling mistake that tripped you up just minutes prior.

But unfortunately for you, Hongjoong didn't put you in his lap with the intention of making this easy. Just as your pen moves to the next line, his head tilts. His lips brush along the line of your jaw, trailing downward until his open mouth presses into the sensitive dip of your neck.

He sucks a dark, bruising mark into your skin, the swirl of his tongue dragging flat over your pulse point.

A gasp punches its way past your parted lips. Your hand jerks, the pen skittering close to crossing out your own work as your hips squirm.

"Focus. Stay still," he murmurs against your flesh, his teeth grazing your collarbone as a warning.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your knuckles turning white around the pen. You refuse to disappoint him again. You refuse to disappoint yourself. You're going to get this right.

You open your eyes and continue to write.

Every time his hands slide up your torso to cup your breasts through your sweater, you pull another vocabulary word from your brain. Every time his hips give a tiny twitch deep inside you—causing your drenched core to clench tight around him—you fight for control, carefully spelling out each phrase.

When you finish the final character, all the strength drains from your arm. Your hand drops to the table, the pen rolling uselessly out of your limp fingers.

Hongjoong reaches around your waist, his hand sliding the paper out from under your palms. As he lifts it to read, the shift in his posture causes him to slide an inch deeper inside you. You drop your head back against his shoulder, unable to swallow a breathless whine as you feel your own wetness trickle down his length.

Above you, Hongjoong lets out a groan of his own. You look up at his face: his jaw is clenched, the veins in his neck popping, but as his eyes scan your handwriting, a slow smirk spreads across his lips.

"You really wanted your reward, didn't you?" he rasps with barely restrained lust as he drops the paper back onto the table. His eyes are burning with pride as he looks down at you. "A perfect score. 잘했어, 자기야."

And with that, the very last shred of Hongjoong's restraint is gone.

His hands clamp down hard on your ass under your skirt, his fingers digging into your soft skin as he lifts you just an inch, only to slam your hips back down onto his hard length. A loud moan rips from your throat as his hips begin to buck upward over and over, burying himself to the hilt with a driving force that makes you cry out in shock.

"Yes—Joong, yes," you gasp, wrapping your arms backward around his neck, clinging to his shoulders to keep yourself upright as he sets a desperate pace. Beneath you, the wooden chair creaks, straining under the shifting weight of your combined bodies.

As you bounce helplessly on his lap, unable to control yourself, his hands slide under the hem of your sweater. He pulls your breasts out of the cups of your bra, rolling your sensitive nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, drawing a sobbing moan against his ear.

He thrusts up inside you, his thumbs flicking your peaks in time with his hips. "Look at you," he rasps, full of pure lust and pride. "So desperate for your reward, huh?"

Dizziness begins to wash through your head in waves. You can feel yourself starting to sink, your arms growing far too weak to hold your torso upright anymore. Sensing you melting against him, Hongjoong drops his hands from your chest and grabs your waist tightly, yanking you straight up and off his hard length.

A simultaneous cry of protest tears from both of you at the sudden loss of friction.

He quickly spins your body around to face him. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, gasping as his hands grab under your legs to lift you onto the edge of the table. Without breaking eye contact, his arm swipes across the surface, sending his pens and your perfect practice quiz fluttering to the floor.

He steps between your spread legs, gazing down at your wet, parted lips. He hooks his arms underneath your knees, pushing your thighs back to open you up entirely to him, and with one hard thrust, he drives his thick cock straight back inside your drenched core, bottoming out instantly.

Your hands fly to the back of his neck, practically hugging him to hold yourself against his chest as the impact rattles your spine. Hongjoong leans forward, resting his damp, sweaty forehead flush against yours. His gaze drops downward, glued to the slick, glistening view of where your bodies are joined, watching himself slide in and out of you with ease because of how wet you are for him.

"So perfect," he groans, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Knew you could do it, 자기야. Knew you were the perfect one for me."

Loud, fractured moans tear one after another from your throat, echoing shamelessly off the walls of the quiet study room. You close your eyes, lost in the wet sounds of his skin slapping against yours and the table scraping incrementally against the floor with every plunge of his hips.

When your head begins to loll back from the pleasure, his hand flies up to wrap around the back of your neck, holding you upright as his mouth crashes down onto yours. The kiss is ravenous—his teeth scrape hungrily against your bottom lip, and his hot tongue invades your mouth, eagerly drinking down your muffled cries. His fingers tangle at your roots to hold your head steady, taking everything you have left to give.

With every sloppy lap of your lips, the dark frames of his glasses bump against the bridge of your nose, the lenses fogging over from the heat of your mingled breaths. But this time, he doesn't bother taking them off.

You arch your spine into his touch, your fingernails clawing at his back through his button-down as he drives deeper, faster, his free hand squeezing your thigh until the room begins to spin.

"Close—Joong, I'm gonna...." you gasp into his mouth, your walls clenching and fluttering in uncontrollable spasms.

"That's it, 자기야," he rasps brokenly against your lips, his own breathing shattered as he feels your muscles contract around him. "Cum for me."

He delivers three more deep thrusts, his hips stuttering as he hits the very depth of your clenching core. With a guttural groan, he pours himself inside you just as you cry out, your orgasm crashing through your body in intense, pulsing waves.

"Joong!" you sob out, your voice breaking on his name.

He slows his thrusts to a halt, pushing himself as deep within you as possible and holding his hips flush against yours, riding out his climax until every last drop of his release is buried inside you. Your body trembles as he finally pulls out.

Hongjoong rests his hands on your quivering thighs, watching the slick evidence of his release slowly ooze out of your core with a grin that is entirely in awe, fascinated by the sight.

He drops his head forward, resting his forehead against yours once more. The two of you pant against each other in the otherwise silent room, your arms still draped limply around his neck. His hands slide from your thighs to wrap around your waist, pulling your exhausted body against his chest into a hug. He kisses you softly, his tongue soothing the sensitive spot on your bottom lip where his teeth had bitten down.

He places a final kiss right on the center of your forehead, gazing down at your shivering, blissed-out form with nothing but adoration.

Slowly, he reaches up to smooth your hair down, his fingers fixing the wild strands he'd just tangled. Moving with care, he slides his hands down to pull your panties back into place, neatly placing the pleats of your skirt back over your quivering thighs.

Knowing your legs couldn't possibly support your weight right now, he wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you off the table, guiding your body back down into the chair.

He crouches down in front of you, bringing himself to eye level. He takes both of your trembling hands in his own warm ones, his eyes beaming with pride as he takes in your flushed state. He leans forward, pressing another tender kiss to your forehead.

"You did so well," he whispers, his thumbs tracing soothing circles over your knuckles. He checks over your body, making sure you're okay. "Does anything hurt? Do you need water? Food? Tell me what you need. Anything."

You just shake your head weakly, a tired, blissful smile pulling at your lips.

Hongjoong lets out a soft chuckle and squeezes your fingers one last time before standing to his full height. He zips his pants and buckles his belt before walking around the table, unhurriedly cleaning up the aftermath—gathering the scattered pens and retrieving the piece of notebook paper from the floor.

Standing there, at the side of the table, he looks down at the page, silently reading over the thirteen lines of your shaky handwriting. A slow smile spreads across his lips as he pushes his still slightly fogged glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"You see?" he murmurs softly, gazing at your answers. "I knew you could do it if I pushed you a little."

You smile, your breath still shallow as you watch him with pride warming your chest.

He pulls his chair out and settles into the seat across from you, positioning himself with his back to the whiteboard—the same arrangement you'd been sitting in when the two of you first arrived.

"But don't get too comfortable just yet," he warns, shooting a glance at his watch to check the time before looking back at you with a teasing glint in his eye. "We still have three more sections to get through tonight before the library closes. I'd hate for you to lose your focus again."

Hongjoong reaches for the black pen, uncapping it as he flips the textbook open to the next section. He slides a fresh sheet of lined paper across the table toward you.

"Because if you do this well for the rest of the night..." he says, his gaze locking onto yours with a flash of promise. "...you might just earn yourself another reward."

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

taglist: @baw-sixteen @yunhospinkyring @icarusfallingdown @oddin4ry @stumbling-through-once-more @glowingsoup @mialinguini @jooholicx @shuggylaw @yu5qii @mindinmist @psychoflora @kyeos4ng @intergalacticscreams @frayaatiny @sooberryworld @reeszeos @raeslogbook

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