MFA (Most Fuckable Ass)

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/45320833.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Stray Kids (Band)
Relationship: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know, Han Jisung | Han & Lee Felix
Character: Han Jisung | Han, Lee Minho | Lee Know, Lee Felix (Stray Kids)
Additional Tags: Teacher-Student Relationship, Professor Lee Minho | Lee Know,
Student Han Jisung | Han, Age Difference, Masturbation, Pining,
Platonic Kissing, Slow Burn, Daddy Kink, Explicit Sexual Content
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-02-25 Completed: 2023-08-08 Words: 53,241
Chapters: 38/38

MFA (Most Fuckable Ass)

by hyunnies

Summary

Professor Lee. Well-spoken and scarily clever and fifteen years older than
Jisung, which should make him want him less, not more, but Jisung wants him
so badly. He wants to be wanted by him.

Jisung has a fiction workshop every Wednesday. He also has a hopeless crush on his
professor.

Notes

did anyone ask for age gap minsung? no? too bad, i wrote it anyway.

have fun!

See the end of the work for more notes

 Chapter 1

Whenever Professor Lee pushes the sleeves of his white dress shirt up to his elbows, Jisung thinks
he might pass out.

He always has a hard time focusing in this class, because his professor is unreasonably, unbearably,
unbelievably attractive, so Jisung keeps losing himself in hazy, inappropriate fantasies with
plotlines lifted straight from the most clichéd porn. But, then, is there anything more cliché than
crushing on your hot professor?

Even though his voice always shakes, he still raises his hand as often as he can. He wants to make a
good impression. He wants, a little shamefully, to be remembered. To be liked. Not by his
classmates, but by him.

Professor Lee. Well-spoken and scarily clever and fifteen years older than Jisung, which should
make him want him less, not more, but Jisung wants him so badly. He wants to be wanted by him.
So he messes with his hair every Wednesday before class and swaps his regular studs out for
dangly earrings and dabs mother-of-pearl highlighter on to his cheekbones. He makes himself look
as pretty as he can, and it’s stupid, it’s so ridiculously silly, but—but, but—

What if?

He reads all their assigned texts thoroughly and takes extensive notes and hopes to wow him with
his own writings, hopes he can wow him into bending him over a table. The hope is flimsy, but
sometimes it oscillates into something thick. Palpable. Sometimes the hope is so real he can dig his
teeth into it.

It’s not that unheard of, you know. These things do happen.

Why can’t it happen to him?

‘Jisung,’ Professor Lee says after dismissing class, just as Jisung is on his way out of the door. ‘Do
you have a moment?’

His head snaps up and he turns around. ‘Huh?’

‘Do you have a class after this?’ he asks. ‘If you’re busy, this can wait.’

‘No, no.’ Jisung shakes his head a little too eagerly. He licks out at his lips and grabs the right strap
of his rucksack just to have something to hold as he blinks up at his professor. It feels a little bit
prophetic, but that’s just all his wet dreams getting to his head. ‘No, I’m—I have a moment. Or
more.’

He smiles at him kindly. The skin around his eyes crinkles. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I read the
first draft you submitted.’ He sits down on the edge of the table and straightens out his left sleeve.
‘I really enjoyed it. You have such a strong, clear voice throughout all your work.’

‘O-oh.’ He swallows and ducks his head, as if that’ll hide how badly he’s blushing. ‘You think
so?’

‘Of course.’ He catches Jisung’s eyes and lifts his brows a tiny bit. ‘Do you think I’d be
dishonest?’
Jisung doesn’t even know where to look. His eyes, his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw—his
forearms and his chest and he needs to stop. He needs to stop. He needs to take a deep breath and
not embarrass himself in front of him. ‘N-no,’ he mumbles. ‘No, of course not. I just—’ He sets his
rucksack down on a table and sits down next to his professor, an agonising few inches of space
between them. ‘I really wasn’t sure about this story. Second person point of view is something I
haven’t really tried before, and it was a little—’ He waves his hand between them. ‘It felt right. It
felt right for the story, but it’s unusual, yeah? A little unorthodox. So I wasn’t sure…’

‘It was definitely the right choice,’ he says. His hand brushes over Jisung’s shoulder, briefly, barely
there, but it still sets his skin on fire. ‘And what an opening line. It’s been rattling around my brain
ever since I read it. You don’t want to hurt the rabbit, but this is not your choice to make.’

His breath catches in his throat. This is distinctly surreal. He blinks rapidly and runs his thumb up
the shell of his ear, the touch making his earring dangle. ‘I—Thank you, Professor.’ He licks his
lips again. He doesn’t know what else to say. He could ramble forever about this story, the thought
he put into it, but he’s worried about sounding silly. Dumb. A little kid pretending to know the
meanings of big words. ‘Your opinion really—really means a lot to me.’

‘You don’t have to call me Professor, Jisung.’ There’s something about his expression—his eyes,
the curve of his mouth. It’s going to haunt Jisung all night.

‘Wh-what should I call you then?’ he asks, unsure what he’s doing. Is he trying to be bold? He
can’t tell. He doesn’t feel bold. He feels like sun-softened honey. He freezes when he feels his
professor’s hand on the top of his back.

‘Whatever you want,’ he says, just a beat late. Jisung nearly blurts out something embarrassing in
response. ‘Just Minho is fine. I’ve never loved the formality, really.’

‘O-okay.’

‘I’ll let you get on with your day.’ He stands up from the table and slides his laptop into its sleeve.
‘I saw you leaving, and wanted to tell you in person. But I’ll e-mail you my proper feedback on
your story.’

‘I—or I could—’ He casts his eyes down at his own feet for a moment, taps the leather toe of his
boot against the floor. ‘I could come to your office hours,’ he says, a little breathless. He pulls his
lip between his teeth and dares another look at Minho. ‘If you wanna—wanna talk about it. Tell
me where you think I can improve.’

He gives him a long look. ‘Of course,’ he finally says. He puts his laptop bag into his leather
satchel and closes it. ‘No, that’s a good idea. It’s on Thursdays, four to five. Do you know the
number of my office?’

‘A970,’ he blurts. Of course he knows. He’s thought of going every week, but he couldn’t come up
with a reason that wasn’t too transparent.

Minho slips the strap of his satchel over his shoulder. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then?’

Jisung nods, again too eagerly. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, just the two of them. In Minho’s office.
Alone. It’s to discuss his short story, so why does it still feel like he has a date? Office hours are
open for all his students—someone else could stop by with a question. It’s not a date. It’s the
furthest thing from a date.

But the more he looks at him, the shyer he feels. Something bursts inside him, warm and red.
Darker than a cherry.

‘Tomorrow,’ Jisung says, tugging on his rucksack. ‘I can’t wait,’ he adds. Not lying. He takes a
step backwards towards the door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Professor.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Jisung.’

 Chapter 2

The door to office A970 is slightly ajar.

Jisung takes another breath to steel himself and reminds him that he isn’t doing anything
inappropriate. He’s doing something incredibly normal. Showing up to your professor’s office
hours is a normal thing to do. Encouraged, even. He’s only jittery about it because of his stupid,
stupid crush. He’s only so jittery because he barely slept last night. He fucked himself through
three desperate, hazy orgasms, whimpering for his professor, blinking away tears when it started to
hurt. It exhausted him, left him all languid and soft, but he still couldn’t sleep—started wondering
about their meeting today. Crafting little indulgent fantasies. Imagining what Minho might say to
him. Imagining his hands on his body, manhandling him up against the desk, forcing his legs apart.

The door opens properly, and Minho is suddenly right there. ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘I thought I heard
someone.’ He gives him a smile and takes a step back. ‘Jisung. Come on inside.’

‘H-hi,’ he says. His body feels awkward. His legs are doughy when he walks into Minho’s office,
eyes scanning the small space. Books bulge from the shelves that line the walls, late afternoon
sunlight streaming through the west-facing window. He looks back at Minho and pulls his lip
between his teeth. ‘Professor.’

‘Sit down.’ He gestures towards the free chair and sits down in his office chair. His eyes burn holes
in Jisung’s stomach. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you in a skirt before.’

‘A-ah, um.’ He ducks his head and fidgets with his tennis skirt, daisy white with a thin pink swirl
embroidered near the hemline. He’s never worn it in public before. He’s only ever put it on at
home—to feel pretty. To feel special. He chances another look at Minho and mumbles, ‘my friend
dared me. I don’t—don’t usually…’

‘You should wear it more often,’ he says lightly. His hand skims over Jisung’s knee. ‘It suits you.’

Jisung nearly whimpers. His stomach swoops. ‘Th-thank you,’ he manages. He sounds wrecked.
He sounds pathetically whiny, and he shouldn’t. It wasn’t that kind of compliment. It wasn’t
overlaid with anything suggestive, it wasn’t flirtatious, it was just—it was just him being kind.
Because that’s what he is: kind. Clever. Generous with his time. Jisung looks over at the door, still
ajar, and breathes in a small spoonful of air. He smoothes his hands down his skirt. ‘Thank you,
Professor.’

He gives him another smile. ‘I printed your story,’ he says. He picks up a handful of pages atop a
tall stack of paper. ‘If you want to go through my comments?’

‘I’d love to,’ he says. ‘That’s—that’s why I’m here. To hear your thoughts.’

‘Is it?’ He removes the paper clip from the corner of Jisung’s short story. ‘I already told you, but
the opening line is incredible. I keep coming back to it. The stakes are there immediately. It asks so
many questions.’

Jisung can barely take in his words. He nestles his thumb inside his fist and squeezes down.
‘Thank you,’ he says again. ‘I wanted to—it’s about sacrifice, obviously. And guilt. And
childhood.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘The themes are there from the beginning. I think this part here—’ He slides the
page closer to Jisung and circles a paragraph with the tip of his pen. ‘You can be more specific.
When you describe the rabbit’s blood, I want to really feel it. I want to smell it.’

He nods along, rereading his own words. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I know what you mean.’

‘More specificity.’ He moves his pen towards another paragraph and underlines the first line of it.
‘Here, too. Relentless specificity, Jisung. Don’t tell me your father’s hands are around your wrists.
Show me the bruises. I want to feel the pressure of them. Yes?’

‘Yes,’ he whispers. He wants to feel Minho’s hands around his own wrists. The pressure, hard and
demanding. His brain turning into smoke. ‘Yes.’

‘This entire paragraph is haunting,’ he says. ‘After lights-out, you sneak back outside and sift
through the rubbish. You find the fibula, tiny, cream-white, breakable. Nearly translucent under
the full moon. It hums in your hands. You slip the tail end between your teeth. It tastes like death,
as if death has a taste. As if death isn’t the only thing you have ever tasted.’ He looks up at Jisung.
‘This is really, really good work, Jisung. I’m getting goosebumps again.’

Jisung’s own arms are speckled with bumps. He looks at Minho and swallows the lump in his
throat. ‘Yeah?’ he asks. He was proud of this part. He had a vision in his head, a mood, a tone he
wanted to convey, and he thinks he managed. He looked at pictures of rabbit skeletons online and
thought about longing. ‘You think it’s okay?’

He levels him with a look. He puts down his pen and drops his hand to his own thigh. ‘I wouldn’t
tell you it’s good if I didn’t find it good.’ He curls his hand into a fist, uncurls it again. He touches
right above Jisung’s kneecap and gives him a brief squeeze, his thumb nearly touching his skirt.
‘The bone humming. I felt it in my teeth. That’s what I want from you, yes?’ He removes his hand.
‘In your work. I want to feel it in my own body.’

‘O-oh.’ He licks his lips. ‘I know. I’m—I’m trying hard. I’m trying really hard, Professor.’

Minho looks at him. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘And you’re doing really well. You’ve improved so much. I
reread one of your earliest stories, just to compare. Just to track your improvement. These parts—’
He taps the end of his pen against a few different paragraphs again. ‘When I push you to be even
more specific, I’m not saying this story is sloppy. It’s not. It’s already good. But I want even more.
I want more from you, Jisung. I know you have it in you. I know you can give me more.’

His head spins. He grabs the edge of the desk and nods, shaky. He can barely swallow. ‘Yes,’ he
says. ‘Yes, Professor. I want—I can. I can.’

‘I know. I know you can.’

 Chapter 3

He barely makes it through the door of his flat before he falls to his knees. Overwhelmed. Dizzy.
He touched him, his professor. He put his hand on Jisung’s knee and squeezed and he can still feel
it. Spectral. Worse than a ghost. Real. Not real. The touch haunts him, his warm fingers on his
skin. His words pivot through Jisung’s brain. The tone, dark and demanding. Turning darker in the
act of recollection. Desire warps memories. Desire warps everything.

I want even more. I want more from you, Jisung.

Take it, then. Take everything.

His eyes glaze over. He’d give Minho everything.

He scrambles to find a dildo and crawls into bed, shame burning too hot in his belly. Skin burning
too hot where Minho touched him. He smoothes his hand across the wooden plane of his
headboard and presses the suction of the dildo against it. He’s done this before, in the shower,
water clumping his eyelashes, skin flushed from the steam, but he doesn’t want to shower right
now. He doesn’t want to wash away his professor’s touch, the smell of his cologne still faintly
clinging to him. But he wants—he wants him in his mouth.

His knees sink into the mattress. He licks his lips shyly and blinks at the toy, jutting out from his
headboard. Obscene. There’s something obscene about this set-up, more shameful than anything
else he’s ever done. Lying on his back doesn’t trigger this much shame.

He parts his lips and wobbles forward, mouthing at the head of the dildo.

It’s not wet the way a real cock would be. It’s not warm and it doesn’t twitch and it tastes faintly of
soap and nothing else, but Jisung still moans when it slides along his tongue. His thoughts fissure.
His hips rock forward as he fits more of the dildo inside his mouth, sinking down on it. Further. A
little further.

A strangled sound, choking around the weight of it. An ache in his jaw already. Pulling off to catch
his breath.

He blinks away tears and licks his tongue around the head, slick with saliva now. With his eyes
closed, it’s almost like it’s real. It’s almost like he’s on his knees for his professor, showing just
how good he can be. How hard he can try. How much he can give him.

‘You’re doing well,’ he says in Jisung’s head. It glows through him. The praise. The soft tone. The
imaginary feeling of his fingers in his hair. He slides his own hand into his hair to tug, to let
himself sink deeper into the fantasy.

‘Ah—ah-ah,’ he whines as he pulls off the dildo again. He gulps in air and works one hand around
it, jerking slowly down the length to the base. Thinks of his professor. Always thinks of his
professor, with his crisp shirts and shrewd comments and his eyes on Jisung’s waist. On the skirt.
Saying it suits him.

You should wear it more often.

A new image appears, shellacked on the backs of his eyelids. Shiny like a puddle of motor oil. His
knees spread to straddle Minho’s lap, the fabric of the skirt rucked up his thighs. Minho’s hands
clamped down around his waist. Minho making him ride him. Jisung whining into his neck
uselessly, each movement so clumsy. So full, his cock so deep inside him. Split open for him.
Taking it. Taking everything he’s given.

‘P-Professor,’ he says below his breath, licking at his dildo again. Saying it out loud scorches him.
The sound of his own voice, so wrecked. So pathetic. ‘Please. Please.’

I want to feel it in my body.

He wants to feel Minho in his body. Wants it so much it aches. Wants to ache for him. His dick
throbs, staining the little white panties he put on underneath the skirt.

He pushes closer. His eyes burn with tears and he sucks in a desperate breath through his nose. Too
much. Too big. His small mouth stretched so wide. His throat spasms around the dildo as he forces
himself further down on it; something like fear in the back of his head. In his chest. A panic
response.

Minho’s voice, in his head. Calm. Calming. ‘Take it,’ he says, and it overrides everything. Pacifies
the hyperarousal. ‘Take it. Good boys take it.’

He chokes, but he doesn’t let himself pull off. He takes it. He takes it like a good boy. He swallows
around the dildo and bobs his head, tugs on his own hair, imagines Minho groaning above him.
Calling him good. So good. Asking where he learned to suck cock like that. If he’s a whore. If he
spreads his legs for everyone. If he’s fucked his way to good grades, if he does this for all his
professors.

Jisung pulls back to gasp. Spit spiderwebs around the dildo. Chains of it from his swollen lips to
the tip of the toy. ‘No,’ he insists, voice cracking. ‘No, no—no, not—no, I don’t—’ He licks at the
head of the dildo again. He takes a strained breath. ‘No, I’ve never—I’ve never, Professor, I’ve
never—’ He can’t say it. His heart blushes. ‘I only—only with a toy. Practised for you.’

The fantasy is so palpable. He almost forgets Minho isn’t even here. He almost forgets he’s in his
own bed, mouthing at a dildo and not a real cock. He almost forgets this is nothing but a dream.

‘You practised for me?’ he hears him say. ‘There you go.’ Feeding him his cock, brushing his
fringe off his forehead. ‘There’s my good boy.’

He whimpers. He presses the heel of his palm into his crotch and grinds forward. He tongues at the
silicone, fits the head between his lips again. Slides it into the inside of his cheek. Moans. Wet and
needy, his hips jumping again. ‘Please,’ he whispers. ‘Please—please—come on me, come in me
—’

But he can’t, of course. Because he isn’t here. Because this isn’t real, and it stings. When he wants
it so badly. When he wants to be so good for him, wants to take it, wants to take everything. Wants
to be claimed. Wants to be marked.

Wants to be good.

Wants to be such a good boy for him.

Wants him. Wants to be wanted by him.

 Chapter 4

Putting on the skirt again feels like a crime. It isn’t, of course. There’s nothing illegal about
wearing a skirt. But—it thrills up his spine, the knowledge of how he soiled it last week. How he
wore it while masturbating, what he thought of while masturbating. It’s stained now by the fantasy.
It’s stained by his own desire.

It’s like the mark of Cain, except nobody else can see it. Nobody knows he fucked himself while
wearing this skirt. Nobody knows he begged his professor to come inside him.

He pairs it with an oversized tee and chunky boots, something masculine to balance it out. As if it
matters. As if he doesn’t want to be his professor’s fucking princess. Wearing it is embarrassing,
and not only because of the illicit memories attached to it now. No, it’s embarrassing because he’s
in public. All his classmates will see. And it shouldn’t matter, he should be able to wear a skirt
without feeling shame, but it still singes him a little. It still feels transgressive.

Will anyone laugh at him? Will anyone think he’s pretty?

He takes a small sip of his water bottle and looks down at the table.

Two minutes before class is supposed to start, Professor Lee breezes into the room. He drops his
satchel on the floor next to the table and takes a seat, smiling out at them all. ‘Good afternoon.
How’re you all doing?’

Jisung fidgets a hand through his hair and mumbles a greeting in return. The memories balloon
inside him. Everything Minho said to him last week, the way he touched him. The way Jisung
dreamt he’d touch him. His hand above his knee—his hand creeping further up his thigh, slipping
under the hem of the skirt, fingering the lacy edge of his white panties.

He clutches his pencil tighter, looks away from Minho’s forearms.

They’re not workshopping Jisung’s work today. He’s happy about that, because workshop is still
daunting, anxiety-inducing. He read Annabelle’s story two days ago and reread it yesterday, jotting
down notes in the margins. It’s a badly paced story about beetles and Jisung didn’t like it the first
time he read it and he liked it even less the second, but he still wants to give good feedback.

He sneaks glances at Minho. He fidgets with the hem of his skirt.

When class ends, he stalls. He should leave. It’s silly, and he’s so obvious hovering in the
doorway, phosphorescent from his longing. Fireflies swarm through his veins.

‘Jisung,’ Minho says when he finally looks up. ‘You’re still here. Can I help you with something?’

The question makes him want to die. He’s so stupid. After last week, he let himself think—
shamefully, self-indulgently—that Minho might think about him sometimes. He imagined Minho
at home in a large bed with silk sheets and soft pillows. He imagined him touching himself while
thinking about Jisung.

He knew it was just a fantasy. He didn’t really believe his professor thought of him off the clock,
but he still—

Their meeting last week made him feel a little bit special. The things Minho said felt so suggestive.
His words soaked in ambiguity.
Does he talk to all his students like that?

Does he tell everyone he wants more from them?

Maybe he does. Maybe it’s just Jisung’s sick, sick brain that twists the meaning of his words.

Minho’s smile is patient, kind.

Jisung fumbles with the strap of his rucksack and tries to clear his throat. Before he can figure out
how to unknot his tongue enough to say anything, Minho speaks up once more. ‘You’re wearing
the skirt again.’

‘Y-yeah.’ He tugs on it, as if that’ll make it less obvious. Like he didn’t wear it because Minho
told him to. What an announcement. Look at me. Look how well I follow instructions. Look how
good I am at doing what you ask of me.

‘Did your friend dare you again?’ There’s an edge to his voice. There’s something about his smile
that’s a little bit mean. Or maybe Jisung imagines that. Maybe he imagines the way Minho’s gaze
lingers on his thighs.

‘No,’ Jisung manages. He takes another breath and bounces on his feet. He looks over his shoulder
down the hallway, but it’s empty by now. Everyone else left already. Hurried home to binge-eat
ramen and complain to their friends about homework. ‘No, I—I just wanted to wear it.’ He looks at
Minho’s hands instead of his face. ‘You said I should.’

‘I did,’ he says. ‘It looks nice on you.’

His breath hitches. ‘Thank you.’ He takes a tiny step further into the classroom. He doesn’t know
what to say, his throat clogged with spit and shyness. ‘I, um—I thought about everything you said.
Last week. In your office.’

He folds over the flap of his satchel and slowly fastens it at the front. ‘What did I say?’

‘About—’ He swallows. He would get on his knees right here. ‘I’ve been editing the story,’ he
finally says. ‘Even more specificity. Stronger verbs.’

‘Very good,’ Minho says. ‘I can’t wait to read it again.’ He picks up his bag and slings the strap
over his shoulder. ‘Will you send it to me?’

‘Of course,’ he says. He sounds too eager. He knows he does. He can’t help it. ‘Of course, I’ll—
yeah. Yes.’

Minho smiles at him. Ever-patient. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Anything else?’

His stomach sinks. He sucks in a little mouthful of air and shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘I’ll see you next week then,’ he says. ‘Have a good weekend, Jisung.’ He touches his shoulder,
squeezes down. ‘Get home safe, yeah?’

‘Y-yeah,’ he whispers. ‘You too.’

As Minho disappears down the hallway, Jisung stays in the classroom. He watches him walk away.
His hopes sour in his belly and flow backwards into his oesophagus. It tastes bad, his
disappointment. The embarrassment makes him woozy. He was so obvious, lingering here.
Waiting for him. Waiting for his attention. So eager for it. So obvious.
Professor Lee must be laughing about him now. Back in his office, he must think Jisung is so
stupid. A stupid kid. A stupid kid with a stupid crush.

He swallows harshly.

He smoothes out his skirt and heads home.

 Chapter 5

‘So you wore the skirt again and he still didn’t bend you over a table?’

‘Of course he didn’t,’ Jisung hisses.

‘Fucking sadist,’ Felix says too cheerfully as he picks out an orange wine gum and pops it into his
mouth. ‘It must be torture for him, too. Seeing you blush like a teenage girl in your pretty little
skirt. Practically begging for his cock.’

‘Shut up.’ He grabs the bag of sweets and searches for a black one. ‘I’m not a teenager.’

‘You’re, like, barely legal.’

‘I’m twenty-two,’ he snaps. ‘I’m plenty legal.’

Felix winks at him and takes a sip of his soda. ‘So what’s the plan now?’

‘I’ll kill myself, probably.’

‘Don’t you fucking dare.’ He puts down his drink and pins Jisung down on the couch just to tickle
his sides. ‘I’d have to learn how necromancy works and you know I’m swamped with coursework
right now. I don’t have the time for that, so can you please postpone your suicide plans? Better yet,
cancel them altogether.’

Jisung closes his eyes and makes a weird noise. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Whatever. I might drop out,
though. I’m so embarrassed. I was so embarrassing.’

‘You’re not dropping out,’ he says. ‘If you drop out, I’m going to force you to major in poli-sci and
I know you’d rather die. Stop being so defeatist.’

‘Felix,’ he says. ‘Being defeatist is one of my few talents. Do you even know me?’

‘I know that you’re an incredibly talented fiction writer,’ he says. ‘Your hot professor said so. And
I know that you’re going to seduce said hot professor.’ He forces eye contact. ‘Okay? Why don’t
you send him nudes? Like, “accidentally,” if you know what I mean.’

‘I cannot e-mail him nudes.’

‘Not with that attitude.’

‘Are you insane?’ He wriggles out of Felix’s hold and grabs the bag of wine gums again. ‘This is
already, like, vaguely unethical. Using my university e-mail account to send nudes would get me
expelled.’

‘It’s not that unethical,’ he says. ‘I mean, sure there’s an obvious power imbalance here, but that’s
what makes it sexy. Oh, Daddy, I would do anything to pass this class. Anything.’

‘Why do you talk like that?’ Jisung asks, burning. ‘Your life isn’t a porn flick. Can you talk like a
normal person?’

‘You hypocrite,’ he says. His smile is so bright, his laugh like a string of pearls shiny-sticky with
syrup. Nobody else could put the sun to shame like this. ‘Your life is a fucking porn flick.’
‘I wish.’

‘Nasty.’ He wriggles his eyebrow and shoves another wine gum into his mouth. ‘You’re so fucking
nasty, Jisung-ah.’

He kicks his foot into Felix’s thigh. ‘Shut up,’ he whines. ‘I’m not. Nothing has even happened
between us. He just told me to have a nice weekend and it was Wednesday. He didn’t even ask if I
would come back to his office hours. I might as well die.’

‘Can you stop talking about dying?’ he asks. ‘There’s no dick in heaven. Why would you want to
go there?’

Jisung only grumbles in response. ‘I thought we were going to watch a movie.’

‘Yeah, I was thinking Kubrick’s Lolita.’

‘Felix,’ he says. ‘I’m going to kill you.’

‘It’s cute that you think you could.’ He crawls into Jisung’s lap again and messes a hand through
his hair. ‘He’s probably thinking about you right now. About how cute and eager you are. Your
sweet, impressionable little mind.’

‘Stoooop.’ He hides his face in Felix’s shoulder. ‘Stop talking about him.’

He kisses his forehead, because he’s so easy with his affection. Hands it out like he’ll never run
dry, and Jisung loves that about him. Loves that Felix will never, ever stop hugging him. Hugs are
so nice, you know? Being touched makes you feel so human. In the best way. In the worst way.
‘You know what you should do?’

Jisung just hums into Felix’s T-shirt.

‘You should write about him,’ he says, still petting Jisung’s head.

‘Felix,’ he groans, ‘I can’t submit erotica. It’s against the guidelines.’

He snorts. ‘Dirty boy,’ he says. ‘I didn’t say you should write erotica.’

‘You were implying it!’ Jisung pokes his finger into Felix’s waist so he yelps. ‘You know I have to
read my work aloud in class, right? Like, you’re aware?’

‘Even better,’ he says. ‘Fuck, that’s so hot. You can look over at him while you read. Signal the
story is actually about him. About the things you want him to do to you.’

‘That’s a terrible idea,’ he says, even though he’s thinking about it. It’s already taking root in the
back of his mind. He wouldn’t write erotica, but he could—he could write about longing. He could
write about shame and guilt and desire. ‘I should just let it go.’

‘I just told you to stop being a defeatist cunt.’

‘Yeah, but it’s stupid. I’m being stupid. And it’s unrealistic.’

‘Since when do you care about realism?’ he asks. ‘You’re married to magical realism.’

‘That’s different,’ he says. ‘That’s my fiction.’

‘Your fiction, which your professor curiously enough said is really fucking good. Which he thinks
is so good that he wants more from you.’

Jisung turns his head to the side and picks up the bag of sweets again. He fingers a black oblong
and sticks his tongue out at Felix. ‘It wasn’t unseemly.’

‘Oh, but it was,’ he says. ‘And, more importantly, you wanted it to be.’ He steals the sweet out of
Jisung’s hand and puts it on his own tongue. ‘Teacher’s pet,’ he says. ‘That’s what you wanna be.’

Heat surges up the back of his neck. ‘So what?’ he says. All faux bravado. Felix knows he’s shy
behind the façade. Jisung knows that Felix knows, and Felix knows that Jisung knows that he
knows. He still pretends, though. ‘You’re the one telling me not to be defeatist. You’re saying I
have a chance.’

‘Because you do,’ he says. He presses his thumb against his forehead. Like a blessing. Like a
warped baptism. ‘You do, Jisung.’
 Chapter 6

Thursday afternoon, Jisung fucks himself on three fingers and slides a plug into his lube-sticky
hole. He tugs on the black skater skirt Felix gave him with strict instructions to pair it with knee-
high socks. He’s pretty sure that would be over-the-top, though, and he’s trying to be less
embarrassingly obvious after last week’s disappointment, so he wears normal ankle socks and his
trusty boots.

Tomorrow, Minho said yesterday after class. My office hours. Are you free again? I read the edited
story you sent me. And he smiled at him, this private smile that liquified Jisung’s stomach, that
made him buzz all over.

He fusses with his hair in the mirror. Every time he moves, he feels the plug shift inside him. This
was probably a terrible idea. It’s inappropriate, and a little bit freaky, but—but, but—

Just in case, right?

He imagines how his professor would react if he bent him over the table and found him already
prepped, stuffed full of the plug, the pink jewel nestled between his cheeks. A shiver pinballs up
his spine and he chews on his lip, thinking of Minho’s eyes clouding over with desire. His voice
tarmacked, turned raw.

Slut, he might say. Do you sit in class with this thing inside you?

Jisung pulls himself together and packs his rucksack. Nothing will happen, he keeps reminding
himself. Nothing clandestine is going to happen between him and his professor. It’s not a
moonlight tryst. It’s not fucking illicit, but Jisung can’t get that into his head. His desire is too
enormous. It dwarves him, it eats itself and sprouts new heads. Fanged, it feels like. Flames in his
underbelly.

‘Jisung,’ Minho says, gesturing for him to come inside his office. He closes the door. ‘It’s good to
see you. You’re getting really confident about wearing skirts, aren’t you?’

‘Y-yeah.’ His breath hitches a little. Minho smells so good, a masculine hit of vetiver swathed in
zesty bergamot and orange. Jisung wants to wear his dress shirt and nothing else; wants to press his
face into the crook of his neck and breathe in deep. Instead, he swipes his tongue across his lip and
sits down in the second chair. ‘I think—I like how they make me feel.’

‘And how’s that?’ he asks, lips still tugged into a toned-down smile.

‘Pretty.’ His voice nearly cracks. He shifts in his seat, and the plug presses against his prostate—he
forces out a slow, steady breath, but a flush still rises in his cheeks. Even his ears feel hot.

‘I see,’ Minho says. ‘Well, you do look lovely. Now, this story—’ He taps the papers against his
desk and gives a little shake of his head. ‘Jisung, you’ve outdone yourself. It’s incredible. With the
edits you made, it’s phenomenal. I don’t even know where to begin.’

Is this what a stroke feels like? His heart grows a thousand tiny wings and the wings grow more
wings and he could levitate. He’s already floating on a cloud as pink as the inside of a conch shell.
Pressed against his ear, he hears the ocean roar. The hum of it. Like being back in the womb.
‘Thank you,’ he says, a whiny tinge to his voice. His cheeks are so hot—the praise, the feeling of
the plug pressing inside him, everything so overwhelming. ‘That—that means a lot. So much.’
‘Your father orders you to kill and hits you when you hesitate.’ He looks back at Jisung. ‘It’s so
good. And this entire paragraph here, the one we talked about two weeks ago.’ He points it out
with his fingertip. ‘You did what I asked, Jisung. I can smell the blood now. I can taste the iron.’
He presses two fingers to the inside of his own wrist. ‘I feel the bruise forming. Right here.’ He
reaches out and grabs Jisung’s left wrist, thumbing at his pulse point. ‘Do you feel it, too?’ He
pulls back, all his focus still trained on Jisung’s face. ‘You did so well. You made it so
outstanding.’

It’s insane to be the object of his focus. Like receiving a gift too intense to bear. His breath catches
again and he chokes on a strangled noise, his face so, so hot. He fidgets with the hem of his skirt
and squirms—the plug presses harder against his prostate and he nearly whimpers. Fever-hot.
‘Thank you,’ he gasps. His wrist burns where Minho touched him. He thinks he’s going to black
out. ‘Oh my God. I don’t know what to say. Thank you.’

‘Of course,’ he says. He tilts his head a tiny, tiny bit and looks at Jisung’s mouth for a moment. At
least, it feels like that. But a beat later their eyes lock again and Jisung isn’t sure if he imagined the
attention on his lips. ‘Are you doing okay? You look a little off. You didn’t have to come if you
were feeling sick.’

How fucking embarrassing. He sucks in a breath and stutters, ‘n-no. I’m good.’ He runs a hand
through his hair. ‘Of course. Sorry.’

‘Why are you apologising?’ he asks. ‘You don’t have to apologise. I hope you’re going to submit
this story somewhere.’

‘Is it good enough for that?’

‘Jisung,’ he says. ‘It touched me very deeply. You should try to get it published. Promise me
you’ll consider submission.’

He nods. He doesn’t remember how to talk. Dragged out to sea, on the cusp of drowning now. His
brain all honeyed. ‘Okay,’ he finally says. ‘I’ll—of course. Of course.’

‘Good.’ He leans back in his chair and his mouth curves into a smile. ‘Are you working on
anything else right now?’

Jisung presses his thumb into his kneecap. ‘I’ve—been thinking of something,’ he says quietly. He
chances a look at Minho’s face, his open, encouraging expression.

‘Yeah?’ he asks. ‘What’s it about?’

‘Longing,’ he admits. He flicks his tongue across his lip again and straightens his spine. ‘Wanting
something you aren’t sure you can have.’

‘Ah.’ He nods. ‘Classic. Good themes, Jisung.’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I don’t—I don’t have anything more specific yet. I haven’t settled on a character
or anything. I just—I’ve been thinking about longing. I want to write about it.’

‘Whatever you come up with, I’m sure it’ll be great,’ he says. ‘I’ll look forward to reading it. Will
you let me read it?’

I would beg you to read it. I would beg you for anything.

‘Please,’ he says. ‘I really appreciate your feedback. You make me better—a better writer.’
‘That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?’ He neatens the pages of Jisung’s short story. ‘To improve
your craft.’

‘Yeah. Yes. And I’ll submit. It. The story.’ He licks his lips. ‘I’ll submit the story.’
 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

It’s Sunday morning and Jisung still hasn’t written anything. He can’t start it. This story, this story
that would be bigger than his body, this story that would X-ray all his sick, tangled desires. This
story that would be an open invitation. It has to be perfect, the most perfect thing he has ever
written, so perfect Minho might bite into the apple in Jisung’s held-out hands. Perfect enough to
trigger the Fall.

He buckles under all that pressure and his words come out clumsy. They hot glue themselves to his
larynx. Longing is too abstract to write about. There’s no specificity, and he needs specificity.

He can already hear Minho’s voice, can see the sentences underlined in red ballpoint pen. Don’t tell
me you want something. Show me how your heart is splitting your ribcage open. Show me how
badly you’re trembling for it.

But how is he supposed to do that?

It’s a stupid idea anyway. His work isn’t supposed to secretly be about how much he wants his
professor. It isn’t supposed to be a shrouded love letter. But it’s all he can think about. His own
longing has colonised his mind. He spritzes on more floral perfume and hopes it covers the stench
of desperation.

With a highball glass of iced tea, he curls up on his sofa to reread some of Minho’s short stories.
He’s read them all before, of course—early on, already sick with infatuation after their very first
class, he scoured the Internet to excavate every sentence Minho has ever written. His words live
beneath Jisung’s skin. They ribbon through him like eucestoda.

He flicks through a print magazine to find Minho’s old story called Kriegspiel.

Daisy is nine years old when our bikes beetle off the dirt road. Her shin bone splinters and she
banshees till my head nearly rolls off. Suddenly, she sees auras. She says mine is green, but not like
shamrock. She says that over and over. Marigold, there’s nothing lush about you. My aura is the
colour of a bruise on the tenth day. I want to say she’s lying, but I know she isn’t. She sucks on her
teeth like they’re too big for her mouth. And your aura, I ask. What colour is your aura?

Jisung reads the opening paragraph four times. He picks an ice cube out of his drink and slips it
into his mouth, breaks it between his teeth. It splinters the way a tibia might. It freezes his brain the
way the sound of your baby sister’s scream might. He reads the entire story twice and wonders if
he could ever write something like that. Something so gutting. Something so quietly unsettling.

He has had a few stories published, but most of the time he still worries his work is too banal. Not
good enough. Never good enough. He wants it to echo like a gunshot. He wants it to leave an exit
wound.

He wants his words to live in someone’s body the way Minho’s words live in his.

His entire body spasms when he remembers how Minho touched him, how he complimented his
most recent story. He called it phenomenal. He called it outstanding. It’s feverish, really; it makes
no sense at all.
 Daisy says she can make me see auras, too. All I have to do is climb to the top of the cherry tree
and jump. For the briefest second, I’m flying. When my ankle snaps, the pain is sharp and pure.
The cleanest thing I’ve ever felt. I stare at her, swathed in pewter and abalone and whatever else
remains after light commits suicide. And then I scream.

Jisung doesn’t know what to do with himself. Minho is so—good. He’s so good. He wants to learn
from him. It’s not just about sex, even though it twines through everything; it’s about Minho seeing
something noteworthy in him. Something worth nurturing. He wants his professor to fuck him, but
he wants so much more than that. He wants to be special. He wants to be good.

He wants to impress him.

He puts the magazine down on the coffee table and closes his eyes.

That thing he said, about wanting to feel it in his body—Jisung feels Minho’s work in his body so
intensely. When Marigold snap-snaps her elastic against her wrist, Jisung’s skin smarts. When she
peels the wings off the firefly, his stomach turns.

How is he supposed to write something worthy of him?

His own inadequacy strangles him. His memories and desire coalesce and leave him hazy,
confused. Tangled in the web of his own arousal, his fear, his longing. All the things he craves. All
the things he wants to believe. Minho’s words wind through him. I know you have it in you. It
touched me very deeply. You did so well. He wants to believe he isn’t just imagining the
implications, the suggestive undercurrents. He wants to believe that it’s not all in his head, but
maybe he really is just going crazy. He probably is.

His professor is so skilled, so competent, and Jisung wants to be perfect for him. He wants to write
something so good he flinches. Something so good he gives in. He wants to believe that Minho
longs, too. That he looks at Jisung and wants to touch him, wants to teach him exactly what
ruination can mean.

He would thrash his halo for him. He would swallow the last beam of light and kneel.

Jisung wonders what colour his aura is. He would hope it’s like muted thistle. He would hope it’s
worth risking damnation for.

He kicks off his pyjama shorts and stumbles into the shower, delirious with want. He curls three
fingers inside himself and presses his forehead against the wet tiles. His vision whitens at the edges
as he gets closer. All he thinks is take me. Take me. Take me.

A second before he comes, he clasps his palm over his mouth and grits his teeth.

It’s the cleanest thing he’s ever felt.

Chapter End Notes

if you're interested, you can buy & read minho's short story here
 Chapter 8
Chapter Notes

note: this chapter contains incestuous themes and mentioned self-harm.

He gets an idea, but he mulls it over for days. It’s very—outré. Transgressive. He isn’t sure if it’s
too much. What he loves so much about good fiction is, of course, the way it reaches between your
ribs and clamps your heart until you feel something. The way it makes you flinch; the way it forces
you to keep looking when you want to close your eyes. Good fiction makes you a spectator to the
most hideous crime. Good fiction makes you empathise with cruelty and leaves you wondering if
there’s something wrong with you. He loves fiction that unsettles him, devastates him, plumbs the
seedy underbelly of humanity and makes him ache all over. Fiction that bruises. Fiction that
dissects the many ways people are strange and sick and fucked-up.

But it’s still—this feels a little bit different. It’s not about him, but it is. It is about his own longing.
It is about the longing of someone else, someone different than him, a character he invented.

In the end, though, it’s the only idea that makes sense. He wants to probe a specific type of
longing. Wanting something you aren’t sure you can have. Something forbidden. And this—this is
it.

He makes tea and opens his laptop, creates a new blank document. He tells himself it doesn’t have
to be perfect. Not yet. It just has to exist. And then he types the first word.

Wherever you are now, I hope the sun is shining.

When we went to Cuba, my skin peeled like wallpaper. It was my own fault. You told me to use
sunblock and I didn’t listen. The stickiness repulsed me. The smell of it, so cloying, the way it
turned my arms pasty white. Sickening. I wore my cornflower swim trunks, brand new from the
duty-free shop, and a white T-shirt already stained with chocolate ice cream. In my head, there’s an
image. Crisper than a postcard. The sky bluer than blue. The air oversaturated with grease, my
fingers sticky from the pizza we shared. My clumsy fingers. My jet-black hair, the same as yours.
The same fishhook nose. The same freckle below the right eye.

The spitting image of you, everyone always said. That woman in the ice cream parlour, plump with
joy. My fifth grade English teacher. Agatha, too. Do you remember Agatha? I had sex with her just
to prove I could.

I shouldn’t have done that. I know that now. I knew it before I did it, but I did it anyway.

There are so many things I shouldn’t have done. That makes me human, I suppose. Regret is the
only thing that separates us from lions.

How it used to thrill me to hear those words. You look just like your dad.
The funeral was tearless. A few streets away, someone fired a gun. A loud pop. I barely flinched. A
magpie hobbled around on the pavement and stuck her head inside a stray plastic bag. I wanted to
tell her she wouldn’t find anything but her own death in there. But how do you communicate with a
bird? Maybe you would know. To me, you always knew everything.

Upholstered with cream velvet, the walnut casket was overly ornate. You would’ve hated it. You
would’ve hated the frankincense, too. Thick in the air. It made me think of napalm and the year we
went to Yokosuka. All that salt. All that water in front of us.

The Pacific is still only the second most tempting thing I’ve ever looked at.

Either you knew or you didn’t. I don’t know what would be kinder. Is there kindness to be found in
this story?

We ate udon and I tried sake for the first time. I lay in bed and thought of you. I wanted you to
touch me and you never did. This is why I fucked Agatha. This is why I fucked Eileen, too.

I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape what you did to me. What you didn’t do to me. What I
wanted and never got.

You’re dead now, so I can tell you. The cruellest thing you ever did was love me the way you were
supposed to.

Agatha’s arms were like a pork roast with crackling. She could never resist a sharp blade. She told
me it helps to let the voices out. You can bleed yourself dry of pain, but the pain always re-enters
your body. Skin is porous. It lets everything inside.

So you slice yourself up again. And again. But I couldn’t ever do it. I couldn’t hurt myself; it
would be like hurting you. Half of me is all you. You made me. How could I cut something you
created?

How could I hurt myself more than you already did? You didn’t mean to. You only ever wanted to
keep me safe. I know that. I love you for it. I also hate you for it.

You were a good dad. You were the best dad.

I hope heaven is real because I like thinking of you there.

You will never again press the back of your hand against my clammy forehead to check if I have a
fever. I will never touch you again, but I will continue to see you. Every night and every morning.
You’re right there, in the mirror. The man I’ll never lose. The man I’ll never stop loving.

I would say I’m sorry. I would be lying, but maybe I can give you that. A final lie.

I’ve been lying my entire life anyway.

Jisung leans back in his seat. He rolls his head and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Stars appear everywhere. He saves the document and closes his laptop, sinks down on the floor.
Kneels with his forehead against the rough carpet. There it is. All that longing. Not his own.
Someone else’s longing. Laid out for vivisection. Judge if you want to. Have you never wanted
something you can’t have? That’s the question he wants to ask. Have you never wanted something
you know you shouldn’t want? That’s what he wants to examine. Longing. A desire that shouldn’t
exist, but still does. And where do you go from there? When you want something and can’t quench
it? What should you do?

The draft needs work, of course. It always needs work. He needs work, too.

His professor can help with that. He can tell Jisung what he thinks, whether there’s potential here,
how to improve it. How to make it shine. How to make it cut.

Jisung hopes it’ll edge into him. He hopes the questions will permeate his skin, take residence
inside his body. Dilate there. Demand attention.

Has Minho wanted something he isn’t sure he can have?

Jisung wants him to answer that. He wants him to look straight at him and say yes. He wants to
look straight back and say you’re wrong. You’re wrong. You can have me. I won’t put up a fight.
 Chapter 9
Chapter Notes

note: this chapter also contains incestuous themes

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Anxiety bursts inside him as he lingers outside Minho’s closed office door. He’s early, but can you
blame him? He e-mailed him the story, and Minho said he should come by again on Thursday, so
here he is—a smudge of glitter on his eyelids, a black leather belt emphasising his waist, his
ribcage splattered blush pink by his eager, eager heart.

It’s ten to four. He fidgets with the strap of his rucksack. Yesterday, after class, Minho didn’t say
anything at all, so Jisung isn’t sure what to expect. Whether he liked the story. Whether he hated it.
Whether it repulsed him.

‘Ah,’ Minho says as he appears with a glass of water in his hand. ‘Jisung, hi. You’re early.’

‘Sorry,’ he blurts. ‘Don’t—I mean—I’m fine waiting. It’s okay.’

‘No, no.’ He fishes out his key card to unlock the door and pushes it open, stepping inside to set
down his drink. ‘Come on in, sit down. I quickly have to go make a phone call, but I’ll be right
back. Is that okay?’

‘Of course.’ He swallows, gently drops his rucksack on the floor. As Minho disappears, he steps
closer to the bookshelves and runs his finger along the edge. He skims the titles and pictures
Minho with a pair of reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his usual dress shirt
swapped out for a washed-out tee, curled up on a sofa with a book in his hands. The mental image
nearly breaks him.

His fingertip comes to an abrupt halt when it touches a specific book. It takes a second for his brain
to reboot.

Erotic Poems.

Stealing a glance over his shoulder, he shyly slides it off the shelf and opens to a random page. It’s
—annotated. Oh, fuck. The title makes it very obvious what this collection is about, and not only
did Minho read it, but he highlighted specific lines. That’s—wow. Wow.

Jisung takes a shallow breath and looks over at the open door again. Minho still isn’t back, so he
focuses on the page he landed on. It feels like trespass. He never should’ve looked around Minho’s
bulging bookshelves; he should’ve sat down and waited patiently. It feels like an invasion, but he
still goes ahead and reads the poem. Short and sharp, the final two lines underlined in pencil. My
hands invent another body for your body.

It steals the air out of his lungs. It stirs up an image inside him, a feeling too large to commit to
words. His body as something to be re-invented. Something to be purified and perfected. Minho’s
hands, skilled enough to do that. To deconstruct Jisung’s body and stitch it back together as
something better, cleaner. Something free of sin. Something full of it, too.
‘Sorry about that,’ Minho says.

Jisung nearly drops the book.

‘Oh, which book is that?’

‘Um.’ He can’t say that. He shouldn’t even have picked it up. Avoiding eye contact, he closes the
book and holds it up for Minho to see the cover.

‘Ah, that’s a good one.’ He slides the door shut behind him and sits down in his office chair.
‘Which poem did you read just now?’

He swallows again. ‘T-Touch.’ His voice cracks as cleanly as a bone. He takes a seat and puts the
book down on the desk like it’s singed him. ‘Sorry, I—didn’t mean to snoop.’

‘Not at all!’ He smiles at him, something almost amused about it. Or is that just imagination?
‘Touch is stunning. My hands open the curtains of your being,’ he quotes, looking straight at
Jisung. ‘Beautiful. What did you think about it?’

‘Uuuhhng.’ He parts his lips. He makes a strange, aborted sound. ‘S’good,’ he finally chokes out.
‘Good. I—I like it.’

‘It’s lovely, yes? Quite short and to the point, but so raw. It’s a good collection. I think you might
also really enjoy Recreation by Audre Lorde. Have you read anything by her before?’

Jisung shakes his head. He still can’t remember how to talk properly.

‘She was an incredible writer,’ Minho says. He slides the book towards Jisung and gives an
encouraging smile. ‘You should borrow it. I’d love to hear your thoughts.’

‘O-okay.’ His head spins. Minho is so—unfazed, really. He talks about this poetry collection like it
could be about anything. Like it’s not about sex, but it’s clearly about sex. It’s in the title. Jisung’s
heart rabbits and embarrassment burns the back of his neck, but his professor acts like this is
totally normal. Maybe it is. Probably it is. They’re here to discuss Jisung’s recent short story, and
that’s about sex as well. It’s about transgressions and desire. A lot of fiction is. A lot of poetry, too.
Of course the eroticism of this collection wouldn’t fluster his professor. Of course it doesn’t mean
anything when he asks to hear Jisung’s thoughts about it. Does it?

‘Good,’ he says. ‘Now, I read your new story.’ He takes a quick sip of his water and sifts through
the papers on his desk. ‘I like the title a lot. Eucharist My Heart.’ He taps his pen against the top of
the paper and hums. ‘It’s good work. I enjoyed the tone, too.’

‘Y-yeah?’

‘Yes. But.’ He fixes him with a look. ‘Jisung, you can do a lot better than this.’

Ice sluices over his heart. His nails dig into his palms and he forces out a steady breath. ‘Is it—
bad?’

He lifts his eyebrows. ‘Did I say that?’

‘N-no, but—’ He shrugs helplessly and looks down at the printed version of his own story, marked
up by Minho’s clever pen.

‘If you want to write this story, you need to give me a lot more than you’re giving me right now.’
 Breathless, Jisung braves another look at him. He tries not to squirm, but there are ants in his veins.
Wasps, too. Too many of them.

‘This part—’ He circles one of the paragraphs in the middle and looks at Jisung. ‘You’re being
shy. I need you to be braver than this. Don’t judge your character—that’s the basis of good fiction.
If you judge, it shines through. As the writer, it’s not your place to judge anything. Whether it’s
wrong or whether it’s sick or whether it’s immoral—that doesn’t matter.’ He pauses, lets his words
hover between them for a second. ‘If you want to tell this story, you need to commit to it. Details,
Jisung. Show me exactly how his desire affects him. Really dig into it.’

He might bloody up his palms. He keeps digging his nails in harder. Minho’s words stupefy him. ‘I
know,’ he finally says, because he does. He was too shy. He held back when he shouldn’t have. He
let himself recoil when he should’ve pressed harder.

‘I lay in bed and thought of you,’ Minho quotes. ‘I wanted you to touch me and you never did.’ He
puts down his pen and looks at him again. ‘You can add a lot more detail here. How does he want
to be touched by his father? Does he touch himself, too? That’s something to consider—with his
father in the same room, does he masturbate quietly? Think about that. Dig into his shame. Dig
into his desire, Jisung. Really commit to the story you’re trying to tell. Lay it all bare for me.’

He grabs his own knee and takes a breath. His stomach tightens and tightens. He can’t tear his eyes
away from Minho’s face, that intense expression. So focused. All his focus on Jisung, and the
things he’s saying. Talking about desire and shame. Wanting something you shouldn’t want.
Telling him not to shy away from the details.

‘I like this story,’ Minho says. ‘I think you’re getting at something interesting. But I need you to
give me a lot more than this.’

His airway is blocked. When he casts down his eyes, he sees the book once more. Erotic Poems.
When he meets Minho’s gaze again, he feels eclipsed. There’s something in the air, like almonds
and cherry wine. He licks his lips and prepares himself for immolation. He wants him so much
he’s dizzy. Can Minho smell his desire? He feels soaked in it. It’s so thick in his throat he nearly
chokes. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I—I think I held back. Because of the topic. I held back.’

‘You shouldn’t,’ he says, and looks at Jisung for a long moment. ‘I don’t ever want you to hold
back with me.’

Chapter End Notes

touch by octavio paz

 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes

note: a few daddy kink jokes

See the end of the chapter for more notes

‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ Jisung says adamantly. ‘It doesn’t.’

‘He lent you a book called Erotic Poems and told you he wants to hear your thoughts. Bro, that’s
not fucking normal. That’s so horny.’

‘It’s not.’ He folds his arms over his chest and meets Felix’s gaze. ‘It’s—it’s poetry. It’s not, like,
he’s not trying to tell me something.’ He wishes Minho was trying to tell him something. ‘The
subject matter is just incidental.’

‘Suuuuuure,’ Felix says. ‘Out of all his four billion books he lets you borrow the one about sex.
Super incidental. God, you’re so fucking stupid sometimes.’

‘You’re stupid.’

‘Okay. Sure. I’m the stupid one. Why don’t you read me that underlined part of the Auden poem
again and show me how stupid and daft I am?’

Flushing, Jisung flicks through the book to find The Platonic Blow. He clears his throat and skims
the first handful of stanzas, then reads, ‘we aligned mouths. We entwined. All act was clutch, all
fact, contact, the attack and the interlock of tongues, the charms of arms. I shook at the touch of his
fresh flesh, I rocked—’ His voice breaks. He takes another breath and avoids Felix’s eyes. ‘Rocked
at the shock of his cock.’

Felix smirks at him. ‘Yeah, you’re right. This is a super normal thing for your hot professor to
recommend to you. I’m clearly the dumbass here.’

‘Yes,’ he says primly. ‘It’s just a poem. It doesn’t mean he secretly wants to fuck me.’

‘He not-so-secretly wants to fuck you. He wants to watch you cry ‘cause his cock is just too big for
your little virgin hole.’

‘Felix!’

He winks at him and shoves his boba straw into his mouth, slurping loudly. ‘Do you think he
watches teacher/student porn?’

‘Shut up.’ Jisung closes the book and puts it aside. ‘I don’t—he probably doesn’t watch any kind
of porn because he has a fucking sex life. Oh my God.’ Sudden fear claws through him. His mouth
drops open. ‘What if he’s straight? He might be straight? I’m gonna kill myself if he’s straight.’

‘No way he’s straight,’ he says. ‘And you aren’t allowed to kill yourself. We’ve been over this.’

Jisung pouts at him.

‘For real, he isn’t straight. He complimented you when you wore a skirt and told you to wear it
more often. A heterosexual man wouldn’t do that.’

‘Okay,’ he says. That’s logical. Straight men probably don’t really hand out compliments to boys
in skirts. ‘Fine. He’s probably not straight.’

‘If he were straight, he wouldn’t be annotating gay sex poems.’

‘Probably not,’ he acquiesces. ‘But it doesn’t even matter anyway because he’s still not gonna fuck
me.’

‘Sung-ah, come on,’ he says. He puts his plastic cup down on the coffee table and crawls into
Jisung’s lap to mess with his hair. ‘He asked you to put more details in your story. He told you to
write about masturbating. It’s sooo obvious.’

‘It’s not.’ He plays with the hem of Felix’s T-shirt and blinks up at him slowly. ‘It really isn’t. It’s
just—it sounds indecent when I tell you about it, but he was just giving me feedback on the story.’

‘I honestly still can’t believe you actually sent him that story,’ he says. ‘You’re like dropping hints
you want him to be your Daddy.’

‘I’m not,’ he whines.

‘And the hints are neon green and fifty feet tall and impossible to miss.’

‘It’s just a story,’ Jisung says. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Didn’t your Daddy tell you it’s bad to lie?’ he teases, lifting his eyebrows at him. ‘He might spank
you for that, Jisung-ah. Naughty boy.’

‘I’m going to kill you.’ He tugs on Felix’s shirt. ‘Stop it. I hate you.’

‘No, you don’t,’ he says and presses a kiss to his forehead. ‘I’m your best friend. You love me and
if I were fifteen years older, you’d beg for permission to suck my dick. Now, are you gonna do as
he told you?’

‘Huh? Do what?’

‘Write about masturbating, dummy. Maybe record a little video for him, too.’

‘Shut up.’ The thought of that—the thought of Minho instructing him to do that, to prop up his
phone and film himself as he gets off, record all the needy, breathless moans he makes, his hole
clenching around his fingers, his thighs trembling from the effort—it’s a terrible thought. He can’t
have this thought with Felix in his lap, but it’s—it’s so dizzying. He would do it in a heartbeat. If
his professor told him to, he’d do anything. ‘I’m—I’m not. No video. Shut up, that’d be sexual
harassment.’

‘I’m sure he’d forgive you,’ he says with a wink. ‘You could make it up to him like a good boy.’

Jisung’s face is so hot. He hides it in Felix’s shoulder and pinches his waist. ‘Don’t be crude.’

‘That’s not what Professor Lee said.’ He slides his hand into Jisung’s hair and tugs his face back to
catch his eyes. ‘He wants all the dirty, dirty details about how “your protagonist” masturbates.
With his Daddy in the room, yeah? And you’re gonna write it for him. You’re gonna give him
more. You’re gonna give him everything.’
 ‘I’m—it makes the story better! It’s not about—I mean, it’s not—’ He flounders, because it is. Of
course it is. But it’s more complicated than that. ‘I mean, he doesn’t know it’s—that it’s—that
I’m…’

‘Yes he does,’ Felix says. ‘He knows you want to suck his dick. It’s kinda mean, toying with you
like this. But then you like mean.’

‘I never said that.’

‘You don’t need to say something to say something,’ he says. ‘I thought that fancy creative writing
degree would’ve taught you about subtext.’

‘That’s different. And I don’t—’

‘Sure. So tell me you don’t want him to spank you till you’re crying,’ he says. ‘Tell me you don’t
want to sit in class squirming ‘cause you’re so sore from it.’

‘Liiix,’ he whines. ‘Don’t make me think about that.’

Felix laughs brightly and slides out of Jisung’s lap again. He takes another sip of his bubble tea
and picks up the bag with sweets, sifting through it till he finds a green gummy bear. ‘You better
do all your homework on time, Jisung-ah,’ he says. A mischievous smile plays at his lips. All teeth.
Foxy. ‘Who knows what might happen if you disappoint your teacher? He’d have to spank you
with a ruler. He’d have to really teach you a lesson.’

Chapter End Notes

ao3 user hyvnmni mentioned a book titled erotic poems that minho might own. "the platonic blow" by w.
h. auden is not part of it, nor is the audre lorde poem "recreation".
 Chapter 11
Chapter Notes

note: contains incestuous themes

‘Jisung,’ Minho says. ‘Since your story is on the shorter side, why don’t you read it aloud before
we start workshopping it?’

‘O-okay.’ He knew this would happen, but nervousness still blooms inside him. His fingers tremble
when he clutches his iPad tighter and he sucks in a shallow breath, tries to calm the storm in his
chest. This is something he has to do. Reading your work out loud is part of this degree. Receiving
honest, constructive feedback is as well. Whatever his classmates will say soon doesn’t reflect on
him, personally, and it’ll be fine. It’s fine. He just has to get through it.

After his last meeting with his professor, he edited the story. He rewrote a lot of paragraphs and
expanded parts; he added more detail to really delve into his protagonist’s shame and desire. He
peeled back the layers of how shame and desire commingle and what behaviour that mix
engenders. He included a masturbation scene the way Minho suggested—it felt risqué, but fitting.
Not overly obscene, but with enough details to paint a proper picture. A vivid recall of adolescent
memories.

Felix is wrong. This story is not only an examination of Jisung’s own longing, even if it’s partly
informed by it. He’s drawing on his own feelings, sure, but it’s more than that—it’s a work of
fiction. He’s exploring the behaviour and choices of a made-up character. A nameless narrator,
because the name is irrelevant. What matters is his love for his father and how that love transcends
normative boundaries. How that love is sexual when it shouldn’t be. How that love makes him act
in strange ways, what it makes him do. And, narratively, it makes sense for that character to
masturbate with his father close by. His desire deranges him. He wants him so much he crosses the
line. He wants him so much he doesn’t care about any lines.

It isn’t Jisung’s place to judge. It is only Jisung’s place to probe, explore, document.

He knows this. His classmates should know this, too. Reading it aloud, though—it’s still daunting.
He catches Minho’s eyes and his heart trips.

Minho gives him an encouraging smile, and Jisung steadies himself.

‘Eucharist My Heart,’ he reads. His voice wavers; but he takes another breath and focuses on the
words in front of him. ‘Wherever you are now, I hope the sun is shining.’

As he reads, his surroundings simultaneously melt away and crystallise. He doesn’t think about his
classmates, doesn’t think about the notes they’re taking, the notes they’ve already taken, the
feedback they will give him soon. They’re no longer in the room with him. But his professor is. He
can’t forget his presence. Even though he’s looking at his iPad, he feels Minho’s eyes on him. He
knows he’s watching, listening. His skin prickles. He trips over the next words.

‘I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape what you did to me,’ he reads. ‘What you didn’t do to
me. What I wanted and never got.’ He braces himself for the next part, which is new. He added
this after Minho told him to stop being shy. Don’t flinch. He told him to do this, so Jisung did.
Now he has to read it for him. ‘I snuck my hand inside my underwear,’ he reads, voice dipping.
‘You were right there across the room, breathing softly. Asleep, I thought. Maybe not asleep. I bit
into a pillow to smother my sounds, but I half-assed the move. The sickest part of me wanted you
to hear me.’ It feels like an excavation. He’s leading himself to the rite, lamb-like and obedient. He
is offering the knife on his knees. Cut me, then. Watch me bleed. ‘As I stroked myself to full
hardness, you shifted in bed. I made a noise I shouldn’t have made and you asked me if I was doing
okay. What was I supposed to say?’ He looks up. His throat tightens as his eyes meet Minho’s.
‘Yes, Dad, I said, and my voice was all wrong.’

Minho’s gaze is so intense, so focused. It’s nearly too much. Jisung wants him more than he has
ever wanted someone. He wants him as much as his protagonist wants his father. Maybe even
more. Looking into his eyes, he flicks his tongue across his lip. He clears his throat and ducks his
head again, focuses on the page. ‘Remember when I had that nightmare? It was before I started
school. I dreamt I got struck by lightning and woke up screaming. I crawled into your bed and you
shushed me till I fell back asleep.

‘In the hotel room in Cuba, my voice sounded like a skeleton zapped by the sky. A crack so sharp
and putrefying. I brushed my thumb in small circles and spread my own wetness down the shaft.
I’m okay, I said. ‘Course. Sorry. Go back to sleep.’ He steals another look at his professor and the
air in his throat fossilises.

Minho’s expression shifts into an almost smile. He lifts his eyebrows and gives a tiny nod.

‘You’re dead now, so I can tell you,’ Jisung continues. ‘The cruellest thing you ever did was love
me the way you were supposed to.’

He keeps reading. He reads till the very end and slumps down in his chair, unable to look at any of
his classmates. Reading this story out loud electrified him. He can barely focus as they workshop
it; he takes notes on parts that could be reworked and made clearer, but he keeps thinking of
Minho’s expression. The heady way he looked at him. That slight curve of his mouth. Did he
imagine that?

He keeps his head bent as he packs his things. His longing fizzles inside him. What he did was
degrading. Laying himself bare like this. The story was a story about someone else. But it was
more than that. It was enticement, or supposed to be. It was a plea. How humiliating to beg like
that. How humiliating to be so transparently honest.

What I wanted and never got.

And the implication: please. Please give it to me.

He takes a final sip of his water, slips the bottle into his rucksack, and zips it shut.

‘Jisung,’ Minho says, voice muted. Close by.

His head snaps up. ‘Y-yeah?’

‘Do you have a moment?’ His gaze is like a loaded pistol. Jisung’s heart is speckled with saltpetre
and charcoal. ‘I’d like to talk about your story if you’re free now.’
 Chapter 12

‘Of course!’ The words spill out of him. His neck feels hot. ‘Yeah, of course, I’m—I’m free. I’m
free now.’

Minho smiles and pulls out the chair next to Jisung. ‘How’re you feeling?’ he asks. ‘I know
reading your work out loud can be intimidating. Especially a story like this.’

‘Yeah.’ He rubs his thumb at the zip of his rucksack, the metal smooth and warm. Steadying.
‘Yeah, it’s—it’s still kinda scary. But I got good feedback. I really liked what Marie-Lou said
about the sake. How I could focus on the taste of it.’

‘Absolutely,’ Minho says. ‘She made a good point. Pay attention to all the senses.’

‘Exactly.’ He looks down. When he takes a deep breath, the fresh, citrusy scent of Minho’s
cologne snakes into him. He wants to lean closer. He wants to hide his face. ‘Yeah.’

Minho brushes his hand down Jisung’s arm. He thumbs Jisung’s wrist bone till his head snaps up
and their eyes meet. ‘Your reading was wonderful,’ he says. ‘You should be proud of yourself.’

Jisung shivers. His throat is so dry. ‘Thank you, Professor.’

‘Ah, Jisung. Didn’t I tell you already you don’t have to call me Professor?’

‘Y-you did.’ Their eyes are still locked. The adagio draws out. Jisung can barely breathe. ‘How did
you—the story.’ He blinks. ‘Is it better now?’ So many things he wants to say. Am I still being too
shy? How much more do you want? I’ve already given you nearly everything. Tell me how to give
you more.

‘It is,’ Minho says. He shifts and leans back in his seat. ‘It’s a lot better. It’s a lot more daring, and
I think that fits the tone of your story. It aligns with what you’re trying to accomplish.’

It’s so—he blinks again. And then again. He pulls his hand away from his bag and fingers the hem
of his T-shirt.

Before he can figure out what to say, Minho continues. ‘Weeks ago you told me you were thinking
about longing,’ he says. ‘Wanting something you don’t know if you can have. And your story
interrogates that, yes? Interrogates the lengths you’ll go to receive what you desire. The lines you’ll
cross.’ He keeps his eyes on Jisung’s face for another agonisingly long moment, then smiles. ‘In
your last draft, you just told me about the transgression. I wanted you to touch me and you never
did. But now, you’re showing just how badly you want it. Your character. He tells us, I shouldn’t
have done that, but I did anyway. And you show your reader exactly the things that he does. You
no longer just tell that he lies in bed thinking of sex. You show me what he does about it.’

His thoughts roller-coaster. In his throat, there’s something that wants to come out. A sound,
maybe. A whimper or a word. It’s stuck there. He keeps staring at his professor and he doesn’t
know what to do with his own body. Everything Minho says feels suggestive. Everything he says
feels clean and pure, clinical. A teacher talking to his student. Not indecent. Indecent all the same.
Jisung made it indecent when he wrote this story. Jisung made it indecent the first time he fucked
himself and thought of Minho’s hands.

‘I’m rambling,’ Minho says. ‘Forgive me. What I mean to say is that you’ve properly committed to
the story now. And that’s a good thing. That’s exactly what I need from you.’
He digs his nails into his palms. He feels so incredibly small. The praise stuns him. He wants to
lick up every drop of it. ‘Yes,’ he whispers. ‘You—you told me to be brave. I tried to be brave.’

‘Good boy,’ he says.

In the hallway, there’s loud laughter. Jisung barely registers it over the sharp crack as his brain
breaks. A whine splatters out of him, breathless and needy.

‘I’m not sure how I feel about the ending lines,’ Minho continues. ‘I do like them. I’ve been lying
my entire life anyway. It’s good, but—could it be stronger?’ he muses. ‘I’m not sure. It’s a loose
thought, really. But I think I’d like you to really focus on those final lines and see if you’re satisfied
with them or if there’s something else you might do.’

‘O-okay.’ It’s barely audible. He’s still breathless. He’s still stuck on the last thing Minho said,
what he called him. He might’ve imagined it. Minho made no acknowledgement of it, so it
must’ve been a figment. He must’ve misheard him. He must’ve—something. Oh, he can’t think at
all. His next breath escapes him as a pant. ‘Yeah, I—okay. I’ll see what to—to do with the ending.
Anything—’ He looks at his eyes again. He looks at his mouth. He wants to look at his hands, but
he’s crossed the line too many times already. Now he’s free-falling. Will his professor catch him?
‘Anything else, Professor?’

‘Yes,’ he says. He arches an eyebrow. ‘You can stop calling me Professor.’

‘Hhhgn.’ He grabs the edge of the table. ‘I—I. You. Okay. Okay.’

Minho’s smile stretches slowly. ‘It’s a good story, Jisung,’ he says. ‘I don’t think it needs a lot
more work. Did you submit your last one?’

‘N-no.’ He shakes his head. Good boy, good boy, good boy, good boy—

‘No?’ Minho asks. ‘How come? You promised me you would. You promised you’d submit.’

He makes an embarrassing sound. A sound he shouldn’t have made. Worked-up and desperate. He
quivers like a trapped bunny. ‘I just—not yet,’ he manages. ‘I want to. I want to. I will. I promise.’

‘Okay.’ He nods. ‘Good. With a little more work, this story could be publishable as well. I can
draw up a list of journals I think might be interesting to you.’

Jisung’s heart spasms. He feels so empty. He feels so indescribably full. He wants to be even fuller.
He wants to be everything, for him. He wants to be even better. ‘Please,’ he says, and means it
more than ever. ‘That’d be—that’d be really—really nice. Of you. Professor.’

Minho touches his forearm again. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Think about what I said, yeah? About the
ending lines. And everything else.’

‘Yes,’ he manages, a beat later. A bit too quietly. ‘Of course.’

 Chapter 13
Chapter Notes

note: some slightly masochistic undertones

He struggles with his belt. His fingers tremble too much to make it work and his legs wobble and
everything is too overwhelming. Too big and too close. Tears prickle his eyes and a babbled please
escapes him even though the hallway is empty, even though he’s alone, even though there’s
nobody here to help him. Nobody here to hold him. He just wants to cry and he wants to scream
and he wants his professor to be here. He needs him. Needs him to keep him steady, needs him to
take over, needs him, needs him, needs him—

Good boy. An echo that won’t stop. It pinballs around his chest, through his veins. His entire body
vibrates. Good boy. His professor called him that, or—or did he? Did he really say that? Did Jisung
imagine it?

He isn’t sure. It’s been so long since he was sure of anything. Worry perforated his stomach the
entire bus ride home; he squirmed in his seat and tried to hide his shameful hard-on, tried to hide
the desire clinging to him like a second skin, tried to seem normal. But has he ever felt normal?
Hasn’t he always felt everything too much and too deeply and hasn’t he always wanted things he
never received?

Finally—finally—he manages to unbuckle the stupid belt and unzip his stupid jeans and shove
them down his stupid, shaky legs. He slumps to the floor with a huff and tugs on the tail end of his
shoelace to pull off his Converse. He paws his jeans down his legs and cries as the denim tangles
around his ankle. ‘Nooooo,’ he huffs, ‘just—just, fucking—please—’

He hiccups when he finally gets a hand around his cock. He closes his eyes, but it doesn’t efface
the shame of the scene—lying on his back on his hallway floor, panting, half-dressed. Still wearing
one shoe. Collapsed under the weight of his desire. So wet, gasping with each stroke of his hand.
His wrist burns where Minho touched him earlier. If he could, he’d pull out one of his carpal bones
and present it as an offering. Touch me here again. Touch me everywhere. Whittle my skeleton
into something worthy of your hands.

The belt buckle clatters against the floor as his hips rock upwards. It’s too loud. It’s so
embarrassing that he couldn’t wait. He couldn’t even make it to his bedroom.

He comes with an animal cry. He babbles through it, ah-ah-ah-ahhhh, and keeps rutting into his
own fist. It doesn’t surprise him, although it was so sudden. He knew it’d be fast. One look from
his professor and he’s done for. One word—two words—and he melts. Burns. All that’s left is the
taste of ash in his mouth.

He tries to catch his breath. The embarrassment grows. There’s cum on his T-shirt and his hands, a
twinge of soreness in his thighs. He knuckles his eyes and wipes away a hot tear. He slips his
thumb into his mouth and sucks on it, sighs around it.

The things desire makes you do. The way it unscrews your brain. He feels insane. He feels
inhuman. Desire makes you less than human. It makes you more than, too. It makes you into a
spectator to your own un-becoming. Your de-creation.

It tumefies in him. No desire without shame. He slammed his front door shut and immediately
crumbled to the floor. He masturbated like someone possessed. He couldn’t stop. He can’t stop. He
has to bear witness to it, has to live through it, has to watch himself do these things. These
humiliating, desperate things.

He gets on all fours and crawls to his bedroom like a kicked dog. It’s alienating. A sickness. Soft
inside him, the way mould is soft. The way everything organic rots.

He finds a dildo, because he needs him inside him. His professor. He needs him to make him come
till he won’t feel like this any more.

Will he ever stop feeling like this?

You promised you’d submit, Minho said, and Jisung’s brain seizes the words and twists them.
Twists them. Twists them. They aren’t about his short story any more. They aren’t about
publication. Jisung isn’t sure they ever were.

‘Please.’ Not even a rabbit could beg this well. ‘Please, please—’ He fumbles with the lube bottle.
He whines in frustration and squirms on the mattress, chokes on a moan when he finally starts to
press his dildo inside himself. He’s too aroused to be patient. He’s too fucking needy. ‘Ah—ah, ah
—’ His head tilts back and he tightens up, keeps pressing it deeper inside him. He imagines how
Minho might do it. How he might coo over him, coerce his fat cock into Jisung’s little hole and tell
him to take it. Take it, Jisung. You promised you’d submit.

‘Nnhgngf ‘m good—’ Drool-slick. Strangled. ‘Ah, ‘m—g-good, ‘m good, please—’ He moves his
hand faster. His dick stirs again as he fucks back against the dildo; used to the stretch now, he can’t
stop whining. It feels so fucking good. Too much. Not nearly enough. Not real. ‘Ah—o-ow, please
—please, please, please—’

The things his professor might say. He’d praise him. Jisung is doing so well. Jisung is doing
everything he can. Giving him everything in his power, his work and his heart and his body. All so
ripe for the taking.

Good boy. Good boy, good boy—

He gasps again. He digs his nails into his thighs and nearly cries. It hurts. It’s good. Would Minho
hurt him, too? Just a little bit. Just enough to make Jisung feel alive. Just enough to make him
ascend.

‘P-Professor,’ he slurs. ‘Please, I’m—do I—can I come, can I come, please—please wanna—
wanna come for you, wanna come on your cock, feels—feels s’good, feels so good—’

His body goes tight again. He can’t stop moving his hand. He fucks himself through it. The
pleasure melts into pain, but he keeps going. Wants it. Wants more. Wants everything.

He can’t get his voice out of his head. Good boy. You promised. Give me more. Give me a lot
more.

How he touched him. His hand on his arm. His thumb on his wrist. He looked right at him as
Jisung read his story out loud.

The words he spoke aloud hummingbird inside him. I lay in bed and thought of you. Yes, Dad, I’m
okay. Sorry. He said those things. He met Minho’s gaze. How did he not pass out?
You’re showing just how badly you want it.

As he thrusts his dildo deeper, he keens. Minho has no idea. He has no idea just how badly Jisung
wants it.

‘Please,’ he gasps again. ‘Please, please, please…’

 Chapter 14
Chapter Notes

note: a single daddy joke

‘Shut up,’ Felix says. ‘He really called you good boy? And you whined?’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ he mumbles. ‘It just sort of—I mean—yeah. I mean, I don’t even know if I
imagined that he said it, or if—’

‘Nah, it tracks.’ He licks the beater clean of brownie batter and drops it into the sink. ‘You know,
Sung-ah, now he knows what you sound like when you’re getting fucked. Bet he’s feeling super
normal about that.’

Jisung ducks his head and swipes his finger through the leftover batter clinging to the mixing bowl.
‘Shut up.’

‘Bet he got off thinking about it,’ he continues unperturbed. ‘Probably fucked a fleshlight and
replayed the sound of your whiny voice. Imagined just how fucking loud you’d be taking his cock
for the first time.’

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up—’ The thought of Minho touching himself while thinking of Jisung is so
dizzying that he nearly throws the bowl at Felix. He grabs the edge of the kitchen counter tighter
and kicks out his leg at him instead.

‘He really gave you the perfect opening.’ He slides the cake tin into the oven and sets a timer on
his phone. ‘And you didn’t take it. Come on, next time he calls you good boy, you better be like
thank you, Daddy. Have I taught you nothing?’

‘I can’t just—’

‘You can’t just be weirdly sexual with him? Why not?’ He tugs Jisung down from the counter and
pulls him with him into the living room where he pushes him down on the couch and straddles his
lap. ‘Sooo, be honest. How many times have you made yourself come thinking of this?’

He hides his face in Felix’s shoulder. ‘I lost count.’

‘That’s fair.’

‘It’s just—’ He plucks at Felix’s shirt and shudders as he remembers everything he did last night,
the shame still so fresh. The first thing he did this morning was touch himself again with Minho’s
words echoing in his mind. He had to rush to make it to his one o’clock class on time. ‘I can’t
fucking—oh my God, Lix, it’s just—and he’s so—and he called me good boy—or I might’ve
imagined it but it felt so real, and it’s in my head this whole time, and it just—’ He pulls back and
blinks up at him. ‘I just can’t stop thinking about it. At all.’

‘Because you want to be his good boy, right?’

‘Hhhhngghgh you know I do. I could be so good. I could be—I could be so good for him.’
‘I know,’ Felix says. ‘He knows that too, babe. That’s why he’s messing with you like this.’

‘I’m so on edge,’ he mutters. ‘I just—I don’t even know. I feel like I’m going insane. I think I’ll
die if I don’t get to—to—’

‘To take his cock and show just how good you are?’

He buries his face in the crook of his neck again.

Felix leans closer and drops his voice. ‘You think you’ll die if he doesn’t come in you, Jisung-ah?
You want to sit in class with your professor’s cum plugged inside you?’

His body jerks. ‘Nuh-uhhnhgnh Lix.’ He clutches his waist. ‘You’re making it worse.’

‘Sorry for teasing,’ he says. ‘How can I make it better? Want to make out? Want me to steal your
phone and sext him? Want me to come to class with you on Wednesday and tell him you’re a
virgin? Bet that’d push him over the edge.’

He pushes at Felix’s shoulder. ‘M-maybe we could…’ He licks his lips. ‘Maybe—kissing. Is nice.’

‘Kissing is always nice,’ Felix says. ‘You know you just have to ask.’

Jisung huffs. ‘And you know asking is embarrassing.’

Felix curls his hand at the back of Jisung’s neck and smiles down at him. ‘You’re cute when
you’re embarrassed,’ he says. ‘That’s another reason Professor Lee is toying with you. ‘Cause he
likes how you look when you blush for him. He likes the sound of you whining.’

‘Feliiiix,’ he whines.

‘Just like that,’ he says, his voice like the first beam of sunlight in spring. ‘You’re driving him
crazy, Jisung-ah.’ Still smiling, he connects their mouths in a soft kiss. He tilts Jisung’s head
slightly to the side and runs his thumb over his cheek.

Jisung arches closer to meet the firm pressure of Felix’s lips. He makes a soft sound and curls his
hands on his waist, kissing him back eagerly. It’s grounding to kiss Felix. It pushes him out of his
head and into his body. He doesn’t think any more—he just focuses on the glide of their tongues
and savours the feeling of it.

‘Ah,’ Felix sighs, nipping at Jisung’s lower lip. ‘You’re so good. Love you.’

‘Love you too,’ he mumbles, because he does, so much. Felix is his best friend in the entire
fucking world. Nobody understands Jisung the way Felix does. Nobody understands how his brain
malfunctions and spirals and how shame is the largest organ in his body. Kissing him is not
romantic. It’s not sexual either, even though Jisung’s dick stirs. It’s pure, sweet intimacy. It’s
enjoyable and it’s fun and it’s nice to receive affection this way. He’s so jittery and keyed-up and
he wants to be touched, needs to be touched, and this is a way to be touched. This can ease some of
the tension inside him. ‘Feels good,’ he says, thumbing at Felix’s waist. ‘So good.’

‘It does.’ He licks into Jisung’s mouth and tugs lightly on his hair. ‘Feels so good. Now just
imagine sitting in your professor’s lap like this.’ He dots small kisses across Jisung’s cheek.
‘That’s gonna feel so good too.’

‘Hhhgnhgg.’ He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and chases Felix’s mouth for another messy, open-
mouthed kiss. ‘S-shut up.’
‘He’s going to tell you how good you are,’ he continues between kisses, a little breathless now.
‘How sweet and cute. How young.’

‘FELIX!’ He pinches him through his T-shirt. ‘Be normal.’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he giggles, slotting their mouths together again. He swipes his tongue against
Jisung’s lip and makes a soft sound. ‘He’ll call you a good boy again, Sung-ah. His good boy.’

His body jerks. He gasps into Felix’s mouth and curls closer, overwhelmed. Dizzy. His mind
helter-skelters, but he doesn’t have to think. He can just relax and enjoy this. The kiss. What Felix
is saying. The physicality, the tenderness, the love that revamps him. Rewires him.

‘You think he’ll spit in your mouth?’ Felix muses.

‘Nnnhnghgffuck—’

‘He seems the type,’ he says. ‘But he’s probably gonna make you beg for it.’

‘I would,’ he admits. ‘I would—I can beg.’

‘I know.’ Felix kisses him again. ‘Nasty boy. He’ll make you beg for his cum inside you, too.’
 Chapter 15

‘Ah,’ Minho says as he accepts the copy of Erotic Poems that Jisung shyly hands to him. ‘Thank
you, Jisung.’ He puts the book down on his desk and sits down in his office chair. ‘Did you read
it?’ He cracks a smile. ‘You can tell me if you only just brought it home to humour me. I won’t be
upset if you never actually opened it.’

‘No, no,’ he shakes his head and takes a seat. ‘No, I—I read it. All of it.’

‘All of it, huh? Any poems you liked in particular?’

‘Um.’ He roots around in his own brain to figure out what to say, but this is so embarrassing to talk
about. All the poems are about sex, but it’s more than that. Minho’s scribbled notes made the
reading experience so electrifying. Jisung read every underlined sentence over and over and
thought of Minho’s hands, his mouth, thought of him at home reading these lines, thought of him
in bed, out of breath, taking Jisung apart. He blinks rapidly to dispel that fantasy right now. ‘The—
we already talked about Touch.’

‘We did,’ he says. ‘My hands invent another body for your body. Still stunning. Any other
favourites?’

Heat prickles the back of his neck. He casts his eyes down, but the sight of Minho’s forearms
doesn’t help him focus. Spit pools in the back of his mouth. Right now, the only other poem he can
remember is the one he read with Felix. The dirtiest poem ever written, and Minho—Minho had
underlined parts of it. He’d read this nasty poem and highlighted specific sentences. A dizzying
thought. Felix said it wasn’t incidental that he lent Jisung this book. He said it meant something.
Jisung still isn’t quite sure he believes that, but in a rush of boldness he stammers, ‘The—The
Platonic Blow.’

Minho’s eyebrow quirks. ‘Yes?’

‘I mean,’ he flounders, fidgeting with his fingernail, ‘y-yeah. It’s very—um, detailed. And you’re
—’ He looks back up and catches his eyes. ‘You’re always talking about specificity, Professor.’

He laughs brightly. ‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘I am.’

‘The key to good fiction,’ Jisung parrots, biting his lip.

His gaze pierces him. ‘And autofiction.’

Jisung blinks. Blinks again.

‘There was something I wanted to ask you, actually,’ Minho continues before Jisung can process
anything.

‘O-oh?’

‘I don’t want you to feel pressured,’ he says, and waits a beat to let the statement hover between
them. ‘But I was wondering if you might want to give me feedback on a short story I’ve been
working on.’

What?
‘I’m not asking this as your professor,’ he adds. ‘I enjoy your work, Jisung. And I’d appreciate
hearing your thoughts on mine.’

He’s going to die. He probably already died, because there is no way this is actually happening.
His professor cannot be asking him this. Why would he want to hear Jisung’s thoughts? He’s so
much better than Jisung will ever be. Minho is so, so good—what on earth could Jisung ever offer
him? All his thoughts are so banal. All his thoughts are childish and ridiculous, so why would
Minho ever be interested in hearing them? Why would he ask this?

‘Yes!’ he gasps, and the high pitch of his own voice scarcely embarrasses him right now. The
shock is so intense he’s still trembling. ‘Yes, I’d—what? What, are you—?’

Minho smiles at him. There’s an edge of amusement to it, but Jisung notices the shells of his ears
are tinged red. Or maybe he’s fucking imagining that, too. Maybe all of this is a dream. How could
this ever be real?

‘It’d mean a lot to me,’ Minho says. His eyes never stray from Jisung’s face. ‘Like I said—you can
say no. Don’t let me pressure you into anything, Jisung.’

‘Nnnng no.’ He shakes his head adamantly. ‘No way. You’re—I’d love to.’ He feels like a doe
when he blinks again. This has to mean something. Doesn’t it? It has to. It has to. ‘I’d really, really
love to.’

‘Okay.’ He gives a slow nod. ‘I’d like you to be honest with me. If you don’t like the story, you
can tell me. I won’t let it affect your grade,’ he tacks on with a wink.

‘I know I’ll love it,’ he blurts. Of course he will. Minho is incapable of creating something Jisung
won’t adore. He knows he is. ‘You’re—you’re really good. Professor.’

‘I just told you I’m not asking this as your professor, Jisung.’

He’s disintegrating. He’s going to pass out. Another embarrassing noise spills out of him. He digs
his fingernails into his palms. ‘O-okay,’ he says. The lines are blurring. Aren’t they? This is no
longer just a professor and a student talking during office hours. This would be—this would be
different. Minho said so. He said he’s not asking as his professor. He said he enjoys Jisung’s work.
Punch-drunk. Woozy. He squeezes his fists harder. ‘Okay, okay. This is so—I can’t believe it.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just—’ He looks down and presses his thumb into his kneecap. How can he say this? How can he
say anything that won’t make this worse? He braves another look at him. ‘It’s just—it feels like an
honour. Like—I’m just—I just can’t believe it. I love your work so much. I can’t believe you’re
asking me to read it.’

A gentle smile blooms on his face. ‘I enjoy your work a lot, Jisung,’ he says. ‘I know I push you
sometimes. Never too hard, I hope?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, no,’ he says breathlessly. Minho could push him harder. Jisung would
yield every time.

‘I care about your work,’ he says. ‘And I know what you’re capable of. So if you hand me
something I feel could be better, I want you to make it better. For me.’

‘O-of course.’ For you. For you. Always. Push me, push me, push me. See how much I can take.
See how good I can be. ‘It’s—y-you don’t. You don’t push me too hard. Your feedback means a
lot to me.’

‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘Your feedback on this story would mean a lot to me, too. I’ll email you a
copy and you can let me know when you’ve had a chance to read it?’

Jisung will read it the second he receives it. He’d lick up every drop of Minho’s attention. ‘Yes,’ he
says. ‘Yes, please. Tonight?’

‘There’s no rush. You know I won’t give you extra credit for this, right?’

‘I know,’ he says. ‘You’re not asking me as my professor. I got that part. Professor,’ he adds,
flashing a bratty smile.

Minho arches his eyebrow. ‘I’ll send it to you tonight then,’ he says. ‘Since you’re so eager.’
 Chapter 16

He checks his e-mail as soon as he’s home, but there’s nothing new. Normally, an empty inbox
would be a blessing, but now—it aches. He reloads the page. Reloads it again. Feels foolish, but
does it one more time anyway.

Still nothing.

Minho only promised he’d send it sometime tonight, and it’s still early. Just because he hasn’t sent
the story yet doesn’t mean he won’t at all. Right? It doesn’t mean it was all a hallucination. It
doesn’t mean Jisung’s desperate, delusional brain conjured up some fever dream about his
professor asking him to read his work. Even though it’s an absurd thought, even though it makes
no sense, even though he cannot comprehend why Minho would ever suggest this—it was real. It
happened.

He really promised he’d send him the story tonight.

Jisung turns his phone off silent to make sure he won’t miss the notification, then pads into the
kitchen and pours himself a glass of orange juice. He drinks it in slow sips and stares at his hands.
They’re still trembling. They won’t stop.

Since you’re so eager.

He can’t stop thinking about it. Replays every moment of their meeting, the way Minho looked at
him, the things he said. His exact words, his exact tone of voice.

He takes another sip of his juice.

And then finally—finally—his phone pings. He nearly drops it into the sink in his haste to swipe
open his e-mail again.

Dear Jisung,

I’m attaching a PDF of my short story, Stripped, Seedless. Don’t feel pressured to read it any time
soon (or at all!), but let me know if you get the chance. As I said earlier, I’d love to hear your
thoughts.

All best,

Lee Minho

It wasn’t a dream. Minho really kept his promise. The story is right here, waiting for him. Waiting
to be read.

Jisung’s stomach swoops. He lets out an embarrassing squeal, zooms into his living room, and
grabs his iPad. He opens his inbox and reads the accompanying e-mail once more—cheeks
flushing at the dear—before he downloads the PDF.

It takes a moment to load.

And then, in stark black serif letters, it spells out STRIPPED, SEEDLESS. Below it: Lee Minho.

He sucks in a breath. His blood rushes in his ears. Is this what God felt like when he created the
first animal? Or—is this what the very first animal felt like when it sprouted out of nothing? The
shock of being born. The shock of learning your body exists, that it belongs to you. Everything so
new. Unable to be undone.

He’s almost scared of reading it. Every nerve ending thrums. What if it ruins him completely? Or,
even worse, what if he doesn’t understand it? What if he doesn’t like it? What if the meaning of the
story is completely lost on him? What if he doesn’t appreciate the gift Minho bestowed on him,
what if he’s too stupid, what if this is all a test and he’s going to fail?

Minho trusted him with this. It feels significant. Jisung wants it to be significant.

He starts reading. Slowly, so slowly, careful to take in every single word. He doesn’t want to miss
anything. He sits there, barely breathing, stomach turning the further he gets. Goosebumps prickle
from his tailbone to the back of his neck. Claustrophobic in his own skin.

I’m washing the first peach when your mother calls. You roll your eyes at me but pick up
obediently, waltz through a greeting, evade each question she fires at you, steal a raspberry out of
the colander and pop it into your forever-pink mouth.

The peaches are fresh from the market. The oranges, too, and the little baskets with berries. You
wanted everything and I couldn’t say no.

Jisung gasps weakly and reads it again. Again. Minho describes the sweltering air and Jisung feels
the humidity crawl down his throat. The white-hot sun, the sharpness of summer, the dizzying
intersection of heatstroke and infatuation. The two characters are clearly in love, and there’s
something so tender about it. The story clings to his teeth like candyfloss. It’s so clean, but below
the surface something billows. Something that makes him woozy. Something he can’t bear to look
at directly.

While you parry your mum, I split a peach in half. You picked the most perfect fruits, no bruises,
the colour of a sunrise. Inside, the flesh is pale yellow and sticky-soft. It’s so ripe I barely have to
touch the pit before it slips out. Juice glistens on the chopping board. It perfumes the air.

My fingers are so slick the knife nearly slips out of my hand.

The image jolts him. The intimacy of the scene is as sweet as the fruit salad, but the level of detail
imbues it with a lewdness. Did Minho add that on purpose? He must have. Or maybe Jisung is just
sick enough to mar everything pure with his own desires. He isn’t sure what’s better. What’s
worse.

I dig my thumbs into the peeled orange and pull it apart. The pith tears. Juice spritzes on to my
wrist. You’re still talking to your mum, your voice synthetising, your fingertips playing with a loose
curl. She wants something you can’t give her. Or maybe you could, but you don’t want to. Or
maybe you just don’t know how.

He reads the story four times. Every time he reads one of Minho’s works, it’s like this. He feels
exactly like the peach, cleaved by his skilled hands. Raw all over. Unsteady.
A soft sound buds inside him. He locks his iPad and chews on the knuckle of his thumb.

In the end of the story, the narrator spreads out a blanket on the balcony floor and feeds their lover
forkfuls of the fruit salad. The softness is devastating. Each ray of sunlight is a blade.

When Jisung parts his lips, the sound doesn’t come out. It wilts in his throat.

He wants to be touched. He wants Minho to touch him. His thighs press together and his eyes close
and, inside him, arousal spritzes his organs lemonade pink.

It wasn’t a story about sex.

Was it?
 Chapter 17

Dear Professor,

I read your story. I told you I knew I would love it, and I do. I love it so much. Thank you so much
for trusting me with it. I’ve read it six times, which is embarrassing to admit, but it’s that good. It’s
incredible. My brain feels like soup. It’s so visceral. I will tell you all my thoughts next time I see
you if you still want to hear them.

Sincerely,

Jisung

Dear Jisung,

I didn’t expect to hear back from you so soon, but I’m glad you enjoyed the story. Of course I
would still love to hear more of your thoughts. Since I won’t be at the office during spring break,
and this has nothing to do with school anyway, would you be comfortable meeting at a café to
chat? Otherwise we can wait until after the break.

Let me know what works best for you.

All best,

Lee Minho

Dear Professor,

We can go to a café! I would love that!

Sincerely,

Jisung

Dear Jisung,

Wonderful. Are you free this Sunday afternoon?

All best,

Minho
‘Jisung,’ Felix says, ‘this is huge. Do you even get how fucking huge this is?’

‘I knoooow,’ he whines. ‘I’m going to die, oh my God. I am. He said dear Jisung. Like. What?
Ahhh. And he asked me to meet at a café. Like—that’s—that’s special, right? It’s like I’m
special?’

‘You are,’ he stresses. ‘You’re his special, special boy.’

‘I want to be his special boy so bad,’ he says. ‘And, and—and he—he sent me his story. Me! And
it was soo good. I still can’t believe I got to read it.’ He clenches his hands. ‘He asked me to read it.
And then he asked—he asked—ohmygod, Felix, I’m really going to die. I am.’

‘You are not,’ he says. ‘You cannot die now. You’re finally going on a real date with your hot
professor. What the fuuuuuuuuuuck.’

‘It’s not a—’

‘It’s totally a date,’ he cuts him off. ‘To-tal-ly. And I love that he’s so sly about it. The way he’s
been playing with you like this. I just know he’s a freak in bed.’

‘Shut up!’ Jisung blushes and bats at Felix’s shoulder, ducking his head to focus on his ice cream.
‘It’s—we’re just—I mean, it’s just about his story. He asked me to meet so I could give him
feedback on his story.’

‘More like he wanted to meet so he could give you feedback on how well you take his cock.’

‘Lix!’

‘Sorry, I guess.’ He winks at him, not looking sorry in the slightest, and scoops up chocolate ice
cream. ‘After the story he sent you, I thought you’d be really open to vulgarities.’

‘It wasn’t vulgar.’

Felix lifts his brows and slips his spoon into his mouth.

‘It was not,’ he says. ‘It was really sweet and, like, I don’t know, the backdrop of summer made all
the interactions and feelings so much more intense. Like, you feel kind of insane when it’s that hot
outside? He captured that feeling so well. But the story was also so sweet. The protagonist was just
making a fruit salad and then the couple had a picnic on the balcony. That’s so tender. And light. It
wasn’t vulgar.’

‘He was fucking fingering all those fruits, Jisung. Come on.’

‘He wa—you don’t even know if it’s a guy!’

‘Riiight.’ He gives him another unimpressed look and licks at his spoon. ‘Of course not. Stupid of
me to assume there’s any homoerotic subtext in the story he wrote specifically to have you read it.
My bad.’

‘He didn’t write it for me. He wrote it. And then he asked me to read it. There’s no causality.’
Felix rolls his eyes. ‘Keep lying to yourself,’ he says. ‘Anyway. What’re you going to wear?’

‘Good question,’ he pouts. ‘What should I wear?’

‘Something skimpy,’ he says. ‘Ooooh, or like a baby tee that says yes, Daddy. You know the ones?
With the pink font? I think you can get them on Etsy.’

‘Unfortunately,’ Jisung says in his most deadpan voice, ‘if I ordered one now, it wouldn’t arrive on
time. Real shame.’

‘I’ll pay for expedited shipping,’ he says. ‘Just imagine his face. It would be priceless. You’d get
to lose your virginity in a Starbucks restroom.’

‘I hate you,’ he says. ‘And we’re not even going to Starbucks.’

‘I know, babe.’ He grabs Jisung’s hand and gives it a squeeze. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll be good. Will you
wear a skirt again?’

He tugs on his earlobe. ‘I don’t know if I should,’ he mumbles. ‘It’s too, like, obvious. Maybe.
Don’t you think?’

‘Mmmm, kinda. So let’s go with jeans. High-waisted, obviously, and with a belt, because your
waist is insane and you should showcase it.’ He points his spoon at him. ‘Okay? And then you
have this really nice short-sleeved linen shirt. The one with buttons halfway down the chest, and
the buttons have this super cute embroidery detailing. You know the one?’

‘I know the one.’

‘Good,’ Felix says. ‘You should wear that. You’ll look so fuckable. I mean, you always do, but this
will just accentuate your inherent fuckability.’

Jisung rolls his eyes at him and digs up more ice cream. ‘You’re stupid,’ he says. ‘We’re just going
to talk about his story. He’s not going to fuck me.’

‘Perhaps not,’ he concedes, ‘but he’ll think about it. That’s what matters. He’ll go home and he
won’t be able to stop thinking about how cute and corruptible you are. He’ll probably write
another short story that’s just thinly veiled erotica about your virgin ass.’

‘Shut up.’ He kicks his shin. ‘You’re too much. I just told you the story was really sweet.’

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Just like your story was really sweet. ‘Cause the characters went on vacation in
Cuba and ate pizza and ice cream. The part about wanting to fuck your own dad shouldn’t distract
us from how sweet it was.’

‘I’m going to kill you,’ he says. ‘You’re the one who told me to write about sex.’

‘And I fucking love that you decided to add incest, too. Nasty boy.’

He flushes. ‘Shut up.’

He blows him a kiss and says, ‘make me.’

 Chapter 18

Roasted coffee beans scent the air of the café. Jisung is a little early, so he’ll probably have to
hover awkwardly and wait for Minho to show up. It sets his heart on edge.

If Minho will even show up. What if he doesn’t? If he doesn’t show up, Jisung will feel so stupid.
He’ll cry, even though he’s in public. He’ll lock himself in the restroom and sob because he was
stupid enough to get his hopes up.

He lets go of the door handle and takes a step further inside, casting his eyes around. The café is
airy and bright with classical music playing quietly; bamboo lamps and plants hang from the
ceiling, everything kept to a colour palette of creams, greens, and accents of gold.

When he meets Minho’s gaze, his knees nearly give out. He didn’t think he’d be here already. He
didn’t think—

Minho’s mouth curves into a smile and he gets up from his seat. ‘Jisung,’ he says. ‘You made it.
It’s nice to see you.’

‘H-hi.’ He licks his lips and tries to remember how talking is supposed to work. The shock of
seeing Minho in a simple black T-shirt has put his brain completely out of commission. He still
smells so fucking good. ‘You’re—you’re here. Already.’

‘Just got here a few minutes ago,’ he says. ‘Found us a table.’ He touches Jisung’s wrist and tugs
him out of the way and closer to the counter, gesturing at the cake displays. ‘What would you
like?’

His wrist tingles where Minho touched him. His mind spins as he looks at the available desserts,
the flaky croissants and pains au chocolat, the different cakes. ‘Um.’ He blinks, steals another look
at his professor.

‘I was playing a little game while waiting for you,’ he says, leaning a little into Jisung’s space.
‘Trying to guess what you’d go for.’

‘And what’s your guess?’

‘Something sweet.’ He smiles. ‘The sweetest thing they have, I figured.’

Jisung isn’t sure why it makes him blush. He looks back at the display and nods towards the
blueberry cheesecake. ‘Can I have a slice of that?’ he asks the barista. ‘And, um, an americano.
Iced. Thank you.’

‘Ah, so you do drink coffee,’ Minho says. ‘I wasn’t sure.’ He gives the barista a charming smile
and says, ‘can we also have one of those little peach tarts and a mocha, please.’

‘Sure,’ she says, plating the thick slice of cheesecake. ‘Do you want to pay that together or
separately?’

‘I’m paying for both of us,’ Minho says.

Jisung shudders. ‘Wh-what—?’

‘Did you think I’d let you pay yourself?’ he asks softly, lips flitting back into a smile. He swipes
his card and thanks the barista again. ‘I probably seem ancient to you, but I haven’t quite forgotten
what it’s like to be a broke student.’

‘You don’t,’ he blurts, shaking his head. Eyes gone wide. ‘You don’t seem—you’re not that old. At
all.’

Minho smiles at him and picks up the tray with their order. ‘After you.’

He almost stumbles as he walks to the table Minho picked out earlier. He sits down in the
comfortable chair and fidgets with his cake fork, nerves bursting inside him. Minho looks so good.
And he paid for Jisung’s coffee and cheesecake. It’s like—it could almost look like a date in a
different light. Sort of. Maybe?

‘How’s your weekend been?’ Minho asks, taking a slow sip of his mocha.

Oh, you know, I thought of you and masturbated furiously, haha. The usual.

He licks his lips. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Nothing special. I read your story like five hundred times.’

The slightest trace of pink dusts Minho’s cheeks. ‘That’s a lot of times.’

‘It’s a good story,’ he says. ‘I didn’t want to—didn’t want to miss anything.’

‘Ah.’ He nods, forks off a small bite of his tart. Doesn’t eat it yet. ‘And what did you think of it?’

‘Life-changing,’ he says. ‘Everything about you—about your work is life-changing. Devastating.’

His gaze doesn’t falter as he picks up his cup and takes another sip. ‘Devastating?’

‘In a good way,’ he says. He looks down at his plate and eats a small bite of his cheesecake. He
sucks on the prongs of his fork and hums. ‘Like, it’s always so intense. The atmosphere, and your
characters. I feel like I’m part of the story. Like I’m in the story.’

‘You flatter me.’ He adjusts the thin leather braid looped around his left wrist. ‘Remember, I’m not
your professor right now. You don’t have to be nice because you’re worried I’ll give you a bad
grade.’

‘I’m not,’ he insists. ‘Professor, I’m not just being nice. It was really—’ He shakes his head, lost
for words. ‘It made me woozy. Reading it.’ He touches his own warm cheeks, embarrassed by the
admission. ‘I kept reading it and I got so dizzy.’

‘You did?’ He finally brings the forkful of peach tart to his mouth and chews it slowly.

Jisung nods and picks up his plastic cup, sucks his straw between his lips and takes a sip of iced
coffee. ‘Yeah. All the descriptions of the fruit made me lightheaded. I could never write something
like that.’

‘Yes, you could,’ he says. ‘Your last story was wonderful. I felt like I was part of that, too.’

He ducks his head again. ‘Well. Thank you, Professor.’ He licks at his fork. ‘You should give me a
really good grade then,’ he tacks on, bravely catching his eyes once more.

‘You’re already getting the best grades possible. Aren’t you?’

‘I do my best,’ he says, his voice just slightly breathless. He hopes Minho doesn’t notice. ‘For
you.’
‘You do very well.’ He eats another bite of his dessert. ‘I can’t tell you you’re the best in class
because I’m not supposed to pick favourites. But.’

He feels a rush of heat bloom up his cheeks and makes a strangled sound. ‘But?’

‘You’re quite good.’

How devastating. How is he supposed to survive this? ‘I thought—’ He licks his lips. Doesn’t look
away. ‘I thought you weren’t my professor right now.’

‘Aha.’ He puts down his cup and rests his hand on the table. There are inches of space between
their fingers, but Jisung still feels the heat that radiates from Minho’s skin. His little finger
twitches. ‘How you’ve ensnared me.’

He isn’t even breathing any more. He takes another long, dizzying look at Minho’s eyes before he
fumbles with his fork and eats more of his cake. ‘You really didn’t have to pay, you know,’ he
says. ‘I didn’t—I’m not that broke.’

‘It was my pleasure.’

He almost drops his fork. It’s just so—everything is so much. Everything overwhelms him. He
angles his body to the side and opens his tote bag. ‘I, um, I actually—I printed your story.’ He pulls
it out of his bag and neatens out a crease in the paper. ‘I wrote some notes and thoughts.
Highlighted a lot of parts that I liked. It’s probably—you probably don’t—’ He chances another
look at Minho, but the intensity of his gaze only overwhelms him even more. ‘My thoughts are
probably stupid, so I don’t know if—if you want it.’

‘That’s incredible,’ Minho says. ‘Thank you. Please let me read your notes, Jisung.’

‘O-okay.’ He slides the papers across the table. Their hands briefly touch. ‘You can ignore
everything. If you think it’s dumb.’

‘I won’t ignore anything.’ After another beat, he looks away from Jisung’s face and focuses on the
first page. ‘Ah, the peaches.’ He turns his eyes back to him and smiles. ‘And reading this made you
dizzy?’

His mouth falls open and he nearly whines. ‘Yeah,’ he says, voice cracking. ‘I felt like—I could
really taste it. The fruit salad. The peaches.’

‘Mm, peaches are my favourite fruit,’ he says, pointedly forking off another mouthful of his tart.
‘You’re allowed to put just a little bit of yourself into your work, aren’t you?’

Jisung keeps looking at Minho’s mouth. ‘You—you are.’ He can’t make his voice louder than a
whisper. ‘Just—just a little. Sometimes it’s hard not to.’

‘It is,’ he says. ‘Thank you for this, Jisung. It means a lot to me that you took the time for it.’

In what universe would he ever have said no? Not this one, certainly. Jisung can’t imagine a
universe where he isn’t obsessed with Minho. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I’m—thank you. You didn’t
have to share it with me. But you—you did.’

‘I did,’ he says. ‘I wanted your reactions. Thank you for giving them to me.’

He slides his straw between his lips again and hopes Minho somehow doesn’t notice how badly
he’s blushing. Or, maybe—maybe he hopes he likes it instead. He hopes Felix is right. He hopes
Minho finds him fuckable. Blushing should help with that, shouldn’t it? He flicks at his dangly
earring and sets his drink down again. ‘I would—um, anything. I’d give it to you. I mean, if there’s
ever anything else—I mean, if—’ His tongue tangles in his mouth. The words are coming out all
wrong and he burns under Minho’s eyes. ‘I just mean—I feel really, really, really special that you
shared this with me and if you ever write anything else you want to share, but I can’t imagine why
you’d share it with me, and I just—I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ he says, and nudges his thumb against Jisung’s knuckles. ‘Why are you sorry?’

‘I’m embarrassing,’ he mumbles. Bravely, he shifts his hand so it touches Minho’s again. He
doesn’t move away. ‘You’re so—incredible. I’m just a broke student.’

His face brightens into the loveliest smile. ‘You just told me you’re not that broke,’ he says. ‘Be
honest now, how many times do you eat cup noodles during a normal week?’

‘Stop,’ he says. ‘Like, five. Probably. But that’s because I don’t know how to cook.’

‘I’ll have to cook you a proper meal then,’ he says. ‘Or you’ll get scurvy.’

‘Hhng.’ He blinks and blinks and blinks. Did he just suggest—? But why would he—? ‘You—you
can cook?’

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I’m an adult, Jisung. Do you have any favourite meals?’

‘I like katsukare a lot,’ he says after a beat. The idea of Minho cooking for him still whirlwinds
through him. Glossy images sprout inside his brain and they all make him shudder. Minho inviting
him to his home. Minho cooking for him. Minho making Jisung feel so, so special. ‘Um, do you—
do you like to cook, or is it just something you can do?’

‘I enjoy it,’ he says. ‘It’s a different kind of creativity than writing.’

‘That makes sense,’ he says. ‘Maybe one day I can learn how to cook something other than cup
noodles.’

‘Definitely,’ he says. ‘It’s just like any skill. It can be learned if you practise.’

‘I think I learn best with, um, instructions?’ He clears his throat with a small sip of his drink. ‘Like,
I’d need someone to teach me and show me how it works. And they’d probably have to be really
patient with me because I’m—I’m really, I mean, I’ve never cooked before.’

Minho looks at him for a moment so long it starts to feel like an exorcism. ‘You’re young,’ he
says. ‘You have all the time in the world to learn how to cook. I’m sure you’ll find a good teacher.’

‘You think so?’ he asks. ‘I mean, maybe—there are probably better students than me.’

‘Didn’t we just talk about how you’re my favourite?’

This time, his cake fork really does slip out of his hand. His whole body spasms and he makes the
most embarrassing noise. ‘You said—you said you’re not supposed to pick favourites.’

‘Ah, true.’ He smiles kindly and leans a little bit closer. ‘How about we just keep it between you
and me then? It’ll be our little secret.’

He’s going to die. He’s going to collapse on the café floor and never wake up again. ‘Hhhhhhghg
o-okay,’ he squeaks, whining as if Minho had touched him. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘Good, good.’ He taps his fingertips against the printed copy of his short story. ‘Now, I can’t wait
to read all your comments tonight. You’re so lovely doing this for me.’ He rewards him with
another soft smile. ‘Can I ask you for just one last thing?’

‘Of course!’ he says. ‘Anything.’

‘Could I have your phone number?’ he asks, and neatly splits Jisung’s world open. ‘In case your
thoughts arouse any questions. I’d send you an e-mail, but I don’t know if you’ll be checking your
inbox during the spring break?’

‘I—I, I—’

‘Not that there’s any rush,’ he continues. ‘You don’t have to give me anything you don’t want to,
Jisung.’

‘NO!’ he blurts. ‘Please. Please, you can—you can have my number. Please text me if there’s—if
there’s anything. Anything.’

Minho smiles at him. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘If I need you to clarify anything for me, I’ll text you.’
 Chapter 19
Chapter Notes

note: mentioned underage sex and pregnancy

Lube still clings to his fingers, so it takes three tries before his phone registers that he’s trying to
pick up Felix’s call. ‘H-hi,’ he mumbles, and cringes at the fucked-out state of his voice. He wipes
his hand sloppily at his thigh, but his skin still feels sticky. ‘What’s up?’

‘Oh my God,’ Felix says. ‘Did you—oh my fucking God, did he just take your virginity?’

‘Who?’ Jisung squeals. His eyes snap open. He jolts up on his elbows. ‘What?’

‘Are you in your professor’s bed right now?’ he asks, delirious excitement bleeding into his voice.
Jisung can imagine him bouncing on his couch. ‘I knew it! Did he invite you home with him to
fuck after you left the café? Did it hurt? How big is he? If you say eight inches, I’m going to be so
pissed-off.’

Jisung rolls on to his side, throws his pillow over his head, and inhales deeply to even out his
breathing. ‘I’m not in his bed,’ he finally says. ‘Why would you—of course I’m not.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘Ugh,’ Felix says. ‘I was so sure.’

He fumbles with the edge of his blanket and huffs. He’s sticky and sore everywhere; he pushed his
fingers inside himself, his fingers that Minho touched. He made himself come three times, made
himself feel good, but it would’ve been so much better if it’d been Minho’s fingers inside him
instead. If he’d really taken him home the way Felix assumed, if he’d taken Jisung apart slow piece
by slow piece. ‘Why would you even think that?’

‘You’re out of breath,’ he says. ‘And your voice keeps cracking. Sue me for making the most
obvious assumption that you just had sex.’

‘My virginity’s still intact,’ he says. ‘Sorry to disappoint. I was just—I mean. You know. I’m
alone.’

Felix snorts. ‘You picked up my call while masturbating?’

‘I was done,’ he says. ‘Do you want me to hang up again?’

‘No, no, no!’ he insists, voice still carbonated with joy. ‘I want to hear all about your date. I take it
that it went well since you had to fuck yourself about it, but that it also could’ve gone a lot better
since you had to fuck yourself about it.’

‘It wasn’t a date,’ he says lamely. ‘But it was—’ He shifts on to his other side and kicks at his
blanket where it’s tangling around his feet. He’s radiant. He could catch fire any second. He could
levitate all the way to the moon. ‘Lix, he asked for my number.’

‘WHAT?’ he screeches. ‘Holy shit. Please tell me you recorded everything you just did to yourself.
You need to send him the video immediately.’

‘I don’t have his number,’ he mumbles.

‘He asked for your number but didn’t give you his?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘It was—I gave him my notes on his story and he asked for my number in case he
has any questions. He might not even text me.’

‘Okay, back up,’ Felix says. ‘Tell me everything that happened between you. I need to know right
now.’

‘Can I please go wash my hands first?’

‘A good boy would lick them clean.’

‘Fuck off,’ Jisung says, embarrassed to hear his voice rise in pitch again. He lets go of his phone
and stumbles out of bed to the bathroom. He soaps up his hands and rubs away the dried lube and
cum; cleaning up the uncomfortable mess between his legs will have to wait, because he’ll implode
if he doesn’t get to talk to Felix right now, so he dries his hands roughly and hurries back to his
bedroom. ‘Sorry. Hi. I’m back.’

‘Hi again,’ Felix says. ‘I just got cookies and a can of Pepsi. Tell me everything.’

Jisung falls into bed and whines. Where does he even begin? Everything was so acute. His body
feels rewired. Minho touched him again, and he paid for his cheesecake, and everything he said
was supercharged with something Jisung doesn’t know how to pick apart. He said he’d have to
cook for him. He said Jisung is his favourite student. He said it’d have to be their little secret.
‘Felix.’ He sighs dramatically. He goes full Period Drama Heroine and presses the back of his hand
to his forehead. ‘Eight inches would be an understatement. You don’t even understand.’

His bright laugh mingles with the crack and fizzing as he opens his soda. ‘This is what they mean
when they say good things come to those who wait,’ he says. ‘If I hadn’t been a whore at sixteen,
maybe my first time would’ve been better. I could’ve been spoiled with good dick by someone who
actually knows how to use it.’

‘There is no possible version of you that wouldn’t have sucked dick during puberty.’

‘Can you blame me, though?’ he says. ‘With a mouth like this? I would’ve been on Teen Mom if
God had given me a pussy.’

‘Your baby would be so cute, though.’

‘My baby would be the cutest,’ he says. ‘I wish someone could knock me up for real.’

‘Life is so unfair,’ he manages between bursts of laughter.

‘Tell me about it,’ Felix says. Jisung can hear his smile. He loves his smile more than almost
anything else in this world. ‘Anyway. We’re supposed to be talking about your new baby daddy.’

‘God.’ He takes a breath. His stomach twists, embarrassed to recall his own pink-cheeked
stammering, his obvious pining. Still turned-on, too. ‘He was already there when I got to the café,’
he begins, words blurring, rambling about what Minho wore and how he looked at Jisung and
everything he said. How it felt to be alone with him. The brief touches, the eye contact, his brain
reconstructed. Everything too much and still not enough at all. Will it ever be enough? Will he ever
get everything he craves so desperately?

‘His favourite,’ Felix says. ‘He said that? Sung-ah, pleeeeeease. He wants to make you his little
trophy wife so bad.’

‘Shut uuup.’

‘Aw, come on. Don’t act like you care about emancipation. You’d love to be his stay-at-home sex
toy.’

‘With a mouth like this?’ he parrots. ‘Can you blame me?’

Felix snorts. ‘Not at all.’

‘Lix,’ he mumbles a moment later. ‘Do you think—um, do you…’

‘What?’ he prompts. ‘Do I think the reason he hasn’t called you yet is because he’s a sadistic freak
and also busy masturbating? Yeah. For sure.’

‘No,’ he says. He puts his hand over his eyes. The words he wants to say are right there in his
throat, but they taste like bile and gunpowder. He can’t get them out. It’s mortifying to even think
it. He can’t—insecurity beats objectivity every time. There’s no way to believe that Minho is
actually interested in him. Even if everything he says feels suggestive, purposefully ambiguous.
There’s a line somewhere between flirtation and courtesy, and it feels—it feels like Minho has
crossed it often. But Jisung can’t trust it. He can’t. ‘Lix, it’s like—he’s—the things he says, it’s—
I’m not imagining it, right? That it’s—that it’s like—like it’s something. Yeah? I’m not just going
insane?’

‘You are not going insane,’ Felix says smoothly. Level-headed enough for the both of them. ‘He’s
flirting with you.’

‘Sure?’

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘He’s toying with you, really.’

‘Hhgnghnghnggg.’ That’s the new fear vocalised. What if this all means something, but not what
Jisung wants it to mean? What if it’ll only get even more humiliating? He can’t let him himself
believe that Minho wants him, because he might not. He might not want him at all and it’d—it’d be
even more mortifying than everything already is. ‘Lix—’ His voice cracks completely. Suddenly,
he just wants to cry. ‘I think—I know it’s—it’s different. The way he treats me. A little? But what
if it’s—whatifhe’slaughingatme?’ he finally manages. He pushes his knuckles into his eyes. ‘What
if I’m just a joke to him?’

‘Oh,’ Felix says, a beat late. Quiet enough it breaks Jisung’s heart. ‘Oh, honey. No. No, it’s not—
no. No, don’t think that.’

‘It might be true,’ he whispers hoarsely. ‘It might just—it might be—’

‘Baby,’ he says, ‘please don’t say that. That’s your anxiety.’

‘That’s all I am.’ He manages a humourless laugh. ‘That’s all I am, Lix.’
‘No,’ Felix says. ‘It’s not. You are so much more than that. And this isn’t true. It’s not.’

‘You don’t know that,’ he says. ‘You don’t. Why else would he—why would he—’

‘Because you’re good,’ he says. ‘Because you’re ruinable and sweet. Because your writing is
incredible. Because you’re—fuck, I don’t know. Because you like him and you’re likeable and
you’re great and why wouldn’t he want you?’

‘Why would he?’ he repeats. ‘I’m—I’m not special, Lix. I’m not worth it.’

‘Sung-ah,’ he says, ‘you’re worth everything. He’s—why would he string you along if he doesn’t
want anything? It doesn’t make sense. You’re his student. He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t be that
fucking unethical. He can’t fuck with your head like that. I promise, this is just—don’t worry about
this. Don’t. He’s not laughing at you.’

‘I don’t know.’ Why does everything suddenly hurt? When it should be beautiful, when he just got
to spend time with him privately, when the entire café visit twined sequins around his heart? It was
so lovely. Why does he have to panic about it now? ‘I don’t know, Lix, I just—maybe he is.
Maybe it’s all—some kind of practical joke.’

‘It’s not,’ he says. ‘It’s not, it’s not, it’s not. Please. Do you want me to come over? We can watch
Netflix. Or we can go out. Wanna go drinking?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘No, I just—I don’t know what I want.’

‘Ice cream? Strawberry daquiris? I’m going to bring my Switch and we’re going to play Animal
Crossing.’

He wants to argue. He wants to be alone and he wants to poke the bruise of his own hopeless heart,
but he knows Felix won’t relent. Because he’s a good friend. Because he’s the best friend. And it’ll
help. It’ll help to not be alone. ‘Fiiiine,’ he mutters. ‘But I still need to shower.’

‘You better hurry then, baby. I’ve already put on pants.’

 Chapter 20
Chapter Notes

note: another daddy joke

playlist

Sunday

Unknown [9:04 pm]

Good evening Jisung,
I’ve read through all your comments & edited Stripped, Seedless another time. Thank you again
for taking the time to read it and giving such thorough, thoughtful feedback. I appreciate it a lot.
I also wanted to thank you for meeting me today. I had a lovely time with you.
Enjoy your spring break and rest well. I’ll be flying to Japan early tomorrow; I hope you have nice
plans, too. I’ll see you again in a little less than two weeks’ time.
All best,
Minho.

‘Lovely.’ Felix presses his fingertip into Jisung’s chest over and over. ‘He had a lovely time with
you. Oh, that fucking asshole. He knows how he could’ve made it a lot lovelier.’

Jisung’s eyes stay fixated on his phone screen. He keeps rereading the text. ‘Liiix,’ he says. ‘Lix,
oh my God, he—he edited it? The story? The way I edit my stories after getting his comments?’

‘That’s what you’re focusing on?’

‘It’s a big deal,’ he says. It is. It feels so enormous. He offered something useful to Minho,
something that he found worthwhile. He’d worried all his comments would seem childish. He’d
worried Minho would only regret sharing this story with him, so this—this is dizzying. He reads
the text another time and blinks up at Felix. ‘I appreciate it a lot,’ he reads out loud. ‘He
appreciates me. It. He—he—Lix, he—’

‘I know, babe.’ Felix slurps up a mouthful of the overpriced strawberry juice he brought as a
special treat because Jisung was feeling so bad. ‘He wants to pin you down and show you just how
much he appreciates you. Come on, he’s practically keeping a countdown till he’ll see you again.’

‘Nooo.’ He hides his face in his hands. ‘Stop. Don’t say that.’

‘I can’t believe a single text from him effectively cured your depression,’ he says. ‘I’m gonna call
whoever’s in charge of editing the DSM. I’ve got great news for the future of psychiatry.’
 Tuesday

Lee Minho [2:12 pm]

IMG_3091.HEIC
Saw this wild rabbit today and it reminded me of your short story.

His phone slips out of his clumsy hands when he reads the message. He was sure—he didn’t expect
Minho would text him again. Ever. His heart starts to jackhammer. Goosebumps break out across
his arms. He scrambles to pick up his phone again and stares at the screen. The blurry image. The
thirteen words. An omen of some kind. Signifying something.

Can symbolism apply to real life?

He thinks of Minho in Japan, lounging on a park bench with a novel and spotting the rabbit. Thinks
of him in a white T-shirt and nice jeans, his hair tousled, a slow smile building. Hauntingly
attractive. What it would be like to be there with him.

What this moment means. If it means anything at all.

He wants it to. He hopes it does.

What can he even text back?

He knows that Minho only messaged him because he was reminded of Jisung’s short story, but still
—it feels surreal. Something reminded him of Jisung. He thought of Jisung. He thought of him
long enough to snap a photograph of the rabbit and type out a message.

Not an e-mail, but a text. Nothing official, nothing to do with class, and during spring break—just
him, his private self. Reaching out to Jisung’s private self.

He makes a soft, whiny noise, and chews on the knuckle of his thumb. What should he say? He
doesn’t want to make it weird. If he makes it weird, Minho will never text him again. If he ruins it
now, it’s ruined forever.

It feels like there’s soap in his mouth, or an egg. If he breathes too hard, it’ll break. All the sharp
bits of shell will be in his throat.

It’ll all be over.

Han Jisung [2:15 pm]

it’s so cute!!!
i love bunnies ☺️
are you having a nice time in japan?

Lee Minho [2:20 pm]

I am!
Are you enjoying your break as well?

Han Jisung [2:22 pm]

a lot!!!
so used to your class on wednesdays though
feels weird i won’t see you tomorrow
Lee Minho [2:23 pm]
Aw
But we’ll be seeing each other next week!

Han Jisung [2:23 pm]

that’s a long time away ☹️

Lee Minho [2:24 pm]

I thought you’d all be thrilled you don’t have to see me for a whole week.
Do you think all your classmates are this impatient for the break to be over, too?
Or is it just you?

Han Jisung [2:26 pm]

might just be me
maybe i’m special

Wednesday

‘Okay, now let me get one of you too—’ Felix insists, changing the angle of his phone. ‘With your
fingers in your mouth. Come on, gimme your best bedroom eyes. You can moan Daddy if that
makes it easier for you.’

‘FELIX!’ he says. ‘Just—just take a picture of the picnic set-up. I’m not going to send him a
picture of me sucking on my fingers.’

‘Why not?’ he asks. ‘You should show him how pretty you are with something in your mouth.’

‘No, it’s embarrassing,’ he says. ‘And I look bad right now. Just—just be normal, please.’

‘Fiiine,’ he says. ‘Whatever. Be boring.’

Han Jisung [8:12 pm]

IMG_8921.HEIC
had a picnic with my friend today
we made fruit salad so i thought of your story too ☺️

Lee Minho [9:02 pm]

Ah, that looks amazing.
Did you have fun?

Han Jisung [9:03 pm]

i did

Friday
Lee Minho [5:13 pm]
IMG_4219.HEIC
Had cheesecake at a small bakery today. Thought of you when I saw what a big selection of sweet
treats they had.

Han Jisung [5:15 pm]

that looks soooooo good

Lee Minho [5:20 pm]

It was! I think you would’ve liked it a lot.
Have you ever been to Tokyo before?

Han Jisung [5:21 pm]

i haven’t
i’d really love to go though

Lee Minho [5:22 pm]

Maybe one day you’ll get the chance to visit.

‘Oh my God,’ Felix says.

‘Nnnnngg I know,’ he says. ‘He—he thought of me. Again.’

‘He thought of bringing you there,’ he says. ‘He wants to take you to fucking Tokyo.’

‘I’m going to die,’ he whispers, looking at the picture Minho sent again. How is this really
happening? How is his professor texting him? How is he—how is this—how is this not a fever
dream?

‘He’ll buy you a little sweet treat at that café and then bring you back to the hotel,’ Felix continues.
‘He wants to eat you out sooo bad. He’s probably so good at it, too.’

‘Shut uuup.’ He pushes at Felix’s shoulder, but he can’t keep the laugh out of his voice. His cheeks
ache. There’s candyfloss twined around his heart ‘Shut up, shut up. It’s not—I just feel so—
special. Kind of? He’s actually—I mean, he’s texting me. We’re—we text? And he—he—’

‘He’s going to whisk you away to Japan,’ he says dreamily. ‘God, they tell you to go into STEM if
you want money, and then you major in creative writing and bag a fucking sugar daddy. I hate you
so much.’
 Chapter 21

Han Jisung [10:12 am]

class today!!!
i’ll see you later ☺️

Lee Minho [10:35 am]

At least one student is excited spring break is over.

Han Jisung [10:36 am]

i’m not excited spring break is over
i’m excited for your class
keep up professor

Lee Minho [10:36 am]

Do you think you’ll still be excited after I assign this week’s homework?

Han Jisung [10:37 am]

if it’s too hard can i come to your office hours for help? ☺️

Lee Minho [10:38 am]

Any time, Jisung.
I’ll see you later.

He frets with the lid of his water bottle and makes eye contact with nobody except the table. It feels
like everyone can see it on him, like they can tell he’s been texting Minho. It’s not that it’s a secret,
but it’s—it’s just special. His heart trembles when he thinks of how his classmates might know,
what they might think, how they interpret the fluorescent sign of his body.

‘Good afternoon,’ Minho says when he enters the classroom with that familiar, easy smile on his
face. He sets down his satchel and takes a seat. ‘Did you enjoy your spring break?’

Jisung worries at his lower lip and steals a glance at Minho. He says nothing, lets his classmates
respond in a jumbled chorus. Their eyes haven’t met yet, and he isn’t sure if he wants that to
happen or not. He might pass out. He hasn’t stop quivering since he got the first text message from
Minho, and then the second. Every time his phone lights up, he nearly flinches out of his own
body. Whenever it’s Minho’s name on the screen, he starts blushing.

‘I went to Barcelona with my grandmother,’ Katharina says. ‘It was fun. I ate, like, so many
churros.’

‘That sounds lovely,’ Minho says. ‘Don’t think you can ever have too many churros. Barcelona’s a
beautiful city. I went to Tokyo.’ He lets his words hover for a moment and turns his head enough to
catch Jisung’s eyes. Something about his smile makes him duck his head, this electric current
straight through him. ‘It was nice. Hopefully I’ll get to go again soon.’
Jisung grasps the edge of the table. He grinds his teeth to kill the sound in his throat, but even
breathing feels like it reveals too much. Each inhalation staccatos. Last night, Minho told him to
sleep well. He lay awake for over an hour just thinking about it, that casual kindness. The fact that
it meant nothing, but it also meant everything.

A bit more idle chatter about the spring break segues them into class properly. They workshop a
story about ghosts and orange soda. Someone in the story was killed, but you never find out who it
was. You only know they lived until they didn’t any more. Until the gun. Or the benzodiazepine.
Whatever it was.

Someone says he doesn’t like the uncertainty. It should be clearer. ‘I just don’t think it matters this
way,’ he says. ‘If you don’t know who was killed, or how they were killed. I think the reader needs
to know or you don’t care about the death.’

Jisung raises his voice to disagree. ‘I think—’ He straightjackets his trembling heart. ‘I think the
ambiguity makes it better. You don’t only matter once you’re given a name. I think it hurts more to
keep it like this, to keep us—to keep us in the dark. We don’t know how they were killed, but that
makes it even sadder to me. It matters that they’re dead. I don’t know, I think it works this way.’

‘But it’s not specific,’ he says. ‘It’s the opposite. Professor Lee is always saying we need to be
relentlessly specific.’

He fights the instinct to look down at his own hands. ‘Sometimes the less you know the more it
hurts.’

Someone else says something, and Jisung stays quiet for the rest of class. While his classmates
start to trickle out, he dawdles with his iPad and takes a slow sip of his water. Pretends the zip of
his rucksack gets stuck. So stupid, so unbearably obvious. He slides out of his seat and trails after
Mai and Katharina on their way out of the classroom. In the doorway, he comes to a stop—he
looks at his feet and takes another breath before turning around again, nerves splattering his insides
cherry red.

Weeks ago, he lingered like this. He wanted Minho’s attention, but he didn’t get it. Not in the way
he wanted it. The embarrassment of that moment still smarts, but this—it should be different now.
Something has shifted between them. Just earlier today, they texted. Minho told the class that he
went to Japan, but Jisung already knew that. Jisung knew because Minho was sending him pictures
from Tokyo. He was sending him pictures of things that reminded him of him.

He clears the sticky shyness out of his throat.

Minho looks at him and his mouth curves into a slight smile. ‘Hi, Jisung.’

‘H-hi.’ He lets go of the door and watches it inch closer to the frame. ‘Professor.’

‘So,’ he says, leaning against the table, ‘are you still excited the break is over?’

He sits down on a table and swings his legs. ‘Not really. I thought our professor would be nicer,’ he
says. ‘But he gave us a lot of homework already.’

‘How mean,’ Minho says. ‘Maybe you should report him for that.’

‘Maybe. But I think I’d miss him too much.’

‘Aw,’ he says. ‘So you’re just going to let him get away with it?’
He clutches the table a little tighter. ‘Maybe I can blackmail him into giving me an A.’

Minho’s smile blooms into a laugh. ‘I can’t encourage that,’ he says. ‘Bad behaviour rarely gets
rewarded.’

‘And good behaviour does?’

‘Eventually,’ he says. ‘I’m glad you had a nice spring break, Jisung. I liked that picture you sent. It
looked like you had fun with your friend.’

‘H—hh, I did. Yeah.’

‘The same friend who dared you to wear that skirt?’

His mouth drops open. ‘Um. Yeah.’

‘Haven’t seen you wear one in a while,’ he says. ‘Maybe he should dare you again.’

The room sways a little. His body magnolias. He keeps looking at Minho’s face even though it puts
a match to his too-flammable heart. ‘Y-yeah,’ he says. ‘Maybe he should.’

‘I don’t know if you saw,’ he says, fixing his shirt sleeve, ‘but Manami Ono is visiting campus on
Friday for a reading. Her new book came out just last month.’

‘I didn’t see,’ Jisung says with a little shake of his head. Whiplashed. ‘I know you—I know we
read one of her stories in class. Didn’t we?’

‘We did,’ he says. ‘Attendance isn’t mandatory, of course. It never is for these events, but I
thought I’d mention it. I thought you might like to go.’

‘S-sure. Of course. This Friday?’

‘This Friday,’ he says. ‘It’s at four. And it’s free.’

‘Will I see you there?’

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘But like I said, it’s not mandatory. I won’t give you extra credit for coming.’

‘I don’t need extra credit,’ Jisung says. ‘You know that mean professor I mentioned? He says I’m
his favourite.’
 Chapter 22

‘Ah,’ Minho says, ‘there you are. Wasn’t sure you were going to show up.’

‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ he says, breathless after hurrying here from the bus stop. Breathless after
breathing in the scent of Minho’s cologne, after feeling his eyes trail down his body. He never
thought of not showing up; he just spent too long messing with his earrings and overthinking the
skirt, so he nearly missed his bus. It’s not like this is a date, but he still wanted to look good. For
him. Always, for him. Every day he hears the ghost of Minho’s voice, the hallucinatory good boy,
a murmur that might’ve been imagined. The desire to hear it again presses against his windpipe all
the time.

Minho’s smile is jaggedly patient. ‘Come here, then,’ he says. ‘It’s starting soon.’

He wobbles after Minho into the auditorium and takes a seat next to him. Too conscious of his own
skin, he skims a hand over the fabric of his tennis skirt. Have his knees always looked like this?
Does his body look as strange to Minho as it does to himself, as oddly shaped, as wrong?
Something off about it. Like his skeleton is put together incorrectly. Like his blood wouldn’t be red
if it oozed out of him right now.

Anxiety deranges you. Why is he worrying about how his bones connect?

Manami looks nothing like Jisung imagined her. She wears a pumpkin-coloured bouffant dress and
hot pink Mary Janes. She speaks in snappy, accented sentences and claps her small hands in
excitement every time she gets a question. Her new book is called CREAM, SHARP, INDIGO,
and Jisung falls in love by the second paragraph of her reading.

‘How’re you liking it so far?’ Minho’s breath tickles the shell of Jisung’s ear, his voice close and
quiet enough that nobody else will be disturbed.

Jisung flinches, his heart jolting into his throat. ‘G-good,’ he whispers, turning his head to look at
him properly. ‘She’s really good.’

‘She is.’ He withdraws from Jisung’s personal space but keeps his eyes on him for another
paralysing moment, then gives his knee a short squeeze and looks back at Manami.

It’s difficult to focus properly after that, so the rest of the reading passes in a blur. Someone asks
her if she ever struggles with writer’s block, and she laughs with her entire body. ‘Of course,’ she
says. ‘But then I put down my pen and go outside. The words will come eventually, if they want to.
They’re like little children. You shouldn’t force them.’

His knee still itches where Minho touched it. He presses his thumb into the patella and chances
another peek at him, stares at the sharp line of his jaw. Wants to touch it. Wants to see if it hurts.

Minho isn’t looking at Jisung. Why would he be?

By the time the event comes to a close, Jisung is buzzing. He folds and unfolds his hands in his
lap, nervous again, a wishbone in his throat. ‘She’s s-so good,’ he stammers. ‘Thank you for
mentioning this. I can’t believe I would’ve missed it otherwise.’

‘Of course.’ Minho touches right above Jisung’s knee and presses down till his leg stops bouncing.
‘I’m glad you came. And that you enjoyed it.’
Goosebumps prickle his skin.

Minho pulls his hand away again and smiles kindly. ‘Do you have plans now?’

‘N-no,’ he chokes, that bird’s bone still see-sawing in his throat. He isn’t sure what Minho means,
if he even means anything, if he’s just making polite conversation. His own longing makes
everything so potent. Everything Minho says feels like an invitation, an instruction. Everything he
says feels unremarkable. ‘No. Do you?’

‘I don’t, no,’ he says. ‘Unless you want to go get a drink somewhere? It’s too late for coffee or I’ll
be up all night.’

‘I’m—y-yes.’ He keeps blinking. He wonders if people are looking at them, what they’re thinking
if they are. If anything about this seems forbidden. It shouldn’t. It’s all in Jisung’s head. There’s
nothing illicit about a professor talking to one of his students. He can’t tear his eyes away from
Minho long enough to check, and maybe he doesn’t really want to know anyway. Doesn’t want to
know if anyone’s watching. ‘We could—if you don’t have other plans.’

‘I just told you I don’t,’ he says. ‘There’s a decent bar a few streets away from here.’

‘Okay.’ He licks his lips. Rubs his thumb at the hemline of his skirt. ‘How’d you find that place?
Do you go there to drink when your students get to your head?’

‘You know it.’ Still smiling, he gets up from his chair and ushers Jisung out of the auditorium.
‘You could drop the plural suffix, though.’

‘I see.’ He tries to sound breezy, but he knows how obvious he is. He looks at Minho again when
they exit the building, his warm eyes, the curve of his smile. When he straightens his spine, they’re
nearly the same height. Nearly, but not quite. It’s a warm evening, but he still trembles as he walks
next to Minho. ‘Did you read CREAM, SHARP, INDIGO already?’

‘Have about a third left,’ Minho says. ‘You should read it, too.’

‘I want to,’ he says. ‘After that reading. What the fuck. I want to read it right now.’

Minho laughs softly and steers him down a side street. ‘You can borrow it when I’m done with it,’
he says. ‘If you want to.’ He looks at him for a second and pushes open the door of the bar,
gesturing for Jisung to step inside first.

‘I’d love to,’ he says. ‘When I finish, I can come to your office and tell you all my thoughts.’

‘You should,’ he says. ‘I’m sure you have a lot of thoughts.’ He touches the small of his back
lightly. He doesn’t push, but the pressure impels Jisung further into the bar. ‘What would you like
to drink?’

Jisung looks at all the bottles for a second, then at Minho again. ‘Um, I dunno. What would you
suggest?’

‘You’ll let me choose for you?’ he asks. ‘Risky. You like sweet things, yes?’

‘I do.’

‘Okay.’ He turns his head and flags down the bartender. ‘Can we get an Old Fashioned and a Porn
Star Martini?’
Jisung thinks he makes a sound, but maybe it never escapes his mouth. He grabs the edge of the
bar and watches as the bartender gets down a bottle of Passoã and prepares their drinks.

Before Jisung has even caught his breath again, Minho pays and guides him into a seat. ‘It’s got
vanilla-flavoured vodka and passion fruit juice,’ he says. ‘Sweet enough for you, I hope.’

‘Sure.’ His fingers tremble when he pinches the thin stem of the cocktail glass. He looks at Minho
when he takes a small sip, flicks his tongue across his lip as he sets it back down. ‘Nice choice,
Professor.’

‘Good to hear.’ He takes a sip of his own drink and leans back in his seat. ‘Still excited that the
break’s over?’

‘Never been this excited,’ he says. ‘And you?’

‘Ah, you know I like my job. But I wouldn’t turn down another week in Tokyo,’ he says. ‘Would
you?’

He should be dead with how often his heart has been electrocuted. He shouldn’t be alive to hear
this, to sit here, to offer himself like the most willing prey. ‘No,’ he says, shaking his head lightly.
‘Of course I wouldn’t. I told you I’d love to go one day.’

‘You did.’

Jisung can only stomach the eye contact for another second. He ducks his head and takes another
sip of his drink. The vodka creeps through the mask of sweetness and scrapes down his throat.
‘Did you write anything while you were there?’

‘A bit,’ Minho says. ‘Nothing substantial. It’s funny Manami talked about writer’s block. I feel like
I’ve been struggling with that, but it’s not that I don’t have ideas. There are things I want to write
about. It just won’t come out right.’

‘Oh, I—I feel like that a lot,’ he says. ‘All the time, actually. I never manage to say what I want to
say. Or write. Or whatever.’

‘But your writing’s lovely, Jisung.’

‘Hhh th-thank you,’ he stutters. ‘Yours is better. Obviously. What do you want to write about these
days?’

‘Ah, this and that.’ He sips his drink. ‘Did you work on anything during the break? Any personal
projects I’m allowed to know about?’

He wants to press a plastic knife to his stomach and cut out his appendix. He needs more space
inside his body. The want is so huge. It’ll eat all his organs if he doesn’t remove them first. There’s
something monstrous about it, something greedy. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever felt.
‘Yeah, actually,’ he says. ‘I started a new story. I don’t have a title yet. I hate titles.’

Minho’s face brightens as he laughs. ‘Titles suck,’ he says. ‘What’s it about?’

‘A girl who starts eating sawdust,’ he says. ‘And her brother. And the moon, but I might cut that.
I’m not sure yet.’

‘That sounds intriguing,’ he says. ‘You have this—you do this thing, in your work, where you distil
reality until it doesn’t seem real any more. You gift ordinary objects with magic in a deliciously
unsettling way. And when you do that well—’ He shakes his head and picks up his glass again.
‘It’s quite haunting. You can’t get it out of your head.’

He clutches his own knees. He can’t handle this—it’s too much. It’s too much praise, too much
attention, too focused and clean. He clenches his glass so tightly he’s surprised the stem doesn’t
snap in half. ‘Stop.’ The word finally escapes him like a thin wisp of smoke. ‘You can’t say all
that.’

‘Why not?’ he asks. ‘Do you want me to lie to you instead?’

‘Please,’ he mumbles. ‘No, just—’ He takes a shaky sip of his drink and catches Minho’s eyes
again, nearly bursts into tears, or flames, or both. ‘I’m glad that you—you know, I don’t want you
to think my work is boring. Or childish. Or stupid. Or—unworthy.’

‘I would never think that,’ he says. ‘I always love your characters. And what you do with them. A
few times, you’ve handed me something and I’ve had to push you to dig deeper and give me more.
And you always have. You always give me more. You take your work from good to great, Jisung.
Nothing about what you give me is stupid.’

‘H—hhh.’ He digs his nails into his palms, the pain barely real. The taste of passion fruit lingers in
the back of his mouth. He’s woozy. He doesn’t know what to say. ‘G-good,’ he says. ‘That’s—
that’s good.’

‘You are,’ he says. ‘Very good.’

 Chapter 23
Chapter Notes

note: light masochism, face slapping, daddy kink

The squelch of lube mortifies him, the way it clings to his inner thighs embarrassingly. He only
had one cocktail, but he still feels drunk, giddy, so keyed-up he isn’t sure he’ll ever calm down
again. His skin burns where Minho touched him; he grabs his own knee to squeeze it again, to let
himself slip deeper into the glimmery fantasy where Minho is right here, fucking him open on
three fingers and praising him through it.

‘Ah—ah-ah, hhngg—’ He clutches his thigh tighter and rocks back against his hand. Spurred on by
each word Minho said to him, desire origamis inside him. He pressed his hand to the small of back
and picked his drink for him. He looked at him for so long Jisung’s heart imploded; the inside of
his chest is still speckled with blood and sickly desperation. ‘Nnngf, so—so good, please—’

He wonders if Minho touches himself to thoughts of Jisung. If he’s home right now, getting off the
same way Jisung is—does he think of manhandling Jisung on to all fours and pushing the skirt out
of the way? Does he think of Jisung on his knees in front of him, eyes wide and eager? Does he
think of Jisung at all?

Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe—

It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t.

Jisung can’t stop thinking of him. The cadence of his voice, the intensity of his gaze, the way he
touched him. Again and again. His hands. He keeps thinking of his hands, how good they’d feel
inside him, on him. Confident, bruising. How he’d prise Jisung’s thighs apart, how he’d grab his
waist. His thumbs digging into his skin. His fingers stretching him open, making him drool.

‘Please—please, I’m good—’

He’s good. His professor told him so. And good boys—

Good boys get—

He pulls his fingers out of himself and slaps his cheek. His hole clenches around nothing and he
hits himself again, a little bit harder but still not—it doesn’t really hurt, it’s just embarrassing. It’s
so shameful to slap himself. He wants it to hurt. He wants Minho to hit his face and coo at him, tell
him how good he is. Only the best boys get this, the most attentive intimacy, his focused eyes and
his clever hand forcing a blush into Jisung’s cheeks.

His dick twitches against his stomach and he prods at his hole, slides two fingers inside himself
just as he hits his cheek again. Not hard enough. It barely stings. He can’t get it right, can’t hurt
himself properly, can’t—can’t do it. Wants Minho to do it. Wants Minho to show him how special
he is, how good. He deserves it. He’s good. Minho said he’s good, very good, good boy.

He tries again. His cheek smarts and he slurs out another whimper, clenching tight around his
fingers; he wants more inside him. He wants Minho’s fingers and his cock and he wants to be good
and he wants to be pushed around and held down and hurt and pampered and he wants, wants,
wants all these things, wants to prove himself, wants to earn it, wants to squeal and drool and
embarrass himself, wants to get harder because he’s ashamed, wants Minho to taunt him and tease
him and toy with him, wants, wants it to hurt and wants to be rewired and remade and wants—

‘Daddy!’ he gasps after slapping his own face again, his leg kicking out as he comes abruptly. His
vision whitens out. He gags when he tries to catch his breath again. Whimpering quietly, he
continues to rub his prostate, drawing out the pleasure till it’s fever-slick and he spasms. ‘Ah—
ahhng ow—’

He finally pulls his fingers out of himself and curls up on his side, wipes his hand on his thigh. His
orgasm distilled reality. Now nothing seems real any more. Not his body, not this moment—not
anything. His stomach turns. He’s sweaty, sticky with lube and cum, all these disgusting reminders
of what he is. The animal parts of him. The sharp knife of his shame guts him. He feels like he
swallowed dirty lake water; it balloons in his belly, greases his insides.

He doesn’t cry. It’s not that bad, but it’s queasy. Like he did something wrong. Like he crossed a
line. Which line? Who knows? Sometimes it’s like this. Sometimes pleasure is so intense it curdles.
Sometimes he starts to feel like he’s repulsive, like he begged for too much. Let himself have too
much. When he should’ve been good, and quiet. When he should’ve been different and better and
not this needy. Shouldn’t have wanted something so much.

Desire should not be this big. It shouldn’t dwarf him and he shouldn’t do these things. But he does.
He always does. He wants and he can’t stop wanting and he felt so fucking good in that bar. Higher
than ever. Drunk on his youth. Minho’s attention makes him feel indestructibly good. He wants his
eyes on him all the time and he wants his hands and his mouth and his body. He wants everything.
Heaven if he could have it.

It felt like Minho wanted him, too. It has felt like that for a while. It’s so beautiful it hurts. It feels
so good he can’t stand it.

Sometimes the sun is so bright it only blinds you.

This isn’t love, but it could be. How terrifying. If Minho let him fall, Jisung could. He would
tumble headfirst and never come up for air.

The realisation makes him shudder. He shoves two fingers between his lips and presses down on
his tongue. His mouth fills with the taste of artificial peach and desperation.
 Chapter 24

‘You’ve been texting all week,’ Felix says. ‘Haven’t you?’

‘Not like—’ He rubs his thumb around his fingernail and taps his front tooth. ‘We haven’t been
texting texting. And even if we have, I just—ugh, I don’t know how to ask him this. I don’t know
if I’m allowed to.’

‘Let’s back up,’ he says. ‘What’re you worried about the most right now?’

‘Everything,’ Jisung whines and throws out his arms with a petulant noise. ‘Him saying no? Or—
or, I don’t know, what if he doesn’t even reply?’

‘If you send nudes, he’ll reply for sure. Bet.’ He pulls his hair out of his small ponytail and starts
playing with the neon green elastic. ‘If he sends one back, promise you’ll show me.’

‘Fuck off,’ he says. ‘I’m not going to send him nudes. We’ve been over this.’

‘I keep hoping you’ll change your mind.’

‘Keep hoping, baby.’

‘Okay, Daddy.’

‘F-fuck you,’ he says. ‘Shut up. Go away.’

Felix cackles and slides into Jisung’s lap, brushing his hands along his shoulders. ‘You’re
overthinking this, Sung-ah,’ he says. ‘Remember your date last weekend?’

‘It wasn’t a date,’ he mumbles, flustering even more at the reminder. As if he needs one, as if he
doesn’t already think of it constantly. Their conversation in the bar and Minho’s hand on his knee.
Jisung’s thighs exposed in the skirt, his skin stippled with goosebumps. His heart rocketing the
entire time. Flirting—flirting back. The way he fucked himself delirious afterwards, the way he’s
fucked himself every day since. His desperation always so palpable.

‘Your appointment then,’ Felix says, mouth tugging into his trademark coquettish smile. ‘Daddy’s
little porn star.’

He digs his fingers into the sides of Felix’s abdomen. ‘I’m going to kill you.’

Felix blows him a kiss and starts to twist the elastic around Jisung’s fringe.

‘Are you making me into a unicorn?’

‘Something like that,’ Felix says. ‘Seriously, though. He asked you if you were writing anything,
and then he told you it sounded really “intriguing”. That’s code and means he wants to bang, by the
way.’

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘And you’ve been texting about it,’ he says. ‘It’s not weird if you ask him if he wants to meet up
and talk about it. Why would it be weird?’

‘Because everything I do is weird?’ He aims for snappy and nonchalant, but the look on Felix’s
face proves that he doesn’t quite manage. ‘Because—I don’t know. I just don’t know how to say it
in a way that doesn’t make me sound really desperate. And don’t say I am desperate, please.’

‘I wasn’t going to,’ he says. ‘Can I have your phone?’

Jisung narrows his eyes. He must look quite silly with his hair tied up like this.

‘I promise I won’t send anything,’ he says. ‘Swear on your grave, Jisung.’

‘Okay.’ He nods towards the couch table. ‘It’s right there. Do your worst.’

‘You know that’s what I do best.’ He grabs Jisung’s phone from the table and unlocks it. His
eyebrows furrow as he looks at the screen and his tongue swipes across his bottom lip, endearingly
concentrated as he types and deletes and retypes for a minute. ‘Here you go.’ He turns the phone
around to show Jisung the drafted text message. ‘What do you think?’

He accepts the phone and reads the message slowly. It’s embarrassing, but it’s bound to be. He is,
essentially, trying to ask Minho on a date, even if he would never be presumptuous enough to use
that word, so of course all his latent shame flares up. Of course he feels the opposite of calm right
now.

‘That’s… not bad,’ he finally says, looking at Felix again. ‘But I can’t—what if—’

‘Want me to hit send for you?’

‘Please,’ he mumbles and pushes the phone back into Felix’s hand. There’s a familiar swoosh
when the text message sends.

Han Jisung [6:13 pm]

hi ☺️
i finished that story i’ve been working on
and i would really love to hear your thoughts
can i send it to you even though it’s not for class?
we could meet at a café again to talk about it
if you want to

‘This is so embarrassing,’ Jisung hisses. ‘Why did you make me do this?’

Felix snorts. ‘It’s my fault now, is it? Please remember that when your asshole’s gaping and
leaking his cum. Make sure to send me a gift basket.’

‘Shut up,’ he says. ‘You can’t talk like that.’

‘Like what?’ he asks. ‘You don’t think he’s gonna creampie you? You don’t want him to breed
your little virgin hole?’

‘Felix,’ he says. ‘What is wrong with you?’

‘Psychologists all over the world are baffled and confused,’ he says. ‘The working thesis is that I’m
simply too unstoppably gorgeous.’

Jisung laughs with him and flicks his arm. ‘You are,’ he says. ‘Unstoppably gorgeous. Thank you.’

‘Any time,’ he says, and then Jisung’s phone chimes. They stare at each other for a long second,
then jolt into action to read the message.
Lee Minho [6:17 pm]
I would love to read it, Jisung!
Please e-mail it to me whenever you get a chance.
Will you pay for my coffee this time?

‘Oh my fucking God,’ Felix says. ‘Oh my fucking God. Jisung, he wants you sooo bad.’

‘Hhhh, Lix. What do I say?’

‘Flirt back, dummy,’ he says. ‘Say you’ll give him something better than coffee.’

Han Jisung [6:18 pm]

of course
it’s the least i can do professor
you’re so kind doing this

Lee Minho [6:19 pm]

Anything for my favourite student.
Are you free Sunday?

Han Jisung [6:19 pm]

yes!! of course!!
same place as last time?

Lee Minho [6:20 pm]

Unless you want to try something new?
 Chapter 25
Chapter Notes

note: brief mention of an eating disorder in a short story

The déjà vu of the scene is almost startling: the air perfumed with sugar and brewing coffee, the
muted tunes of one of Grieg’s lyric pieces, the nervousness skittering through Jisung’s veins. This
time, he isn’t as worried that Minho won’t be there. It feels a little self-obsessed to presume that he
will, to presume that he’s interested enough in Jisung to show up and spend time with him, but—
Jisung’s trying to be bolder, more confident. And he worries plenty about other things instead:
what if he says something stupid, what if he chokes on his coffee, what if his card gets declined
when he tries to pay, what if Minho really, really, really hated the story Jisung sent to him?

He shakes his head and takes a breath to steady himself.

‘Jisung,’ a familiar voice says right next to him, ‘good afternoon.’

‘Professor.’ The word spills out of him when he meets Minho’s eyes, a sweet-voiced reflex. Maybe
by now he could manage to use his name instead, but he isn’t trying that hard. He isn’t trying at all,
really; professor sounds so natural and right. He wonders if Minho minds, or if he likes it this way.
He said he’s never been a fan of the formality, but this isn’t really formality. Is it? ‘Hi. You’re
here.’

‘I’m here,’ he says with a smile. ‘You’re here, too.’

‘I’m here.’ He clears his throat. ‘Do you want one of those peach tarts again?’

‘Or the cherry,’ he says. ‘I might be more in the mood for that. What would you like, Jisung?’

He pulls his eyes away from Minho and takes a long look at the cakes on display, then points at the
strawberry cheesecake covered in thick, shiny chocolate. ‘That one.’

‘A slice of that cheesecake, a cherry pastry, and a mocha,’ Minho says to the barista, skimming his
hand over Jisung’s lower back when he looks towards him again. ‘And an iced americano?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. His skin burns. His T-shirt feels like a prison, or a lifeline. He’d disintegrate if
Minho touched his skin directly. ‘And I’m—I’m paying.’

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Minho waves away the comment with a charming smile and pulls out his
credit card to pay. ‘Thank you.’

Jisung doesn’t dare look at the barista. He wonders what she thinks of them and how they fit
together. If this looks like a date to her. If Jisung seems too young. If she’s judging. She probably
doesn’t care at all; she’s probably only thinking about what she’s going to do after work, a night
with cheap convenience store beer and a shitty 80s movie.

At the table, Jisung takes a sip of his coffee and looks at Minho through his lashes. ‘You asked if
I’d pay for your coffee.’
‘You thought I’d let you?’

‘But you paid last time.’ He puts his cup down and shifts in his seat. ‘It’s unfair when you’re also
reading my work outside class.’

‘I guess you’ll have to think of some other way to make it up to me.’

Jisung’s lips part. A shocked noise flatlines near his uvula.

‘Speaking of,’ he continues. ‘I enjoyed your story.’

‘You did?’

‘Of course I did.’ He forks off a bite of his pastry. ‘Your characterisation is particularly strong in
this one. And you didn’t cut out the moon.’

‘I didn’t,’ he says, picking up his own fork. ‘I liked how it made the sawdust look.’

‘I loved that,’ Minho says. ‘The detail you paid to it, and how obsessively Eve ate it. How her
brother encouraged it. I think—after you wrote Eucharist My Heart, I think something shifted in
your work.’ He lets go of his fork again and takes a small sip of his coffee. ‘I was a little hard on
you, wasn’t I? When you handed me that first draft.’

He remembers the hot surge of shame when he sat in Minho’s office to get his feedback. ‘A little.’

‘What did I say?’ he asks. ‘That you were being too shy?’

‘You said I had to—had to give you more. A lot more.’

‘Ah, that’s right,’ Minho says. ‘It feels like you really took what I said to heart. You keep giving
me so much; your work has teeth now. The sibling relationship in this story is messy and
complicated and you dig into that dynamic without judging it.’ He smiles kindly as he finally
brings his forkful of pastry closer to his mouth. ‘You’re a really good writer, Jisung.’

He flushes all over. ‘Professor,’ he mumbles, looking down at his cake. The strawberry wedge is
starkly red. He presses the prongs of his fork through the chocolate and breaks off a piece. ‘You’re
always really nice.’

‘I’m honest,’ he says. ‘It’s not the same thing.’

Jisung eats his mouthful of cheesecake. He thinks about what it must feel like to swallow sawdust.
‘You say that like you can’t be both.’

‘I suppose I can,’ he says. ‘I did write down some more detailed feedback on your story, the way I
would if you’d submitted it to class. I’ll e-mail it to you.’

He fidgets with his fork. ‘You know you’re not getting paid for that, right?’

‘Don’t need to.’

‘You’re proving my point.’ He slips the thick straw between his lips and sucks up iced coffee.
‘You’re really nice.’

‘If you say so, Jisung.’ He leans back in his chair. ‘Actually, have you ever read anything by Pippa
Westcott?’
He blinks. The name doesn’t sound familiar. ‘Uh, don’t think so?’

‘No way,’ he says. ‘You have to read her work. She has this fucked-up little story about a set of
twins. They’re fraternal, but they carry out these experiments to rectify that.’

‘That sounds insane,’ Jisung says. ‘What kinds of experiments?’

‘I’m not spoiling it for you,’ he says. ‘You have to read it. But there’s a stray cat. And a juniper
tree.’

‘You’re such a tease,’ he says petulantly. ‘You can’t just say that. I need to read it right now.’

He laughs softly and eats another bite of his pastry. ‘I have a copy at home,’ he says. ‘We can go
pick it up so you can read it. I promised to lend you CREAM, SHARP, INDIGO as well, didn’t I?’

Jisung’s ears ring. He stares at Minho like he’s possessed. ‘Y-you—?’

‘I what?’ he prompts after two, three seconds. Tauntingly patient.

‘You, uh?’

‘Words, Jisung,’ he says. ‘Unfortunately, I can’t read your mind.’

Jisung doubts that. He spins his fork around between his fingers and chews the inside of his cheek.
What is it that he’s trying to say? Maybe he just wants to ask Minho to repeat his words to see if
hearing it again makes it any more comprehensible. Maybe he just wants Minho to say he wants
him.

‘Okay,’ is the word that finally comes out of him. ‘You did, yeah. I mean, you promised that.
Yeah.’

‘Westcott has another story titled Exercise in Restraint,’ he says. ‘It’s about ritualised bulimia. But
it’s also about magpies and their secret language. I think you’ll appreciate her feel for magical
realism.’

‘I want to read about magpies and restraint and self-destructive rituals,’ Jisung says. ‘Her work
sounds weird and messy in the best way.’

‘It is,’ he says. ‘Like yours.’ He sets down his cup again. ‘So when we finish our coffee, we can
stop by my place and get the books for you.’
 Chapter 26

Jisung knows nothing about cars, but the brown leather seats in Minho’s Audi nearly make him
whimper. He presses his thumb into a bruise right above his kneecap and squeezes his eyes shut.
Not that blocking out his vision helps—the leather is smooth and sun-warmed and he wants to feel
it stick to his naked skin. Wants Minho to order him into the backseat. Wants to scramble across
the console to sit in his lap.

‘Seat belt, darling,’ he says, and Jisung makes a frizzling, desperate sound. The atoms of his body
turn to dust. His fingers tremble when he grabs for the seat belt and it takes him four times to
buckle it, slip-sliding into an almost panic attack.

He gasps in a breath when Minho starts the car. He probably imagined that last word. Minho
didn’t really call him that; he can’t have. Everything right now is hallucinatory. Is he really in
Minho’s car? Are they really driving to his house? Will he invite him inside?

He pinches his thigh and stifles a whine. He looks out the window and catches sight of his own
reflection in the side mirror. His cheeks are cherry-hued, his lips bitten raw. His eyes bigger than
they’ve ever been. He shifts in his seat again and steals a look at Minho, his left hand on the
steering wheel, his posture so relaxed. Unfairly, nonchalantly sexy.

Jisung wants to lick his collarbones.

Minho looks over at him with an amused expression. ‘Doing okay?’

‘Y-yeah.’ He shakes his head, stretches out his fingers. Grabs both his knees. ‘Yeah, sorry. Your—
uh, your car is nice.’

His smile widens. ‘Thank you, Jisung. You know how to drive?’

‘No,’ he says. He turns his head to look out the front window. ‘No, I never learned.’

‘Ah, don’t lose hope yet,’ he says. ‘It’s like cooking. You just need a patient teacher.’

Jisung bites the inside of his cheek. ‘I hear it’s hard to drive a stick shift,’ he says. ‘Is that true?’

‘I suppose,’ he says. ‘But it forces you to be more engaged with the car. Automatics do most of the
work for you.’

‘I see.’ His body still hasn’t stopped shivering. ‘Sometimes—I mean, call me lazy, but not having
to do that much work sounds kinda nice. Doesn’t it?’

He swipes his tongue across his lower lip and turns on the blinker. ‘Kids these days,’ he says.
‘Spoiled rotten.’

‘You don’t think I deserve to be spoiled?’ he says, flashing a grin that’s dirty in its innocence. ‘I
thought I was your favourite.’

‘It seems like that’s getting to your head.’

His heart thrums behind his ribs. There’s an itch inside each distal phalanx and he wants to reach
out, wants to brush his fingertips against Minho’s knuckles. He doesn’t, of course; he just looks at
him. Looks as he drives with an unbearably attractive ease. Looks at his forearms and tells himself
not to get hard. Swallows his spit. Shivers as desire atomises him from the inside.

Minho parks the car in front of an oyster pearl brick house with black shutters and Jisung grabs the
doorhandle. It’s there, right there. Minho lives here. It’s where he wakes up and drinks coffee and
reads books, listens to music, cooks dinner. Where he sleeps. Where he writes the stories that
deconstruct Jisung’s entire being.

He stares out at the house’s façade and spots an orange cat in one of the windows. ‘You have a
cat?’ he blurts, head snapping over to look at Minho.

‘Two, actually,’ he says, his face brightening. He pushes open his car door. ‘Come inside?’

Jisung stumbles out of the car on wobbly knees. ‘What are they called?’

‘Merricat Blackwood and Button,’ he says as he walks up to the front door and fishes his keys out
of his pocket. ‘Button’s the one in the window.’

‘Cute names,’ he says. ‘I hope they don’t bite me.’

‘Ah, don’t worry,’ he says, unlocking the door. ‘They’re as well-behaved as their daddy.’

Jisung blinks at him.

Minho only smiles at him and lets them inside.

The cat bounds towards them and rubs herself again Minho’s shin. He squats down to stroke her
small head and looks up at Jisung. ‘She’s clingy,’ he says. ‘Found her outside in a box, the size of a
Coke bottle.’

‘Oh my God.’ He drops to the floor and nudges his knuckles against Button, petting down her
back. ‘That’s so sad. Someone just threw her away?’

Anger flashes across his face. ‘Like trash,’ he says. ‘My little darling. Merricat’s probably asleep
somewhere. Or destroying my bedsheets.’

Jisung’s lips tug into a smile. He can’t believe he’s here, kneeling on the tiled floor of Minho’s
roomy hallway, petting one of his cats. He has cats. Jisung knows that, now. He tucks the
knowledge in between the folds of his heart.

‘I’ll go grab those books for you,’ he says, standing up again. ‘Won’t be a minute.’

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I’ll pet this sweet girl while you’re gone.’

‘You do that.’ He looks at them for another beat before he slips out of his shoes and disappears
into a room on the right.

Still petting Button, he looks through the door Minho left open behind him. He can’t see much
except a fluffy-looking rug on the wooden floor and the corner of a dark grey couch. He pictures
Minho curled up there with his cats, sunlight streaming through the large windows. He pictures
himself next to him, needy for his attention. Begging without words. Minho indulgently pulling
him in for a long, slow kiss. His hand on his nape. His tongue in his mouth.

He ducks his head and looks at Button again. He can’t think of those things right now. He can’t
think of anything at all because he’s in Minho’s home.

What the fuck?

‘Got them!’ Minho reappears, holding up two books for Jisung to see. ‘You still want to borrow
them?’

‘Of course I do!’ he says. ‘Why else do you think I came with you here?’

‘Oh, I have no idea,’ he says with a wry smile, his eyebrow curving upwards. ‘You can keep them
as long as you want. Just promise you’ll share all your thoughts with me, okay?’

‘Okay.’ He licks his lips and slowly gets up from the floor. I’ll give you anything you ever ask for.
You don’t even have to ask. He accepts the books when Minho hands them to him and flips Pippa
Westcott’s collection around to read the blurb on the back. ‘God, this sounds so good.’ He looks up
at him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about her sooner?’

‘Everything in due time.’

He blushes. So transparent he is, always. Open and easy and too eager.

‘I’ll give you a ride home,’ Minho says.

‘You don’t have to,’ he says, breath catching. ‘I can take the bus. Or walk.’

‘Don’t be difficult,’ he says. ‘I’ll drive you.’

‘If you insist,’ he mumbles, giddiness spilling everywhere inside him. He bends over to pet Button
a final time. ‘Goodbye,’ he says, and she meows in return.

‘Don’t sulk,’ Minho tells her, nudging the side of her stomach with his socked toes. ‘He might
come back.’
 Chapter 27

Lee Felix [7:19 pm]

i’m so confused tbh
u were in his house
but u didn’t fuck?

Han Jisung [7:19 pm]

he lent me some books he thought i’d like
his house is soo nice
and he has 2 cats

Lee Felix [7:19 pm]

that’s nice
i still don’t get it
did he at least fuck u in his car?
i can’t believe he drives an audi
well actually i can
please tell me he fucked u in it

Han Jisung [7:20 pm]

he did not fuck me anywhere

Lee Felix [7:20 pm]

ngl i would be so pissed
why did he even bring u home if he weren’t gonna fuck u

Han Jisung [7:21 pm]

this is rly breaking ur brain huh

Lee Felix [7:21 pm]

IT IS!!!!!
who cares about some stupid books
he could be getting his dick wet!!1!??!

Han Jisung [7:21 pm]

of course u don’t get it ur in stem
the books aren’t stupid
he said one of them rly reminds him of my writing
(/ω＼)

Lee Felix [7:22 pm]

oooooh
ur both down so fucking bad
when are u gonna tell ur mum ur dating ur professor

Han Jisung [7:22 pm]

i’m not dating him!!!

Lee Felix [7:23 pm]

okayyy
sounds like u want to though
wanna live in his nice house and pet his cats and suck his cock 24/7

Han Jisung [7:24 pm]

shut up
how would i even tell her
if we ever…
oh my god i’m so stupid
felix fuck i’m so fucking stupid
how do u tell ur mum ur in love with someone 15 years older than u
i should just die
and i’m not saying i’m in love with him
bc i’m TOTALLY not
hahahahaha

Lee Felix [7:25 pm]

u are not stupid
and i’m not going to let you die
i’m sorry i joked about this
there’s nothing wrong with u
or with whatever u feel for him
if u just wanna get dicked down that’s cool
if u want more that’s also good
ur not bad sungie
u should know that
and ur mum just wants u to be happy
u know that

Han Jisung [7:26 pm]

my mum wouldn’t have to know
i mean if we ever
like if something happened
haha this is so dumb
it’s not like he would rly date me or anything serious
so why am i worrying about this

Lee Felix [7:27 pm]

i think he would
he could’ve fucked u at any time
u would’ve put out two months ago in his office
but he brought u to his house just to give u books
it’s kinda romantic in some psychopathic victorian way
and wouldn’t u want ur mum to know?
if u were in love with someone
that’s something you’d want to share with her

Han Jisung [7:29 pm]

i want to be less stupid

Lee Felix [7:29 pm]

having feelings isn’t stupid
love is pure and good
u know my mum always says love is the energy that keeps the world spinning on its axis

Han Jisung [7:30 pm]

ur mum unironically calls herself an “empath”
and she gave us weed brownies when we were 11

Lee Felix [7:30 pm]

and she would never judge you for dating an older man ❤️

Han Jisung [7:31 pm]

do u think she’ll adopt me if my own mum disowns me

Lee Felix [7:31 pm]

instantaneously
u know she adores u
but ur mum would never disown u
she adores u too
whatever makes u happy will make her happy

Han Jisung [7:32 pm]

heroin could make me mad happy
i doubt she’d be thrilled if i started using

Lee Felix [7:32 pm]

don’t be cute now

Han Jisung [7:32 pm]

i’m always cute

Lee Felix [7:33 pm]

u are

The worry stays in the pit of his stomach, bruise-blue and spiralling. Telling his mum about Minho
seems impossible. What words would he use? And how would he ever get them out of his mouth?

She’d find it strange, all of it. Taboo and unorthodox. She might get this disgusted, unsettled look
on her face. She might worry if she did something wrong when Jisung was a kid.

She didn’t. She did everything right, and he feels stupid thinking like this. He knows she loves him,
just like Felix said. Logically, he knows she wants him to be happy more than anything. So maybe
it’d be a little weird in the beginning, but she’d probably warm up to the whole thing pretty fast.
Maybe. Hopefully.

He should trust that. He should trust the love he knows she feels for him.

And he and Minho aren’t even dating anyway so there’s no reason to overthink this yet, but anxiety
always latches on to every hypothetical. Every what if becomes enormous. Every feeling bigger
than it should be.

He forces himself off the couch and takes a shower. The hot water helps him get out of his head
and grounds him in his body, so once he’s clean and moisturised, he pours himself a large glass of
iced tea and curls up with Pippa Westcott’s short story collection.

Her voice is sharp and strong, but Jisung only manages to read four paragraphs before he zones out
again. He was in Minho’s car, and then in his house. He petted one of his cats. They’re as well-
behaved as their daddy, he said. Darling. Darling darling darling—

Heat spreads upwards from his sternum as he lets himself daydream. What other pet names he
might call him. How he might touch him, his hands skilled and possessive.

He wants to sit on the counter while Minho cooks them curry for dinner. He wants to get dolled up
and go to a nice restaurant, wants Minho to tell him he looks lovely. Wants to wear one of his old
T-shirts and play with his cats and get ice cream cones in the park. Wants to go to Tokyo. Wants
and wants. Sex and something else. Something a lot more embarrassing.

He puts the book down and covers his blush with his hands.

Felix is right.

If this were real, he’d want to tell his mum about it. He wouldn’t be able to shut up about the
miracle of being loved.
 Chapter 28

It’s past one a.m. by the time he finishes the short story collection. Exercise in Restraint slithered
down his oesophagus, slimy, snake-like, forcing nausea to rise in his stomach. He wanted to close
his eyes and he wanted to keep looking. Destructive and messy and magical, what with the birds
and all the things they said and didn’t say. The Jamón, the Gordal olives, the gold-rimmed bone
china plate. He could taste it all, and then he could taste the vomit.

Each story was a condensed, delicious mess. The type of fiction he wants to write. The type of
fiction Minho says he already writes, which is staggering. A compliment so blinding.

He can’t bring himself to text Minho about it yet, though. Midnight is a trespass he can’t cross, so
he makes himself wait. He brushes his teeth and lies in bed, thinks of magpies and obsessive twins
and the desire to push your body past its limit. To shrink it and turn it inside out. Thinks of Minho’s
hands, his voice, his steady gaze on Jisung’s face. He wants to dissect each story with him. He
wants to hear all his thoughts, wants to share his own, wants to talk with him about everything.

After his first class the next day, he finally texts him.

Han Jisung [10:17 am]

i finished westcott’s collection last night!

Lee Minho [10:28 am]

That was so fast!
How did you like it?

Han Jisung [10:28 am]

i might’ve stayed up late to read
it was sooo good
how does anyone even write like that

Lee Minho [10:29 am]

You should know, you’re just as good.

Han Jisung [10:29 am]

you can’t just say that

Lee Minho [10:30 am]

But I just did?

Han Jisung [10:30 am]

stop it!! it makes me shy
i have a million thoughts about all the stories
i’m going to start cream sharp indigo later today
i’ll probably have a million thoughts about that too

Lee Minho [12:02 pm]

Sorry, had a class to teach.
You promised you’d share all your thoughts with me.

Han Jisung [12:04 pm]

i did
i want to hear your thoughts too, professor

Lee Minho [12:04 pm]

Professor, huh?
I was going to ask if I should make you dinner on Wednesday, but maybe you’d rather just come to
my office hours with that attitude.

Han Jisung [12:05 pm]

NO!!!!!
haha i mean no that’s okay
you could
if you want to, you could make dinner

Lee Minho [12:06 pm]

Figured you deserve a break from instant ramen.
You could come home with me after class if you want to.

Han Jisung [12:06 pm]

i’d love to
are you sure?

Lee Minho [12:08 pm]

I wouldn’t ask you otherwise.

Han Jisung [12:09 pm]

it’s a date then!!
can’t wait

His fingers tremble when he tucks his tee loosely into his shorts, the corduroy a muted punch
colour that matches the bunny print on his shirt. He looks at himself in the full-body mirror and
picks away a stray hair strand on his shoulder. After class, Minho will bring him home with him. It
still seems surreal. Felix expects they’ll have sex—‘he’s finally gonna pop your fucking cherry’
were his exact words—but Jisung isn’t sure. Maybe? Maybe if he makes himself extra pretty,
Minho will invite him into his bedroom. Maybe he’ll push him on to all fours and give him his
cock the way Jisung has dreamt about every day for months.

He shivers at the thought, fingers still quivering when he picks out a pair of dangly silver earrings
and puts them on.

Before anything that might happen later, he’ll have to survive class. He’ll probably blush through
the whole thing, skittish about the secret he and Minho share. Not that it’s a secret, really; it’s not
illicit. It’s just special.

At least they’re not workshopping one of Jisung’s stories today. He’d black out if he had to stand
up and read aloud his own work.

He taps texture powder along his roots and fluffs up his hair, then dabs on a tinted lip balm. He
pouts a little, but promptly rolls his eyes at the coquettish performance; he zips out of the bathroom
to grab the books he borrowed from Minho and slips them into his rucksack. Before he leaves, he
checks his phone and smiles at the atrocious emoji-ridden text Felix sent him.

‘Good afternoon,’ Minho greets the class. He’s smiling the way he always is but his shirt is
different, a flattering, dark linen-blend with patterned buttons that Jisung can’t stop looking at.
‘How’re you all doing today?’

Jisung probably imagines the way Minho’s gaze lingers on his face, but it electrifies him all the
same. As expected, he starts blushing, but he doesn’t let himself look away. He keeps eye contact
as he plays with his earring coyly and licks out at his lips.

A second later, Minho looks towards Mai who’s saying something about her dog.

It feels a little bit like a victory.

He keeps zoning out through class. He usually tries so hard to give good feedback, but today he
can’t focus on anything other than the anticipation inside him. In his mind, the rest of the evening
unfolds like a peony: what Minho will cook and how their dinner talk will go and what might
happen after they eat. If Minho will ask him to join him on the couch, if he’ll sit close enough to
touch him, if Jisung will whimper without meaning to. He wants to be kissed till his body honeys.
He wants to be handled like he’s beautiful and a little bit fragile, wants to be pushed past the
breaking point.

But he can’t think about sex right now, because he’s in class. Minho’s right there, unfairly
handsome, and Jisung needs to shut his eyes. He needs to take a deep breath. He needs to get
through another forty-five minutes of workshop and then—then he gets to sit in Minho’s car again.
He gets to enter the forbidden realm of his house once more.

Unless Minho changed his mind. Unless—

But he wouldn’t. Would he?

 Chapter 29

Jisung wonders if he’s going to pass out as he watches Minho push his house key into the lock and
slowly turn it. It seems so surreal to be back here, on the doorstep of Minho’s home. An invitation
he still can’t quite believe he received.

‘You okay?’ Minho pushes open the door and gestures for Jisung to come inside. ‘Car sick?’

‘No, no.’ He shakes his head insistently and trails after him inside, drops down to untie his
shoelaces with quivering fingers. ‘No, I’m okay.’

‘Ah, Merricat,’ Minho says as a beautiful Maine Coon traipses into the hallway and stares them
down. ‘Don’t give me that look. Where’s Button? Still sulking somewhere?’

She sits down elegantly and meows in response.

‘Go tell her I brought her new friend so she can stop being a brat.’ He turns his head towards
Jisung and gives him a smile. ‘Come on inside.’ He leads him through the door to a large open-
plan space. A sleek, simple kitchen with matte grey cupboard doors and marbled countertops
blends effortlessly into a comfortable living area, the dark grey couch brightened by patterned
throw pillows and a turmeric blanket.

‘Oh, wow,’ Jisung exhales. His eyes dart from the oak dining table to the large fruit bowl atop the
kitchen island to the cat toys next to the couch. All these small things that reveal parts of Minho to
him. All these intimate details that most people don’t get to see. None of Jisung’s classmates
knows that Minho has a shallow ceramic dish full of Pink Lady apples in his kitchen. None of them
knows that he has floor-to-ceiling windows, a beautiful garden right outside, two scratching posts
for his cats that he clearly spoils rotten. Spoils, loves. What’s the difference?

‘Oh, wow?’

‘Oh, wow,’ Jisung repeats. ‘It’s really nice here. I love it.’

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I’m happy to hear that. Sit down and I’ll make you a drink.’

A little awkwardly, he puts the books down on the dining table and pulls out one of the chairs to sit
down. ‘I liked the drink I had in the bar.’

‘Which one was that again?’

‘Um, porn star something, I think you called it.’

‘Ah, right.’ He folds up the sleeves of his shirt and Jisung forgets how to breathe. ‘I can make you
one.’

It burns right beneath his skin. He darts out his tongue and looks down at his fingernails, the fresh
coat of black polish.

‘Want me to make it a virgin?’ Minho asks.

Jisung blinks. He presses his fingertips against his palms and looks back at Minho.

‘Don’t know if you want to drink on a school night,’ he continues. ‘And I have an eight a.m. class
tomorrow morning.’
‘Virgin’s—virgin’s good,’ he says. ‘If it’s fine with you.’

His smile makes Jisung dig his nails deeper into his own skin. Minho turns around and tugs open
the fridge to grab a bottle of apple juice. He gets out ice cubes from the freezer and starts to prepare
their drinks with swift efficiency.

With a loud meow, Button sprints into the room and jumps into Jisung’s lap. She butts her head
into his belly and he grins down at her, scratching her between her ears.

‘Oh, there you are, baby,’ Minho says. ‘Finally come to demand all of Jisung’s attention, huh?’

Jisung looks up at him and can’t help the giddy smile that spills across his face. ‘Bet she’s used to
getting everything she wants,’ he says. He casts a look towards Merricat who’s busy scratching her
cat tree. ‘Bet they both are. Daddy can’t say no to them.’

He laughs as he rounds the kitchen island and sets down a cocktail glass in front of Jisung. ‘You
got me,’ he says as he pulls out the dining chair across from him. ‘My trust fund babies, both of
them. Can you blame me, though?’

‘Not at all.’ Jisung takes a sip of his drink, but doesn’t stop petting Button. ‘They deserve
everything they want. She’s really cuddly.’

‘Only if she likes you.’ He picks up his own lowball glass while the words hover between them. ‘I
thought I’d start cooking in an hour or so. Does that sound okay with you?’

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Yeah, that’s—yes.’ He flusters at the sound of his own babbling. It’s just
unreal to be here, it’s unreal that Minho’s going to cook for him. That he wants him here. That he
asked him to come be with him.

He leans back in his seat and nods towards the books Jisung brought back, runs his fingertip
around the rim of his glass. ‘You promised me all your thoughts,’ he says. ‘And I’ve been patient.
So what was your favourite Westcott story?’

‘The one with the storks,’ he says. ‘I think? I don’t know. That’s a mean question, Professor.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he says, ‘it won’t be on the exam.’

He rolls his eyes and grins back at him. ‘Seriously, they all made me gasp.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘The bulimia story made my skin crawl. It was so good.’

‘I love that one,’ Minho says. ‘That scene where she’s sitting by the pool sharing the chocolate
cake with a magpie? It’s one of my favourites from the whole collection.’

‘It was so eerie,’ he says. ‘I kept wondering, is she going to eat it? Or will it eat her?’ He runs his
hand down Button’s back. ‘In general, she does this thing with animals, I don’t even know how to
say it. But there’s so much tension there. Like how do you even make it feel charged between a
bird and a teenage girl? How does the bird have that much power?’

‘It’s something she does so well.’ Minho’s smile smoulders. ‘The recurring motif of the maybe-
supernatural-maybe-not-but-definitely-very-strange animal.’

Jisung laughs. ‘Exactly that! I guess that’s why Power Line stood out to me especially. Because at
first the storks are only in the dream world, but then you suddenly can’t be sure any more. She
blurs what’s real and what’s imagined. And it’s so good. You know I love that stuff.’

‘I know you do,’ he says. ‘You find the fibula, cream-white. It hums in your hands.’

His mind spins when he hears his own words quoted back at him.

‘I still think of that story often,’ Minho says. ‘It’s that same maybe-supernatural-maybe-not-but-
definitely-very-strange animal power. It’s why I figured you’d enjoy Westcott’s work a lot.’

‘You’re so—’ His eyes dart down to Minho’s mouth, that attractive smile, and he forgets what he
wanted to say. He probably would’ve been too embarrassed to say it anyway. ‘I can’t believe you
know that line by heart.’

‘You don’t want to hurt the rabbit, but this is not your choice to make.’

‘Stop it.’

‘My voice sounded like a skeleton zapped by the sky,’ he continues. ‘A crack so sharp and
putrefying.’

He lets go of Button to hide his face in his hands.

‘I’m sorry,’ Minho says. ‘I’m embarrassing you. Tell me more about how Westcott’s work made
you feel.’

Jisung chances another look at him and brings his cocktail glass to his lips. ‘You know what you
always say about feeling it in your body?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘You said every story made you gasp?’

‘Out loud, yeah.’ He sets down his glass. ‘I’m always like that, when something’s good. I can’t
hold it in.’

‘You sound like you think that’s a bad thing?’

Jisung shrugs. He feels like an insect in one of Pippa Westcott’s stories, a magnifying glass held
above him until his skin blisters. ‘I dunno,’ he finally says. ‘My best friend doesn’t get it. I told
him you lent me a few books and he was just completely baffled. But he’s a maths major, so.’

‘Ah.’ The skin around his eyes crinkles beautifully when he smiles. ‘A maths major and a fiction
writer walk into a bar. Don’t think I’ve heard this one before.’

He laughs at him. ‘The maths major would rather go clubbing.’

‘And the fiction writer?’

Would rather sit in his professor’s lap, far away from the rest of the world. ‘Ah, you know. Maybe
he’s the punchline.’

Minho winks at him and spins his glass around on the table. ‘Well, I’m too old to go clubbing
anyway.’

‘A creative writing professor and his favourite student walk into a bar.’ Button jumps out of his lap
and darts to grab one of her toys. Jisung flicks his tongue across his lower lip. ‘Not a club. How’s
this one go?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he says. ‘You heard that one before? It’s new to me.’

He swallows. It feels like the sun is in his throat. ‘Me too,’ he finally says. ‘New to me, I mean.’

Minho lets the exchange linger for a few long, dizzying beats, smiling in that cruelly patient way
the whole time. ‘It’s not a bad thing,’ he finally says. ‘Reacting very strongly when you enjoy
something. I’m glad Westcott’s work could make you gasp. You should feel it, you know? Why
else do you write if not to elicit a reaction?’

Merricat screeches when she jumps down from her cat tree and pounces on a stuffed mouse toy.

‘It’s the same with you,’ Jisung says. ‘I mean, your work. You quoted mine, but I can quote yours,
too.’

‘You can?’

‘Pop it into your forever-pink mouth,’ he recites, and he doesn’t sound like himself. His voice so
frizzy. ‘My fingers are so slick the knife nearly slips out of my hand.’

He doesn’t take his eyes off Jisung. After another second, his mouth stretches to show his teeth.
‘Did I write that?’

‘Shut up.’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ he says. Winks. ‘I think I remember. You wanted everything and I couldn’t say no.
Something like that, right?’

Jisung nods hastily. He hopes Minho finds him pretty when he blushes, because he has no idea
how to stop. He doesn’t know what to say.

Minho downs the rest of his drink. ‘Let me get started on dinner.’

‘Can I do anything to help?’

‘No, no.’ He gets up from his chair and moves back to the kitchen to wash his hands. ‘You just sit
there and keep sharing your thoughts with me.’ He grabs an apron from a hook and ties it around
his waist before he opens the fridge again and starts to get out ingredients.

‘I promise I can help,’ Jisung says.

He looks over at him and arches his brow. ‘I thought you couldn’t cook?’

‘I thought you could teach me.’

‘Maybe next time.’ He picks out a bowl and starts measuring soy sauce, chicken stock, and honey
into it. ‘What’d you think about the novel?’

‘The ending disappointed me,’ he says after a second of being distracted by Minho’s hands. ‘I
didn’t want her to go back to New York.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she won’t find what she’s looking for there.’

‘That’s true,’ he says. ‘But does she have to?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘No. I just wanted her to find some type of joy in the end, after all that. And the
house will be no less haunted the second time around, I don’t think.’

He picks out a large knife from the knife block and starts to cut slits into a pork chop. ‘Do you
think it’s joy that she’s looking for?’

‘No,’ Jisung says after a moment. ‘No, she’s not.’

‘So when you say she won’t find what she’s looking for in New York…?’

He deliberates for a second. ‘I think she wants to make her mother proud,’ he says. ‘So she goes
back to the city, but that won’t really earn her her mother’s approval. And even if it did, I don’t
know if it would make her happy. So she should’ve stayed away from that house.’

Minho smiles at him and flips the chop over on the cutting board.

‘I know what you’re gonna say—’ Jisung continues, holding up his hand. ‘People make stupid
decisions all the time and they try to get things that they’ll never get. And I know. And I agree.
But.’

‘But?’

‘But the ending still disappointed me,’ he says sheepishly. ‘Will you fail me now, Professor?’

‘Not at all.’ He seasons the meat with salt and pepper before he dusts the cutlets with flour. ‘I just
wanted to hear your thoughts.’

He looks away from Minho’s face and rubs at his fingernail. ‘What’d you think about it?’

‘The ending?’

‘Yeah. And the whole novel.’

‘I liked the first half better, too.’ He uncaps a bottle of cooking oil and pours a lot into a pot.
‘Manami Ono isn’t really a tension writer,’ he says. ‘If you want to make a crude comparison to
Pippa Westcott.’ While the oil starts heating up, he grates an onion, a carrot, and a few cloves of
garlic into a pan. He puts it on to the stove and stirs as it fries. ‘But she has this almost ironic tone,
and a very detached sense of humour, which I really enjoy. But there’s also something tender about
her work, or is that just me?’

‘No, no.’ Jisung shakes his head. ‘No, I think that’s why I was so disappointed about the ending?
Like, that’s why I didn’t want her to go back. Does that make sense?’

‘It does.’ He stirs the chicken stock mixture into the pan. ‘She really makes you care about her
characters.’

‘And Westcott’s style is more, like, oh these people are fucked-up.’

Minho’s lips quirk into a smile. ‘Absolutely,’ he says. He picks up the first breaded cutlet and
gently places it into the pot with hot oil. ‘The most interesting characters are fucked-up.’

Jisung hides his smile behind the last sip of his drink. It’s so nice to be here. He’d worried it might
be awkward or stilted, but it’s not. It’s lovely, and it’s so easy to talk to him. Not just talk, but—
flirt, right? It shimmers through him, the things Minho says, the way he looks at him. His attention
so addictive. They chat aimlessly while Minho finishes cooking and sets the table. Jisung wants to
help, but Minho insists he stays seated. He makes him another drink and plates the katsukare.

‘Did you make this because I said it’s my favourite?’ Jisung asks, fidgeting with his spoon.

‘This is your favourite?’ He scoops up a bit of rice with the curry sauce. ‘Isn’t that a nice
coincidence.’

He rolls his eyes at him and looks down at his food. The first bite is delicious, as he assumed it
would be. From Minho he couldn’t imagine anything else. ‘It’s really good,’ he says. ‘Like, really
good. You could be a chef.’

‘Oh, I’d be awful,’ he says. ‘I’d spit in people’s food if they pissed me off. And I don’t like
cooking for strangers.’

The words are so charged, or maybe it’s just the way he’s looking at Jisung. Or maybe it’s just his
own desires tinging everything hot red. ‘Guess that makes me pretty special,’ he baits.

‘Don’t get cocky, darling.’ He takes an unconcerned sip of his drink as Jisung’s mind breaks all
over. ‘So how come you don’t know how to cook? Your mum didn’t teach you?’

‘She tried.’ He’s a beat late, and his voice is a little squeaky. He swallows and continues. ‘She
wasn’t too concerned, though. Guess she figured I’d marry a nice girl who knew how to cook.’

Minho laughs. ‘And you figure you won’t?’

Jisung looks around the room dramatically. ‘This might come as a shock,’ he stage whispers. ‘But
I’m not—um, girls? Not my thing.’

‘And nice?’

‘Doesn’t have to be so nice all the time.’ He manages to keep eye contact for another split second,
cheeks flaming, before he ducks his head and spoons up another piece of katsu.

Minho puts down his spoon to take another sip of his drink. ‘Figures.’

He blinks at him. He twists his spoon around his plate and wets his lips. ‘You didn’t,’ he says.
‘Marry a nice girl, I mean.’

‘I learned to cook instead.’

‘I guess I’ll have to do that too, then.’

‘Or you find someone else who will cook for you.’

There’s a whine in Jisung’s throat that wants out. There’s a kaleidoscope of monarch butterfly
where his heart should be. It’s making him woozy. He doesn’t make a sound or he would only
embarrass himself.

‘I’m curious,’ Minho says after a few seconds, ‘have you ever been abroad?’

‘Felix and I went to Paris the summer we graduated high school,’ he says. ‘He’s the maths
student.’

‘How’d you like it there?’

‘I was overwhelmed,’ he admits. ‘Everything was so—foreign. But the pains au chocolat were to
die for.’

‘Oh, France is heaven if you like sweet things,’ Minho says, and it segues them into a conversation
about travel. Jisung asks about all the places he’s been and Minho talks about Sofia, where he got
very drunk in a park the year he turned 25, and Singapore, which was unbearably humid. When he
mentions Tokyo, Jisung flusters a tiny bit.

‘Is there somewhere you’ve always wanted to go but haven’t been yet?’

Minho mulls it over for a second, leant back in his seat now that they’ve finished eating. ‘Iceland,’
he says. ‘Definitely. Have you been?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘It must be amazing, though. Can you imagine seeing the Northern
Lights in real life?’

‘Life-changing, probably. Something so incredible you can’t believe it’s real.’

‘Yeah.’ He exhales softly and pulls his lip between his teeth. ‘Some things are like that.’

‘They are,’ he says. ‘Let me clean up here and we can go see if Merricat will allow us on to the
couch.’

Jisung turns his head and smiles at the cats cuddled up on a throw pillow. ‘You think they’ll shoo
us away?’

‘Oh, Merricat’s a territorial little demon,’ he says. ‘I do adore her. But Button’s probably upset you
aren’t already there to pet her.’

He can’t stop smiling. Candyfloss strings itself around his ribcage. ‘I want to help with the dishes
first.’

‘Too bad,’ he says. ‘I won’t let you.’

‘Professor,’ he says. ‘Let me help. Come on.’

‘You know you can stop calling me that, right?’

‘I know,’ he says. He takes the last sip of his drink. ‘Do you not like it?’
 Chapter 30
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The evening has dazed him. Minho hasn’t touched him, not once, not even briefly, but Jisung’s
body still feels reconstructed. Hours have passed like beads on a string, but it’s felt like minutes—
sitting on the couch next to him, talking about literature and food and what he wants to do when he
graduates. The places he wants to visit, his favourite movies, childhood memories. Minho’s tender
attention. Jisung turned towards him like a sunflower in full bloom. Another drink, and his cats
meowing, and everything so close and overwhelming. The loose-limbed daydream of more nights
like this, in this house, next to this man. If this is falling in love, he hopes he never reaches the
ground.

‘It’s getting late,’ Minho says. He pets Button’s head where she’s napping in Jisung’s lap. ‘I
should drive you home.’

‘It is.’ He looks around but doesn’t find a clock. He has no idea what time it is, but it feels like an
eternity since it got dark outside so Minho had to get up and flick on the lights. ‘You said you have
an early class tomorrow.’

‘I do,’ he says, and groans. ‘Torture, really.’

Jisung giggles. ‘Good to know the professors despise the eight a.m. classes as much as we do.’

‘If it were up to me, neither of us would have to get out of bed before ten.’

Warmth surges over him. He makes a strange little noise and plays his fingers around Button’s soft
fur. ‘You don’t have to drive me,’ he says. ‘I can take the bus or something.’

‘Didn’t we have this conversation already?’ he asks. ‘It feels familiar.’

Jisung mumbles something below his breath and scoots Button off his lap. ‘I’m sorry, baby,’ he
tells her. ‘I have to go home now.’

She blinks slowly at him and paws at his thigh.

‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’ll miss you too.’

‘Merricat,’ Minho says. ‘Do you think Button has a crush?’

Merricat doesn’t move at all, but something melts inside Jisung. His legs wobble when he peels
himself off the couch and follows Minho into the hallway. Something adjacent to disappoint
needles him as he puts on his shoes, but it doesn’t bloom into anything truly painful. Yes, he had
hoped Minho would invite him to stay the night. But—he’s already received so much. More than
he ever imagined. Leaving now is almost a gift, too. It feels more like a promise than a rejection. It
tastes sweet when he swallows.

In the car, he meets his eyes in the rear-view mirror and his lips waver into a smile. He bites back
every fragmented sentence that bubbles in his throat.

When Minho parks in front of Jisung’s apartment building, he looks over at him. ‘Thank you,’ he
says. ‘For tonight.’ He puts his hand on Jisung’s thigh, circles his thumb, and gives a squeeze.
‘Hgngg.’ The whine escapes him before he can stop it. ‘You. Thank you.’

Minho waits another moment before he lets go. ‘I better get home to my brats.’

‘Y-yeah.’ He licks his lips. He reaches out to grab the doorhandle. ‘Get some sleep before your
class tomorrow.’

‘I’ll try,’ he says. ‘You too.’

He wants to ask when he’ll see him again, but he decides against it. Something about the
uncertainty, the thrill of anticipation. ‘I’ll try, Professor.’

Splayed out in bed, he stuffs his fingers between his teeth. Spit pools in the back of his mouth as he
eases a vibrator inside himself, hips jumping forward. He moans, eyelashes fluttering shut, a
languidness in his limbs already. He rocks back on the toy and swipes his thumb at the head of his
dick. He wants to call Minho, wants to let him hear how desperate he is, wants him to talk him
through it and tell him exactly what to do, how to be good. Wants praise that feels mocking. Wants
to be taunted in a way that’s soaked with adoration.

‘Professor,’ he whispers. He keeps his eyes closed, keeps twitching. Pinches his nipple and arches
off the bed. ‘Please, ah—’

He pictures Minho in bed, although he might not be quite home yet. He wonders if he’ll get off
before going to sleep, even though it’s nearly midnight already and he has that early class. But
maybe he’s like Jisung, maybe he’s too worked-up to fall asleep without indulging the dream. Will
he think of Jisung if he does?

It’s an addictive fantasy, Minho touching himself to thoughts of Jisung. His body rosy and pliant
for him, his legs spasming as he comes on his cock. His head thrown back, overeager, the way he
is right now, whining for it. Please. Please, Daddy.

He turns the vibrator on to a higher setting. The buzz rings all the way up his spine, each vertebra
nearly knocked loose, his breathing ragged and raw. A glitter-soaked fantasy. His asshole
clenching around the toy, his thighs sticky with lube, every part of him so willing, and tight, and
needy.

‘Professor,’ he says again, ‘I can’t—I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—’

He shrills when he comes without warning, fist stroking his cock fast, loud, sloppy with cum.
Instincts scream for him to slow down, but he keeps going—forces himself into staticky
overstimulation, his body trembling and sore. ‘No—no, ah-ah, hurts—hurts, feels good, fuck
—fuck—’ His body tries to twist away. He needs Minho here to hold him down, to push harder, to
give him what he needs. To decide what he needs. He wants to cling on to him and cry into his
shoulder while he makes him come again, and again, and again. Wants to babble till he loses his
voice.

‘There you are, darling,’ he wants Minho to say. ‘Such a good boy for me. Daddy just can’t say no
to you.’
 ‘Please,’ he rasps. ‘Daddy, I’m—Daddy, please…’

Chapter End Notes

zygotic by pippa westcott (me)

 Chapter 31
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

‘Jisung, darling,’ Iseul says. ‘How’re things with your lover? Felix told me he invited you home
for dinner.’

‘Mum, come on.’ Felix sucks up the last dregs of lemonade through his straw before he grabs the
jug to refill his glass. ‘It’s not his lover yet. It’s his professor.’

Jisung shields his face with his right hand. ‘We’re—um. Yeah. He did. We had dinner.’

‘Aaaaaaand?’ Felix needles.

‘And nothing,’ he squeaks. ‘Shut up. Nothing happened.’

‘You didn’t kiss?’

‘I told you already we didn’t kiss.’

‘Taking things slow is a good sign,’ Iseul says. ‘A gentleman. Not pressuring you into anything, is
he?’

Jisung shakes his head. ‘N-no. No, he’s really—patient, I guess? And kind.’

‘And fifteen years older than you,’ Felix says, and winks like an asshole. ‘Don’t forget that part.’

‘Is that part of what draws you to him?’ Iseul asks. Her smile is as beautiful as Felix’s, and her skin
as littered with freckles. ‘His experience?’

‘Umm.’ Jisung swirls his straw around his drink and slurps up a mouthful of lemonade. ‘Probably.
I mean, yeah? It makes me feel really—like, he knows what he’s doing. So I’m safe with him. I
like—’ He looks down before he admits below his breath, ‘I like that he’s older than me.’

‘That’s so sweet. Your aura’s pinker than ever.’ She pushes the plate with jam thumbprint cookies
closer to Jisung and smiles at him. ‘Being in love suits you most wonderfully.’

‘I’m not—’ he flusters, feels embarrassment heat his face till it’s probably even pinker than his
aura. He grabs a cookie to keep his hands busy. ‘Not in love. Or whatever.’

‘Well, you’re certainly glowing, honey,’ she says. ‘Let’s pull a few cards for you to see if the
universe has any messages for you.’

Felix gets up from his chair to grab his mum’s tarot deck. He messes a hand through Jisung’s hair
and presses a brief kiss to his cheek before he sits down again. ‘I bet the universe is gonna tell you
Professor Daddy wants to blow your back out.’

‘The universe would never be as graphic as you, dear,’ Iseul says casually while heat rises to the
roots of Jisung’s hair.

Secretly, he’s always been a little bit jealous of Felix’s relationship with his mum. There’s no
shame between them, no secrets. They share everything. Jisung could never talk openly about sex
or love or desire with his own mum.
Iseul closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before she starts to shuffle the cards, bracelets
clinking. ‘So, just relax for me and let your intuition guide you to pull three cards for me.’

Jisung picks out three cards and puts them down face-down on the table.

Iseul flips the first one around. ‘Oooh, King of Cups,’ she says. ‘Perhaps the universe can be
graphic too.’

‘Huh?’

‘Well, would you look at him—’ She holds up the card for Jisung to see. ‘He’s a person of insight,
isn’t he? He’s intense, intuitive, just look at how he holds himself. A powerful character.’ She flips
the card again and runs her fingertip along the edge of it. ‘A lot of emotional fortitude, too. So
there’s someone in your life who holds this position of influence and authority. Someone who can
be a guide for you.’

Felix laughs brightly. ‘The universe is as subtle as a kick in the face.’

‘Shut up.’ Jisung looks down at the card in Iseul’s hands. ‘This makes it sound like I have
staggering daddy issues or something.’

‘Don’t we all,’ Felix snorts. He picks up another cookie and breaks it in half. ‘It’s why we’re so
cute.’

Iseul flips the next card. ‘The Sun,’ she says. ‘That’s perfect. This card wants you to be authentic to
yourself and not give power to the people who judge or shame you.’

‘In other words,’ Felix pipes up, ‘if anyone says you have staggering daddy issues, they can go to
hell. Who gives a fuck?’

‘Exactly,’ Iseul says. ‘The Sun also represents freedom and growth, so you’re entering a new era of
prosperity. In your case, perhaps not so much financially, but emotionally. After periods of
darkness and confusion, the sun always comes back, doesn’t it? And brings light and clarity.’ She
smiles at him. ‘And love.’

He rubs at his ear and looks away from her.

‘Last one,’ she says, and turns over the third card. ‘Three of Wands. That’s interesting.’

‘I was sure you were going to get the Lovers,’ Felix says.

‘No.’ Iseul shakes her head slowly. ‘No, this fits much better. Again, you’re being told to trust your
intuition and keep clear sight of your goals. And there’s an element of optimism here—you’re
reaching a stage of inner balance where you’re willing to take risks and go for what you want.’

‘Oh, that’s good,’ Felix says. ‘You might as well admit you’re in love now. The universe told us
anyway.’

Jisung rolls his eyes at him, but something quavers beneath his ribs. He slips his straw between his
lips and chews on it. ‘You don’t even believe in tarot.’

‘When it suits me,’ Felix says. ‘You know that.’

‘You don’t have to believe in anything other than yourself.’ Iseul shuffles the cards a final time and
puts them aside. She takes a bite of a cookie and reaches out to give Jisung’s hand a squeeze. ‘The
 universe wants you to be happy, darling. And it seems this relationship makes you very happy.’

He swallows. ‘It’s not—we’re not in a relationship…’

‘Just like you aren’t in love?’ she asks, her smile identical to Felix’s.

‘Stop it!’ he says. ‘We haven’t even kissed at all.’

‘Not yet,’ Felix says. ‘But the universe wants you to go for it. Keep sight of your goals and your
hot professor will teach you everything.’

‘Iseul,’ Jisung says. ‘Can you do a reading for Felix, too? I want to see if the universe will issue a
warning that he’s about to be strangled by his best friend.’

Chapter End Notes

in awe of this stunning artwork of prof lee & jisung. thank you fire for drawing them so beautifully!!!
 Chapter 32

Jisung’s stirring his chopsticks around a steaming bowl of ramen when his phone starts to buzz. He
figures it’s Felix video-calling to show off his new electric blue hair from every angle, so when he
sees his phone screen alight with the contact name Professor Lee, he drops his chopsticks and the
hot broth splatters over the table.

He nearly knocks over the whole bowl when he grapples for his phone.

A call.

A call?

That’s—that’s new. That hasn’t happened before. They’ve never called before.

Did he call Jisung on accident?

‘H-hi?’ he manages, a breathless little twinge of a word. He squeezes his hand into a fist and tries
not to black out. ‘Professor?’

‘Jisung, good evening,’ Minho says. ‘How’re you doing?’

He blinks and looks at the small soup puddles on his table. He grabs a paper towel and dabs at
them. ‘I’m good,’ he says. ‘And you?’

‘It’s nice to hear your voice,’ he says. ‘I’m good, too. I wasn’t sure you’d pick up. Thought you
might be pregaming with your best friend before going clubbing.’

‘No,’ he smiles. ‘No clubbing. He’s dyeing his hair. And I—you’re going to laugh now, but I just
made ramen.’

Minho does laugh, and it’s the loveliest sound. ‘How appropriate,’ he says. ‘I wanted to ask if
you’d come over tomorrow night so I can teach you how to make kimbap.’

He picks up his chopsticks again just to press the ends into his forearm. The pressure is firm and
real, so it’s probably not a dream. Could be, though. It always could.

‘Unless you have other plans,’ he says. ‘I know it’s a bit spontaneous.’

‘I’m free,’ he blurts. ‘O-of course. I’m free. Tomorrow?’

‘Ah. That’s lovely.’

You’re lovely, Jisung hears. He wants to hear it again and again.

‘Come over around six,’ he says. ‘Wear one of those skirts again.’

‘Yes,’ he whispers. He clutches his phone so tightly and hopes his voice travels through time and
space and tells Minho just how much he wants him. ‘I’ll see you. Tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow,’ Minho echoes. ‘Enjoy your night, Jisung. And your ramen.’
 #

Lee Felix [4:30 pm]

what panties are u wearing?

Han Jisung [4:31 pm]

SHUT UP!!!

Lee Felix [4:31 pm]

u can get these that say “yes daddy” on the ass
i’ll buy u a pair
for next time

Han Jisung [4:32 pm]

i said shut up!!!
he might not even be into that

Lee Felix [4:33 pm]

LMAO

His tummy’s all topsy-turvy when he rings the doorbell of Minho’s house. He casts a look over his
shoulder and sees an elderly man out for a walk with a small, fluffy dog. For some reason, it makes
his neck feel hot. He snaps his head back around just in time to see Minho pull open the door in
front of him.

‘Jisung.’ His eyes laze down Jisung’s body before he takes a step back to allow him inside. His
dark T-shirt looks expensive, tucked into his trousers above a leather belt that makes drool gather
in Jisung’s mouth. ‘Don’t you look nice.’

He bows his head and thumbs at the waistband of his skirt. ‘Wore a skirt,’ he says. ‘Like you
asked.’

‘And it looks good on you.’

‘You also—I mean, you—’ The words are right there, drowning in the saliva at the back of his
mouth, but getting them out is frustratingly difficult. Minho’s compliment, his attention, has ruined
him. He takes another breath. ‘You look nice.’ An understatement, but it’d be shameful to gasp out
you look dizzyingly handsome right here. I can’t even breathe.

‘Thank you.’ He closes the door behind Jisung and leads him back inside the open-plan space.
‘Merricat’s been staring at the bird feeder all day. I give it an hour and she’ll probably have found
a way to break the window and get out there.’

His face splits into a wide smile and he squats down to pet Button when she parkours towards him.
‘Hey, baby.’ He runs his hand down her back. His smile only grows with each contented meow she
lets out. ‘Aw, look at you. Daddy’s been neglecting you, huh? Not petting you as much as you
deserve?’
‘You two make quite the pair, don’t you?’ Minho says. When Jisung looks up at him, he finds him
leaning against the kitchen island with his eyes trained on them.

‘I just think she deserves the world,’ Jisung pipes up. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Don’t even,’ he says. ‘I spoil her enough already.’

‘What’s enough?’

He looks at him for a long second. His forearms are distractingly attractive, and Jisung really,
really wants to bury his face in his neck while he sits in his lap. He wants another of those
passionfruit cocktails, or maybe two, wants to be giddy and tipsy and stumble over his words.
Wants to say I want you, I want you, I want you.

How badly does Minho want him, too?

‘What’s enough indeed,’ he finally says. ‘I cooked rice already, but you’ll have to help with
everything else. Think you can do that?’

‘Of course.’ He shakes off the image of his own thighs splayed across Minho’s lap. I can do
everything you ask. ‘I’ve been told I make a really eager student.’

His smile is wickedly vulpine. ‘Eager enough to become every professor’s favourite, I bet.’

Jisung gets up from the floor. ‘How do you think my classmates feel about that?’

‘You think they know?’

He bites his lip and tastes his cherry lip balm. The thought makes him buzz a bit. Shyness, and
something worse. The feeling of being so special. The thought that other people see how special
you are, how chosen. Toeing the line of the illicit. ‘Dunno,’ he says. ‘They might.’

‘Good thing the cooking lessons will be one-to-one, then,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t want to make
anyone jealous.’

‘Good thing, yeah.’ He blinks slowly. ‘Teach me, please. How to cook.’

Minho’s gaze X-rays him. Sharper than a boxcutter. ‘Since you asked nicely.’

They wash their hands and Minho hands him an apron before he ties one around his own waist. He
opens the fridge and lines up ingredients on the kitchen island. ‘We’ll prep all the fillings while the
rice cools down,’ he says. ‘Ready?’

‘I’m ready,’ he says. ‘Tell me what to do.’

Minho hands him a potato peeler to peel the carrots. He puts down a wooden chopping board and
gets out a large knife.

When Jisung looks at Minho’s fingers curled around the handle, he presses his own hand against
the counter uselessly.

‘This part can be a little tricky,’ Minho says. He cuts the first carrot in half and trims off the root
end. ‘First, you square it off by taking off the sides.’ He pushes the scraps to the side of the cutting
board and catches Jisung’s eyes. ‘Then you cut it into thin planks like this—’ He cuts with sharp,
swift movements and stacks the planks into a pile. ‘—and cut through the planks to make
matchsticks.’ He puts down the knife once he’s done. ‘Your turn. Come here.’
Jisung takes a step forward and picks up the knife. He puts the other half of the carrot in the
middle of the chopping board and presses the knife against it to square it off.

‘Careful,’ Minho says as he puts on a pot of water to boil. ‘Don’t hurt yourself.’

‘Trying.’ After cutting away the sides, he looks at the matchsticks Minho cut to gauge the
thickness. He hovers the blade above the carrot. ‘Like this?’

‘A little thinner,’ he says. ‘Here, let me show you.’ He steps closer and puts his hands on top of
Jisung’s. His skin is warm. Their fingers align. He moves the knife ever so slightly to the right and
guides Jisung’s hand to make the first cut. ‘Like that.’

There are no words left in his body. Minho’s cologne and body heat stupefy him, the touch of his
hands. Clinically intimate. Guiding him. He makes another cut, and another. He juliennes the rest
of the carrots before Minho steps back.

‘Well done,’ he says. He salts the boiling water generously and adds the carrots into the pot. ‘They
just need a minute to blanch.’

That gives Jisung a moment to catch his breath. He looks at the bubbling water while Minho gets a
bowl out of a cupboard. He grabs a pair of tongs and clicks the ends together a few times before he
hands it to Jisung.

‘Add the carrots to the bowl,’ he says. ‘Just like that, perfect.’

Following Minho’s instructions, he adds soy sauce, sesame oil, gochujang, and a freshly grated
clove of garlic into the bowl. He mixes everything together and sets the bowl aside. ‘What now?’

‘Can you crack an egg?’

‘How useless do you think I am?’

‘I don’t think you’re useless at all.’

Stunted, he looks away from Minho and cracks two eggs into the small bowl he gives him.

Minho brushes oil evenly across the bottom and sides of a large skillet. ‘This part’s only tricky if
you’re impatient,’ he says. He pours in the beaten eggs and swirls the pan to make a thin layer.
‘You don’t want to touch it too soon.’

‘I understand,’ he says. He looks at Minho’s toned forearms and the reality of the moment
suddenly knocks the wind out of him. He really is here, in his kitchen, within touching distance.
Minho already touched him. Minho promised to teach him how to cook, and now he is. It’s real. It
is.

It is.

‘What colour did your friend dye his hair?’

Jisung startles. ‘Huh?’

‘You told me he was dyeing his hair last night,’ he says. ‘What colour?’

‘Ah. Blue,’ he says. ‘Like, super vibrant. He kinda looks like Sonic the Hedgehog, but fuckably
so?’
Minho laughs. ‘Fuckably so, huh?’

‘It’s a thing. Fuckability.’

‘Oh, I know it’s a thing,’ he says. ‘Great quality.’

He bites the inside of his cheek. ‘You think I should dye my hair blue?’

‘I like your hair right now,’ he says. ‘You could maybe do black, though. If you’re looking for a
change.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yeah. It’d suit you.’

‘Thank you.’ He swallows, looks down at the skillet. ‘Did you ever dye your hair blue?’

‘Not sure I really have the fuckable twink vibes to pull it off.’ Minho flips the omelette gently.
‘Just another minute now.’

‘You, uh, you—I like how you look,’ Jisung stammers. ‘With your hair. And with your—’ He
looks at his shoulders, his chest. Broader than Jisung. His toned, strong arms. His wrist, the black
Apple watch. Everything, he can’t say. He can’t say he’s so desperately attracted to everything
about Minho. ‘Dunno. You’re probably right. Only Felix could be the fuckable twink version of
Sonic.’

His laugh is so bright it plants sunflowers in Jisung’s chest. He flicks off the stove and removes the
omelette from pan, then sprinkles it with salt.

‘The next thing is super easy,’ Minho says. ‘You can do it without my help.’ He makes Jisung
drain two cans of tuna while he opens gochujang and gochugaru.

‘I’m not that good with spice,’ Jisung says shyly.

‘Just half a spoonful of each then,’ he says with a smile.

Jisung adds the spices to the tuna along with mayonnaise and mixes everything together.

‘Good job,’ Minho says. He turns on the tap to wash a large handful of long scallions. ‘This isn’t
very conventional, but just trust me.’

He’s quick to say, ‘I trust you.’

‘I know.’ He turns the stove on again and drizzles a bit of oil into the skillet. ‘While I sear these,
you can cut up the cucumber. Thin strips like we practised earlier, okay?’

He puts the cucumber down on the chopping board and cuts away the ends. Carefully, he cuts it
into long, thin strips. ‘Like this?’ he asks, looking up at Minho with wide eyes. He probably looks
so hopeful. Eager for praise.

‘Just like that,’ he rewards him. He opens a jar of danmuji. ‘Now we just need to assemble
everything. I’ll do the first on my own to show you.’ He rolls out the bamboo mat, lays down the
first sheet of kim, and scoops rice on top. He dampens his fingers under the tap and starts to spread
out the rice. ‘You really just add the fillings you want.’ He places a straight line of the tuna across
the rice, then follows with lines of carrots, scallions, and danmuji. ‘Then you lift the bamboo mat
here to help fold it over itself and press the edge of the kim against the rice.’
Jisung watches Minho’s hands mesmerised as he works.

‘Try to keep it as tight as possible,’ he says, casting a look at Jisung. ‘You squeeze it and then lift
the mat a bit to keep rolling until it’s compact and properly sealed.’ He lifts the mat away and
brushes the finished kimbap roll with a thin layer of sesame oil. ‘Your turn.’

‘Don’t laugh if I’m bad,’ he says. ‘Please.’

‘I wouldn’t.’ He puts down a sheet of kim for him. ‘Go on, I’ll help you out.’

Jisung scoops up rice and spreads it out on the seaweed. He carefully lines up egg, carrots,
cucumber, and danmuji. His tongue pokes out as he lifts the bamboo mat and starts to roll it.

Maybe he’s purposefully a little awkward about it. Maybe he acts more unsure than he is just to get
Minho back in his personal space, but it doesn’t matter, it pays off, because Minho steps closer and
puts his hands on top of Jisung’s. ‘A little tighter,’ he says, squeezing the mat. ‘Here, and hold it
like this when you roll it further. Just like that.’

Jisung’s body is moving on autopilot. His hands go where Minho guides them, but he doesn’t think
about it. He can’t focus on anything but how close they are.

‘Well done,’ Minho says. He removes the mat and gives the roll a brush with sesame oil before
moving it aside. ‘One more now. Practice makes perfect.’

He nods dazedly as he scoops rice on to a new sheet of kim.

Minho helps him with each roll and finally steps to the side to wash his hands. ‘They need to sit for
ten minutes or so before we slice them,’ he says. ‘Can you help me with the dishes while we wait?’

He still feels a little faint. ‘Y-yeah,’ he says. ‘Of course.’

‘Thank you.’ He turns on the water to fill a washing-up bowl and hands Jisung a dishtowel.

‘Can I sit on the counter?’ Jisung asks.

‘Sure thing.’

Jisung hops up on the counter and dries off each item Minho hands to him. The softness is almost
unbearable, his body shivering every time their fingers brush. He looks at Minho’s shoulders, the
sharp line of his jaw, and he wants to sit here forever, sun-bathed and drunk on domesticity. Wants
evenings like this to fill his entire life.

Once everything is clean and Jisung is drying the pan, Minho empties the dirty water into the sink.
He wets a dishrag and wipes down the counter, then wordlessly picks the pan out of Jisung’s hands
and sets it down next to him. He moves closer.

And closer.

He nudges Jisung’s knees apart to stand between his legs, and Jisung can’t think, can’t breathe,
doesn’t understand, doesn’t know, and then—then Minho’s so, so close and his hand touches the
back of his neck and Jisung shudders again and his eyes go so wide and a startled whimper rolls off
his tongue but the sound is cut off by Minho’s lips pressed against his own.

He goes stock-still.

His brain malfunctions.

Minho’s thumb soothes across his cheek as he kisses him, the pressure so firm, his mouth warm
and soft against Jisung’s.

He pulls away slowly. He touches Jisung’s knee again, plays with the edge of his skirt, before he
takes a step back.

‘Hhh-huhng?’ He spasms when he looks at Minho. His entire body feels like liquid smoke. His lips
burn. His heart determinedly tries to gallop out of his chest.

Minho doesn’t say anything, just gives him a smile. He picks up a knife and starts to slice the
kimbap.

He’s going to melt into the floor. His cheeks feel hot, hot, hot. He kissed him. He kissed him.

He’ll never relearn how to talk. He clutches the edge of the counter and keeps his head bowed,
looks at Minho’s tempting hands as he handles the large knife with ease. Everything is too much.
Everything is so beautiful.

What did Iseul say?

The sun always comes back.

‘Let’s see if they turned out okay,’ Minho says conversationally. He picks up a slice of kimbap and
holds it in front of Jisung’s willing mouth.

A beat passes before he manages to part his lips. He takes a bite and blushes when Minho pops the
other half into his own mouth.

‘Oh, that’s good,’ he says, licking his thumb clean. ‘You make good kimbap, Jisung.’

His throat’s still so parched. His heart is a summer lilac. Every butterfly in the world flocks to it. ‘I
had—’ he finally starts, choked-up, embarrassingly raw with emotion. ‘I had a good teacher.’
 Chapter 33

‘I’m gonna pass out,’ Felix hisses through his teeth. ‘Please tell me he bent you over the counter
after he kissed you. Oh my God. OhmyGodohmyGodohmyfucking—GOD!’

‘I would’ve died,’ Jisung says, ‘if he had. I think. Like I was barely alive at that point.’

‘So he just kissed you and then went on with his life all casual-like? He’s so sick.’

‘I felt like I was going to melt.’ Jisung grabs a pillow from Felix’s bed and screams into it for a
long moment. ‘When he pushed my knees apart to stand between my legs, I think I went into shock.
And then when he held me by the neck, like—it didn’t feel real. At all.’

‘He really did it, man.’ He roots around in his box with bottles of nail polish and holds up one that
matches his new hair. ‘Should I go with this one?’

‘It’s cute,’ Jisung says. ‘You could add some glitter on top.’

‘Good idea.’ He uncaps it and stats to brush it onto his left index finger. ‘So what happened next? I
need to know everything.’

‘He fed me kimbap.’ His voice comes out all smoke-like and thin. He hasn’t stopped shivering
since Minho dropped him off back home again, and he’s barely slept all night—so floored by what
happened, so worked-up. Overwhelmed by the reality of it all. ‘While I was sitting on the counter. I
was blushing so bad and I kept stammering every time I tried to say anything.’

‘Fuck off.’ Felix looks up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, electric blue strands of hair
shirking his topknot. He pokes his tongue into his cheek, gives a little shake of his head, and
brushes nail polish on to his next fingernail. ‘You sat all nice and pretty while Daddy fed you bits
of kimbap, huh?’

He imitates throwing the pillow at Felix. ‘Shut uuuup.’

Suddenly, he squints up at him. ‘What do you actually call him?’ he says. ‘When you’re together?
‘Cause you’ve never said his name to me.’

‘Um.’ Jisung buries his head in his hands. This is—embarrassing. It also turns him on. In a
whisper, he manages, ‘uhh, I call him Professor.’

‘You call him Professor?’ he screams. ‘Get out of here!’

‘I can’t say his name!’

Felix lifts his eyebrows at him. ‘Sure you can,’ he says. ‘You just don’t want to.’

‘Go away,’ he says. ‘Fuck you. You don’t get it.’

‘Oh, I fucking get it.’ He blows him a kiss and wriggles his hand around, fingers stretched out, as if
that’ll help the polish dry faster. ‘Sooo how’d you spend the rest of the evening?’

Jisung scoots off the bed to sit cross-legged across from Felix. ‘He asked if I wanted to watch a
movie with him,’ he says. He closes his eyes for a brief moment and lets the memories of yesterday
evening wash over him again: the shocked pleasure zipping up his spine as they ate by the kitchen
island, Minho’s smile as he prepared them drinks. ‘This adaptation of a novel he likes, he said he’d
been wanting to watch it for a while.’

‘Netflix and chill for literary freaks, I got it. Go on.’

‘You’re so annoying.’ Jisung grabs a bottle of hot pink nail polish from the box. ‘Oh, he said I
could dye my hair black. That it’d suit me.’

Felix tilts his head and considers. ‘Yeah, I see it,’ he says. ‘Daddy’s little emo boy.’

‘Go to hell.’

He snorts. ‘You were talking about hair dye? That’s random.’

‘I mentioned you were dying your hair.’

‘You told your boyfriend about me?’ He bumps his right hand into Jisung’s forearm. ‘Oh my God.
When do I get to meet him then?’

‘Never,’ he says primly. ‘You’ll do irreversible damage to my reputation.’

‘You don’t want him to know what a whore you could be for him?’

Jisung glares at him.

‘Don’t worry, I’m sure he knows already.’

‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘We went to the couch. Even though my legs felt like jelly and I didn’t think I’d
be able to walk.’

‘Aaaaand?’ He blows on his fingernail and dabs it, then curses when the polish unsurprisingly
smudges. ‘Dammit. Every time.’ He grabs a bottle of nail polish remover and pours some on to a
cotton pad. ‘Anyway. Was it like a 50 Shades kind of movie situation?’

‘I don’t think he would watch porn with me.’

‘Oh, you never know. I hear there’s a booming niche of teacher/student content out there.’

‘You hear?’

‘Yup.’ He picks up the nail polish brush again to redo his nail. ‘Did he tug you into his lap? I
assume you couldn’t focus on the movie.’

‘I couldn’t focus on anything but trying not to get hard.’

‘You weren’t hard at that point?’

‘Of course I was.’

‘Hah.’ He winks at him. ‘Bet he noticed. How many times did you get off when you got back
home?’

‘Uh, it wasn’t like—it was more of a continuous thing. I didn’t count.’

Felix snorts. ‘God, I love you.’ He pushes up on his knees to press a sloppy, slanted kiss to Jisung’s
forehead. ‘So, you didn’t sit in his lap?’

‘No,’ he confirms. ‘But we were so close. And Button was in my lap, and I felt like—hhng, this is
so embarrassing.’ He finally opens the pink nail polish and brushes a layer on to his left thumb. ‘I
felt like—it was so domestic. You know? I was daydreaming about what it would be like to live
with him…’

‘Mum was soo right,’ he says. ‘You’re so in love with him. I love it.’

‘So what if I am?’ he says. ‘He’s—he makes me feel so—I don’t know. It’s a lot, okay?’

‘Well, maybe you can move in with him once you graduate,’ he says. ‘Become his stay-at-home
sex pet.’

‘Die.’

‘Would if I could,’ he says. ‘Unfortunately for the haters I’m an immortal bitch.’

Jisung moves on to his next fingernail. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘And I love you. Once the movie was
over, we just talked and then he drove me home.’

‘Aaaaaand?’

‘And he kissed me again!’ he nearly shrieks, the excitement bursting forth inside him all over. A
tidal wave that hasn’t stopped, that he can’t imagine will ever stop.

‘As he should,’ he says. His face is as bright and open as Jisung’s heart feels. It feels so special to
share this with him, to know Felix is always there, his best friend forever. That he gets it, that he’ll
never think there’s something wrong with him. ‘With tongue? Please say yes.’

‘No, just like—like he did in the kitchen,’ he says. ‘I don’t know if this is weird, but I feel so nice
when I’m in the car alone with him.’

‘Feels like your dad’s driving you around, yeah?’

‘Shut up,’ he says. ‘Don’t say that.’

He blows him an exaggerated kiss. ‘Go on. Get to the kiss, I wanna know.’

‘Well, I obviously felt like I was going to vibrate out of my own skin the entire drive,’ Jisung says
casually. ‘As one does.’

‘As one does.’

‘And I hoped so bad he would maybe kiss me again,’ he says. ‘Or say something. ‘Cause he still
hadn’t said anything? But then when he pulled up in front of my flat, he turned the car off.’

‘Oooh. God, if you don’t suck his dick in that Audi at some point, I’m going to steal him away
from you.’

‘You couldn’t,’ he says. ‘I’m his favourite.’

‘Love when you get cocky about it, babe.’ He takes the pink nail polish brush from Jisung to do
his other hand for him. ‘So what next?’

‘I unbuckled my seat belt. But I didn’t wanna leave.’

‘Who would?’
‘He—then he also unbuckled his, and I thought—okay. Okay, that means something? And then I
was like, thank you for teaching me and I kinda waited a second before I said to make kimbap.’

‘Slut.’

‘Pot, kettle.’

‘So I give great head and everyone wants me,’ he says. ‘Like it’s my fault.’

Jisung laughs. ‘Not your fault,’ he says. ‘To be honest, I don’t even fucking know if I’m
remembering everything right, because it was all so much. But then he touched my nape again and
tugged me closer and kissed me above the console. And he was like holding me in place and his
hand felt soo good on my neck. And I was completely disintegrating at that point.’

‘God.’ He puts the brush back in the nail polish bottle. ‘You deserve it so much. I’m literally so
fucking happy right now.’

‘Me too,’ he says, and exhales an exhilarated sound. ‘I feel like I could fly.’

‘Did you talk today?’

‘I texted him earlier,’ he admits. ‘I thought of waiting, but I didn’t want to. So I said yesterday was
really nice. And he sent me an emoji and said he thought the same.’

‘Bet he does,’ he says. ‘When do I get to meet him? I promise I’ll behave.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Seriously!’ he insists. ‘I have to meet him at some point if you’re gonna date. You know I don’t
have a problem with the age gap. You can tell him that, too.’

‘Hey, Daddy, just so you know, my best friend thinks it’s hot that you’re fifteen years older than
me.’

‘Just like that,’ he says. ‘I can’t believe you finally kissed. Twice.’

‘Twice!’ Jisung echoes. ‘He kissed me. He kissed me. How am I supposed to be normal again?’

‘Babe, I have blue hair,’ he says. ‘Do you think I know anything about being normal?’

He turns his hands around and looks at his nails, the polish still shiny and wet. ‘You pull it off
well, somehow.’

‘Of course I do,’ he says. ‘I’m me.’ He wriggles his eyebrow and laughs at him. ‘What’s the next
step with your professor? Fuck, your professor really kissed you. That’s so hot. How taboo. Are
you also gonna call him Professor when he fucks you?’

‘If that happens—’

‘It’ll happen,’ he interrupts. ‘Come on. Ditch the if.’

‘Okay, when that happens—’

‘That’s the spirit, babe!’

‘When—’ It feels strange, really, to use that word. Presumptuous and overconfident, because he
can’t be sure, he really can’t, and it might never come that far, but—but, it might. He wants it. He’s
pretty sure Minho wants it, too. ‘When we have sex, I’ll call him whatever he wants me to.’

Felix laughs again. ‘Even Master?’

He wrinkles his nose. ‘Okay, no. Not that. Fine, I want to call him Daddy. There, are you happy?’

‘More than happy,’ he says. His smile so scheming and honest. His heart the safest space Jisung
has ever found himself. ‘Thrilled. Exhilarated. Are you gonna do anything on Wednesday?’

‘Like what?’

‘Liiiiike, linger after class and kiss him again?’

He bites his lip. The thought is thrilling and delicious.

‘Text him nudes right before class starts?’

‘No, what the fuck.’

‘Call him Daddy in front of everyone?’

‘Felix, shut up,’ he says. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘Bet it’d make him hard,’ he giggles. ‘God, I wish I had a hot professor I could torture with my
youthful charm. It sounds so fun.’

Jisung bites his lip. ‘It is,’ he says. It makes his head spin half the time, and it feels surreal, and
sometimes it seems like more than his heart can handle. And it wasn’t supposed to be love, he just
thought Minho was overpoweringly attractive and he wanted a taste of the forbidden fruit, and now
—now he has all these feelings. Now it’s romantic and tender and he wants to eat from his hand
forever.

And Minho might let him.

He thinks he will.

He’s his favourite, after all.

 Chapter 34

Last time Jisung went to Minho’s office, he fucked himself stupid beforehand. He wore a plug
there, which seems so embarrassing now. Back then, he was obsessed with physicality. He wanted
Minho to bend him over his desk. The illicit nature turned him on: he wanted to be a dirty secret.
He wanted to be special, wanted the shrouded taboo, wanted his professor to taunt him for being a
whore. Like a fucking porn cliché—he knew it was silly, knew he didn’t have a real chance, but he
hoped anyway. Against reason, shamefully and secretly, he came here prepared to take cock. Just
in case. Just because. How humiliating to reminisce, to bear the mark of his past obsessive desire.

And still—if Minho asked him today, he’d bend over. He’d spread his legs like a good boy.

It’s not like he doesn’t want it any more. He still wants to be chosen. He still wants to be taken
apart patiently, impatiently, wants to beg for it, wants to hear his own voice destroyed.

He just wants to be loved, too. Maybe he always did, but he wasn’t dumb enough to hope for that
much.

But now—

Well. These things do happen, you know? It’s not that unheard of. Love, it happens. Ask the poets
and they’ll tell you as much.

The door is ajar when he gets there. He knocks gently before he pushes it open.

Minho looks up from his computer and their eyes meet, surprise on his face. ‘Jisung?’

‘Afternoon, Professor.’

‘Good afternoon,’ he says. ‘Do you have any questions about the homework?’

‘Nope.’ He drops down in the free chair and turns his brattiest smile on him. ‘Just thought I’d stop
by.’

He leans back in his own seat and gives him an appraising look. ‘Did you now.’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘See how you’re doing.’

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘No other reason, I’m sure.’

Jisung circles his thumb around his kneecap and blinks at Minho. ‘‘Course not,’ he says. ‘Dunno
what you mean, Professor.’

Minho’s jaw tightens. His eyes drop briefly to Jisung’s bare thighs. ‘Well, since you’re here
anyway, tell me if you’ve started the new assignment yet.’

‘It’s only due next week,’ he says. ‘You think I’m some type of teacher’s pet?’

His lips twitch into a faint smile.

‘Yeah, I started it,’ Jisung admits. ‘Last night.’

‘Good boy,’ he teases, and Jisung feels no less insane than he did last time Minho said that to him.
His body gives a weak little jerk and he looks towards the door, still slightly open, and hopes
nobody interrupts them now, that nobody overhears. That somebody overhears. ‘How do you like
the prompt?’

It takes him a second to locate his voice. ‘It’s fun,’ he says. ‘Different.’

‘Yes?’

It’s a characterisation exercise, the classic character sheet turned inside-out. Name, age, childhood
trauma you don’t want to think about, favourite food—all those questions, asked and answered, but
not in the third person. Not by you, the writer, but by the character. It’s more fun that way. It forces
you into your character’s head. That’s where you should be. Jisung isn’t writing, Martha doesn’t
eat eggs any more because it reminds her of her dead mother. Instead he writes, she used cayenne
pepper, half a tablespoon, and it set my mouth on fire. Every morning, year in and year out, before
school. I grocery shop on Mondays now and buy a new carton of eggs each week. Every morning I
crack one open on the kitchen counter and watch it gloop all over floor. That could’ve been me.
That could’ve been delicious. Grief doesn’t get any smaller. Grief is the eggshells I’ll walk on for
the rest of my life, until I die, too. I hope they have spices in heaven. I hope the kitchen there is
larger than the entire Atlantic Ocean. If she’s watching me cry on the floor from above, I hope
she’s still proud of me.

‘Yeah,’ Jisung says. ‘It’s a mess right now, but I’ll try to make it better before I give it to you.’

‘Messy isn’t always bad,’ he says. ‘I’m sure you’ll make it good.’

‘Or else I can always ask for your help, right?’

‘Right.’ His gaze doesn’t stray from him. He lifts his eyebrow, and he looks a bit amused. ‘My
door is always open for you.’

‘Good to know.’ He feels drunk on this pas de deux, the mutual temptation and resistance. He
glances at the door again. When he scoots a little forward, his knees knock together. God, he wants
another kiss. He looks at Minho’s mouth, then his chest. Then the desk, and shivers at the thought
of being pressed against it. The door hastily locked and Jisung’s fingers shoved into his mouth to
stay quiet.

‘I bought peaches yesterday,’ Minho says a moment later. ‘At the market.’

The parallel is overly obvious, but it makes Jisung shake through an exhalation anyway. He bites
the inside of his cheek and dispels the image of a knife in Minho’s hands, his fingers slick and
slippery with the fruit juice. ‘Your favourite fruit.’

‘My favourite fruit.’

‘Are you going to make a fruit salad?’

‘Thought I would,’ he says. ‘You could come over if you’re not too busy working on that
assignment for your mean professor.’

‘That’s only due next week,’ he says. ‘So, you know.’

‘I know?’

‘I have time,’ Jisung says. ‘If you want me.’

Minho just looks at him for a long moment. Jisung starts to feel like there’s a wasp inside his
cerebellum.

Someone knocks on the door.

‘Come inside,’ Minho turns his head and greets Mai with a smile. ‘Good afternoon.’

‘Good afternoon, Professor Lee,’ she says. She smiles at Jisung. ‘Jisung, hey. Struggling with the
character thing too?’

‘Yeah,’ he shakes his head. His cheeks feel hot. He looks back at Minho and gets up from the
chair. ‘Well, we were just—thank you, Professor. I’ll think about what you said.’

‘Do that,’ Minho says. ‘Don’t get into your head about it and you’ll do just fine.’

He nods sloppily and gives Mai another smile. ‘See you around. Good luck.’

‘See you,’ she says, and steps aside to let Jisung exit the office. He sucks in a deep breath in the
hallway. It feels like he just ran a marathon, or won a fist fight against God. There’s a delirious
laugh in his chest.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket.

Han Jisung [4:22 pm]

that sounded like an invitation
when do u want me to come?
 Chapter 35

The lilac shrubs perfume the air and the scent tries to crawl down Jisung’s throat, but it feels like
there’s a peach pit lodged there. Ever since Minho peeled the first orange so methodically, Jisung’s
been a little shaky. Prey-twitchy. Emboldened by the shiny blade in Minho’s hands and the fruit
juices puddling on the wooden chopping board—his pointed looks and the way he asked Jisung if
he wanted to help or just sit there and look pretty.

‘I can help,’ he flustered, fixated on Minho’s forearms.

‘That’s not what I asked,’ Minho said, cleaving a peach. Digging out the pit with his thumb. ‘I
asked if you wanted to.’

He got dizzy and Minho tipped a plastic container of raspberries into an enamel colander to give
them a rinse. Jisung watched him wash and prep and slice everything neatly.

The sky is as blue and clear as a cornflower field. The sun is like one of the oranges Minho just cut
up and tossed into the bowl along with all the other fruits and chunks of dark chocolate, the bowl
that’s sitting on the garden table right now.

Jisung tugs his legs under himself on the wicker sofa and looks towards the house. From the living
room, Button is watching them intently with her little head pressed against the window. ‘She’s
sad.’ He gives her a pityingly smile and a little wave before he looks back at Minho. ‘She wants to
be out here with us.’

‘She’s jealous,’ Minho corrects, spooning fruit salad on to a small plate. ‘She just wants you all to
herself.’

‘And you wouldn’t know what that’s like,’ he dares. ‘Professor.’

Minho hands him the plate and takes a sip of his Cuba libre. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ he says. ‘I
share you with her well enough, don’t I?’

He looks down at his plate and spears a strawberry wedge with his dessert fork. He chews it
slowly, the sweetness bright and disorienting in his mouth.

‘Good?’ Minho asks as he serves himself.

‘Great,’ he says, slipping a piece of peach into his mouth. ‘Tastes like summer.’ He looks out at
the garden, the swing hanging from the apple tree. He pictures himself sitting there weeks from
now, barefoot, lounging in Minho’s boxers and one of his T-shirts. ‘Feels a little bit like we’re in
your story.’

‘Doesn’t it?’ He eats a bite of his fruit salad and smiles when Jisung looks back at him. ‘Life
imitates art.’

‘And art imitates life.’

‘Certainly,’ Minho says. ‘You know, I think that story might have more potential. Maybe I’ll try to
work it into a novel one day.’

‘Ooooh.’ He puts down his plate next to him and reaches for his glass. ‘That would be incredible.
You should write—’ He licks his lips in hesitation, but then says, ‘you should write a scene where
the mother calls while they’re having sex.’

Minho’s gaze splits him open. He gives a slow nod and fingers the edge of his fork. ‘That’s a really
good idea,’ he says. ‘Would he answer the call?’

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I mean, yeah. That’s the point. Like, the shame. Which is mortifying but also
arousing. And I think it could really—your story was so clean. And the romance felt sweet, tender,
but also—illicit in some way. So an exhibitionist scene like that would really synthesise that.’ He
looks down. ‘I’m rambling. Sorry.’

‘I like when you talk,’ Minho says. ‘And it’s a really good idea. Everything you’re saying makes
perfect sense.’

Jisung gulps down a sip of his drink and sets down the highball glass. ‘God, a whole novel. Don’t
know if I could do that.’

‘Of course you could,’ he says. ‘That’s not even a question.’

‘You’re just saying that.’

‘No,’ he says. ‘Why would I say something I don’t mean?’

He looks away again. Sometimes, it’s still too much—to be this close, to be the sole focus of
Minho’s attention, to feel his gaze penetrate him. Close enough to smell his cologne. Close enough
to touch, or be touched. He flounders through a half-hearted shrug and forks up more fruit salad.
‘Maybe you’re being extra nice to me so I don’t go kiss Button instead.’

‘Tough competition,’ he says. ‘Normally I might get jealous, but then Button is special. Daddy’s
spoiled darling deserves everything, doesn’t she?’

Jisung reels.

‘Even your attention,’ Minho says. ‘But you’re not in there kissing her, are you?’

Shivering, he leans forward to set his plate down on the table. He picks up a sticky orange chunk
with his fingers and slips it into his mouth. ‘I’m not,’ he says, and moves just enough that his knee
brushes against Minho’s thigh. He lets his flushed cheeks say everything he can’t verbalise.

Minho encircles Jisung’s wrist loosely in his hand and thumbs the head of his ulna. ‘Come here,
darling,’ he says, and tugs Jisung into his lap.

He feels graceless and clumsy; his heart skyrockets as his legs straddle Minho’s thighs. His knees
press into the sofa’s back cushions. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Minho smiles up at him. ‘There you are.’ His left hand settles on the side of Jisung’s thigh, but the
right slinks up to the back of his neck. He pulls him closer, impossibly close, till they’re breathing
in the same mouthful of air. ‘Bet you taste like peaches now,’ he says. ‘And summer.’ He slots
their mouths together gently; when Jisung full-body gasps, Minho doesn’t pull away. He holds him
in place by his nape and squeezes his thigh, the kiss firm and insistent.

The butterflies in his stomach take flight. He surges even closer and holds on to Minho’s shoulders,
parts his lips for him. Whimpers when their tongues touch. Tightens his grip when Minho licks
into his mouth and nips at his lower lip.

Somewhere, a sparrow sings. Or a whole flutter of them. He melts into the kiss, the heady feeling
of Minho’s hands on him, the wet, dizzying sounds of their mouths moving.

‘You do,’ Minho murmurs, kissing him again.

‘Huh?’

‘You taste like summer.’

‘Nnngf.’ He urges forward and wordlessly demands another kiss; Minho smiles when he indulges
him. Desire burgeons in his lower belly, pumps through his veins. So giddy, gasping into Minho’s
mouth. Eyes rolling when he sucks on his tongue. Brain breaking and breaking, the splinters
scrambling together just to fall apart again. A ruination he wants to relive on repeat.

Minho pulls away and exhales a heavy breath. His cheeks are flushed, his hair mussed-up now
from Jisung’s eager hands. ‘You know I’m practically old enough to be your dad, right?’

It shocks a moan out of him. ‘It’s hot,’ he says, breathlessly honest. ‘Turns me on.’

His smile is partly endeared, partly something infuriatingly attractive. He pets Jisung’s thighs and
gives a little shake of his head.

‘It doesn’t—’ Jisung blurts. ‘I like it.’

‘Okay, kid.’

He spasms in surprise. His cheeks heat up even more. ‘Do you not—is it a problem?’ he tries. ‘For
you? That I’m…’

‘What, my student?’

‘Oh, I’d do anything for an A, Professor.’

He arches his eyebrow neatly. ‘Anything, huh?’

Jisung lets go of Minho’s shoulders to hide his face.

‘It’s not a problem for me,’ Minho says. His tone is serious, and he gently pries Jisung’s fingers
away to catch his eyes. ‘It could be for you, though. Your friends, your parents. Even if you like it,
they might not.’

‘Felix knows about you,’ he says. ‘He said I should tell you—actually, I can’t say that. I’d be too
embarrassed.’

Minho laughs. ‘Try for me?’

‘Okay, but then you’re not allowed to say anything after.’

‘Won’t say a thing.’

He closes his eyes. He sucks in a breath. He jumps off the cliff. ‘Daddy, my best friend thinks it’s
hot that you’re fifteen years older than me.’

Minho’s hands tighten on his thighs.

Jisung burns. He doesn’t blink open his eyes before he’s tugged in for another heated kiss. He
gasps into it and clutches Minho’s upper arms again, fists one hand in his hair.
Time disintegrates and encases them in syrup. He doesn’t want to come up for air; he can’t think
and doesn’t need to, doesn’t want to, only needs to kiss Minho nice and dirty like this. His heart
gallops before it brakes. The kiss anaesthetises him as much as it elates him. It thaws all the shame
and worry out of him; his lips buzz and he never wants them to stop. His hips grind forward and
Minho touches his waist, his thighs, holds the back of his neck and coaxes a desperately whiny
sound out of him.

When Minho calls him darling again, he levitates. He’s so light, he’s not weighed down by
anything at all.

‘Daddy thinks it’s hot too,’ he says quietly against his mouth, and Jisung’s mind goes staticky
fuzzy. He whimpers, but says nothing. Can’t find words. Just clings on to him tighter and kisses
him like he wants to do it all night, and then forever after that.
 Chapter 36

Han Jisung [1:55 pm]

running late again, professor

Lee Minho [1:55 pm]

I’m always perfectly on time.

Han Jisung [1:55 pm]

and never a minute early
don’t want to talk to your students before class?

Jisung steals a nervous glance over his shoulder. Nobody’s looking at him, but the slight risk still
thrills through him. He looks at Katharina hiding her mouth while she laughs at Mai’s joke; he
smiles at her and looks back at his phone.

Lee Minho [1:56 pm]

Only one of them.
And he was shivering in my lap a few days ago.
Not sure he’ll do that again in front of his classmates?

Han Jisung [1:57 pm]

you can’t just say that
it’s already hard to focus in class
or ever
i think about you all the time

Lee Minho [1:57 pm]

You do, do you?
What do you do when you think about me?

He looks up again. He snags his lip between his teeth as he considers the options. Something twists
inside him, something daring and winged, and he types out a response.

Han Jisung [1:59 pm]

i fuck myself stupid, professor

‘Good afternoon,’ Minho says as he enters the classroom with a confident smile. He sets down his
satchel on the table and takes a seat. ‘One second, I just have to quickly reply to this.’

Jisung stares at him hungrily, a little shamefully—the dress shirt sleeves rolled up and the tempting
swell of his mouth—and his body flushes hot as memories of Friday evening resurface.

‘Texting your wife, Professor?’ someone asks lightly.

Minho’s smile doesn’t waver as he looks up at them. ‘Something like that,’ he says, and Jisung’s
phone buzzes in his hand. ‘Now, how’re you all doing today?’

Lee Minho [2:00 pm]

Isn’t that a nice thought?
You’re cute when you’re being a tease.
You ought to concentrate in class, though.
Now isn’t the time to think about sitting nice and full and pretty in my lap.
❤️

The room spins around him. He grabs the edge of the table and takes a shallow breath. The idle
chatter of his classmates sounds like TV static. He barely dares look up again. Why did he think it
was a good idea to send Minho such a risky text right before class? Now it’s going to be impossible
to focus on anything except the heady rush in his veins, the fantasy sprawling through his frontal
lobe. Hiding his face in Minho’s shoulder and gasping as he’s stretched around his cock; maybe
still wearing a skirt, dressed up pretty for him. Dressed up because Daddy told him to.

God, the way Minho called himself that.

Daddy thinks it’s hot too.

Jisung nearly spasms out of his own skin.

‘I really enjoyed reading your submissions this week,’ Minho says. ‘I’ll send you all feedback as
soon as I can, but I figured today we could just dig into some examples and have the chance to hear
each other’s thoughts. So, how’d you all like the exercise?’ He leans forward and rests his
forearms on the table. ‘Boring? Interesting? Yeonghui, what do you say, did it make you feel like
an armchair psychologist?’

‘I suppose,’ she says, ‘a bit. But in a good way, I guess?’

‘I struggled with it,’ Mai chimes in. ‘I kept overthinking it, like—I was getting the voice all wrong.
And I wanted it to sound good, like a polished piece, even though it wasn’t really supposed to be?’

‘Not at all,’ Minho says. ‘You shouldn’t approach it like a publishable story. It’s a chance to get
into a character’s head. Then later you can write a story about that character and polish it into
something that can be published.’

‘So should we do this for every character in every story?’

‘Luckily it’s not my job to dictate process,’ Minho says with a smile. ‘You do what feels right for
you.’

‘Do you do it for every character you write, Professor?’ someone else presses.

‘No, I don’t,’ he says, and waits a beat. ‘If you’re stuck or feel detached from a character, I think
it’s an excellent exercise that can help you get under their skin and figure out what makes them
tick. Until you know that, your story won’t really go anywhere. Action, reaction. How do they
process the world? And how will that affect the causality in your work?’

Jisung thinks about his new character Martha and the grief of losing her mother. He thinks of the
novel Minho said he might write, how the love at the crux of it might be judged harshly by the
mother. In the short story, the characters had no names. In the novel, they probably would.

He thinks of his own mum. He wants to tell her about Minho. He wants to tell his dad and the
whole world and at the same time he wants to truss up his feelings and keep them inside his
windpipe where nobody will see them. But they’ll hear the trace every time he opens his mouth to
talk.

That’s love, probably. Every word I say is tinged by you, somehow. Nobody knows just how
much. Nobody could ever understand.
Class continues. Yeonghui reads a part of her character sheet out loud and they talk about
arachnophobia and coffee.

Jisung dawdles as everyone else packs up their things and leaves the classroom. He takes a sip of
his water bottle before he zips up his rucksack; cheeks heating again, he gets out of his chair and
moves closer to Minho. Words chafe in his throat. He plays with his leather bracelet.

‘Jisung.’ Amusement permeates Minho’s voice. ‘You’re fidgeting.’

He breathes out a shaky sound and ruffles a hand through his hair. Bravely, he meets Minho’s gaze.
‘Was just thinking,’ he says, ‘now that class is over, is it a good time to think about that thing you
said earlier?’

‘What thing?’

He bites the inside of his cheek. ‘Sitting nice and—and full and pretty in—’ He turns his head and
looks at the open door. There’s the sound of footsteps and echoed chatter from the hallway. ‘In
your lap.’

‘Ah,’ he says, and gives a slow nod. ‘You could think about that now, yes. It’s a nice thought.’

‘It is,’ he echoes below his breath.

‘Wish I could think about it too,’ Minho says. ‘But I have a faculty meeting in—’ He moves up his
forearm to look at his wristwatch, ‘—seven minutes.’

‘No rest for the wicked.’ He takes a small step closer, and then another. He steals another look
over his shoulder and touches the inside of Minho’s forearm lightly. ‘Go to your meeting,’ he says.
‘I’ll be thinking about you, Professor. Maybe I’ll do what I often do when I think about you.’

Minho grips his waist and leans closer. ‘Cocktease,’ he murmurs into his ear. He lets go of him and
slings on his satchel. ‘Get home safe, Jisung.’

His heart soars. His knees go wobbly-loose. His voice deserts him and he just stands there,
quivering, as Minho smiles sweetly and rushes off to his meeting.
 Chapter 37

Dear Jisung,

Thank you so much for your interest in Clementine Magazine. Our editors really enjoyed your
submission and would love to publish Leporine in issue eleven. Please let us know if the story is
still available.

Take care!

He reads the e-mail again and joy vibrates in his chest. Weeks ago, he finally submitted his short
story the way he promised Minho he would. He didn’t tell him; he didn’t tell anyone, he just sent it
to a magazine one night at two a.m. and forced himself to stop thinking about it.

Smiling stupidly, he grabs his phone and opens his favourite contacts. Before he can overthink it,
he calls Minho; while it rings, he rereads the e-mail.

‘Jisung,’ Minho’s voice comes through clearly. ‘You okay?’

‘I submitted my story,’ he blurts. ‘The one with the rabbit bone I wrote for class. And it got
accepted, I just got the e-mail. It’s being published.’

‘That’s amazing!’

‘I wanted to tell you right away.’ He closes his eyes and a giddy laugh spills of him. ‘I’m really
excited.’

‘You should be,’ he says. ‘I’m excited! This is fantastic, darling.’

His mind whirls and he makes a soft, whiny sound. He lies down on the couch and throws his legs
up on the armrest, looks at his lemon-patterned socks. ‘I probably wouldn’t even have submitted it
if you hadn’t told me to.’

‘Good thing you listen to instructions so well then,’ Minho says. Light and easy. Turning Jisung’s
insides liquid. ‘You deserve this; your story is so good. You’re so good.’

Jisung throws his arm over his face. ‘Stop it,’ he says. ‘You’re not supposed to pick favourites,
Professor.’

‘No?’

‘No. It’s bad etiquette.’

‘Too bad,’ he says. ‘We need to celebrate this.’

‘We do?’

‘Of course we do,’ Minho says. ‘Are you free tomorrow night? We can order food. Anything you
want.’

‘Anything I want?’

‘I’ll even let you pick a movie we can watch.’

‘Wanna watch Sharknado with me?’ he says. ‘All six of them.’

‘Don’t be a brat,’ he says. ‘If you’re going to stay awake all night, I can think of better ways to
spend your time.’

Jisung shivers weakly. He presses his thighs together.

‘I’m proud of you,’ Minho says. ‘Your writing is wonderful, you know that. I’m glad your story’s
being published.’

‘Thank you.’ He clears something sticky and overwhelming out of his throat. ‘Still means a lot to
me when you say that.’

‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’ll keep telling you. I’ll see you tomorrow, darling.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he echoes. ‘I’ll wear something cute.’

‘Oh, please don’t,’ he says. ‘It’ll distract me from the Sharknado marathon.’

The pop music blares obnoxiously and the fluorescent tubes shine too brightly and Jisung feels a
little bit like he’s a snow globe in the hands of a sugar-high toddler, shaken thoroughly and about to
splatter all over the floor in a sticky, glittery mess.

Felix tugs him through the shop towards the women’s section and starts to sift through a rack with
skirts. ‘Earth to Jisung, come on.’

‘This music is ass,’ he grumbles. ‘I can’t hear my own thoughts.’

‘I can hear your thoughts just fine,’ Felix says cheerfully. He pulls out a hanger and considers a
chequered skirt with pleats, mumbles, ‘too Scottish’, and looks back at Jisung. ‘You’re thinking
oooh, I need to find the shortest skirt they have so Daddy will fuck me so good I black out.’

Jisung casts an embarrassed look over his shoulder. ‘We’re in public.’

‘Nobody can hear what I’m saying,’ he says. ‘The music’s too loud and too ass.’

‘You’re way too obsessed with the Daddy thing,’ he says, sliding his fingertips along the row of
skirts. ‘Find your own.’

‘Way ahead of you, babe.’ He holds up a white skirt for Jisung to see. ‘Signed up on Seeking
Arrangement yesterday.’

Jisung rolls his eyes.

Felix winks at him and wriggles the hanger. ‘This one’s perfect for you. Real virginal, yeah?’

‘It’s cute.’ It is cute. And virginal, or whatever.

‘Thinking more about it,’ Felix continues, ‘your professor must have friends.’

‘Only Catholic priests.’

‘Oh, talk dirty to me.’

‘You can’t fuck my professor’s friends.’

‘Why not?’ He looks up at him and blinks innocently. ‘You’re fucking your professor, aren’t you?’

He feels himself colour and checks the size tag on a purple tennis skirt. ‘Not yet,’ he hisses. ‘And
shut up. People will hear you.’

Felix slings a loose arm over Jisung’s shoulders and bites his earlobe. ‘Did you wax for him?’

He elbows him in the belly. ‘Of course I waxed, fuck off.’

‘Good boy.’ He smacks a loud kiss to his cheek and cackles when Jisung dramatically wipes it
away. ‘When we’re done here, we’re gonna go find cute undies for you. Daddy won’t know what
hit him.’ He squeezes him even tighter. ‘God, I’m so happy! You’re so perfect for each other.’

Jisung hugs him back. His heart wants to crawl up his throat and escape from his body. There is a
great tenderness inside him. He’s soft like overripe fruit. He clutches the cotton fabric in his hand
and rests his head on Felix’s shoulder. It’s a silly place to hug; the shitty music is still too loud and
the light flickers epileptically and there are people moving all around them, teen girls giggling and
trying to wheedle their mums into paying for new crop tops—it’s silly to suddenly be overcome
with emotion right here. ‘You’re being dumb,’ he says, which is simpler than what he wants to say.
Falling in love is not at all like in the stories. It is worse. It is better. Friendship, too. Every day his
heart rises like the sun in his own chest and sets in Felix’s. There is a connection linguistically
inaccessible. It can only be felt. He’s so lucky to have him. He’s so lucky to have all these things
happen to him. ‘When he finally fucks me,’ he says, pushing back from the hug, ‘I’m not taking
pics for you.’

Felix gasps in affront and flicks Jisung’s cheek. ‘You promised!’

‘I never promised,’ he says. ‘Why would I promise that?’

‘I distinctly remember hearing you say, yes, babe, I will show you my new boyfriend’s cock.’

‘I’ve never said that,’ he says. ‘I would never say that. He isn’t my boyfriend.’

‘No, you’re his little wife, right? Something like that?’

‘Why did I tell you about that?’

‘Because it’s hot,’ he says. ‘And I’m your best friend and you are therefore legally obligated to
show me his dick. Please.’

Jisung waves the skirts in front of him. ‘I’m going to try these on now,’ he says. ‘Come tell me if
they make me look cute. And stop talking about my professor’s dick.’
 Chapter 38
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Jisung presses his thumb against the soft skin right above his kneecap and looks out the car
window. His heart quivers in his chest and he smiles, dazedly happy, as the taxi driver turns the
volume up a notch and hums along to a saxophone solo. In his hand, his phone buzzes.

Lee Minho [15:02 pm]

Can’t find the Sharknado movies on Netflix.
So very sad.

His smile grows. When he accidentally meets the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, he ducks
his head again and rereads the text messages.

Han Jisung [15:03 pm]

oh no
try amazon prime?

Lee Minho [15:05 pm]

No luck there either.
I’m afraid we’ll have to find something else to watch.
Or do.

Han Jisung [15:05 pm]

that’s too bad
but i wore something cute so you would’ve been distracted anyway

Lee Minho [15:06 pm]

I would ask, but I’ll see you soon enough.

When Jisung was fifteen, he had a crush on a senior in high school. He had a tattoo of a snake
coiled around his forearm and went outside in the breaks to smoke. He didn’t talk much and cared
even less, and Jisung thought he was unbearably hot. Every time he saw him, he’d get this twisted-
up, sick feeling in his stomach, like a soda geyser, like his own skin was turning inside-out, overly
shy and excited and shaky. Felix tried to get him to make a move, but Jisung couldn’t do it. They
never exchanged more than three words, tops, but Jisung spent hours—weeks—daydreaming about
him, his hands, his eyes.

That’s how he used to feel around his professor, too. Admiring him from afar. Unsteady with want.
But this time, it’s not like back when he was fifteen. It’s different. It’s better. He’s not trapped
alone in this web of attraction.

He’s wearing the slutty white skirt he bought with Felix, a loose band tee, and his staunch
sneakers. A smudge of mother-of-pearl glitter across his cheekbones. His favourite earrings and a
chunky leather bracelet and he looks good, he thinks, he looks hot and fuckable and wanted. Minho
wants him, and Jisung’s never felt this fucking light.

A soda geyser, yes.

An explosion inside him so big it’ll paint the whole world gleamy lavender.
When he exits the car, he takes a deep breath. The summer air smells like heat and freshly cut
grass and something he can’t pin down, like a collective memory sticky with sunscreen and melted
strawberry popsicles. Something from his childhood. Something that opens up like a tulip.

Minho opens the door and smiles at him. ‘Jisung,’ he says. He wets his lips. He’s wearing that dark
linen-blend shirt with the intricate buttons that Jisung likes so much. He smells like oranges and
vetiver. He looks like he wants to eat Jisung alive. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Professor.’ Jisung beams at him, bright and bold like the sun itself is nestled in his ribcage,
because it feels like it is. He’s glow-in-the-dark. Joy is bursting from the seams of his body. ‘Thank
you.’

‘You deserve it,’ he says. ‘You’ve worked so hard for it.’

Jisung swallows.

‘The publication,’ Minho adds. Button rounds the corner with a squealy meow, but Jisung can’t
tear his eyes away from Minho’s face. ‘You don’t want to hurt the rabbit, but this is not your
choice to make,’ he quotes. ‘My darling, you’re so incredible.’ And then he’s closer, and his right
hand is on Jisung’s waist. He cages him against the door and cradles his jaw tenderly, catches his
eyes for a brief moment before he slots their mouths together.

Weak-kneed, Jisung gasps. He parts his lips eagerly and clutches Minho’s bicep, makes a
contented noise as Minho slides his hand into his hair and deepens the kiss. His tongue in his
mouth, coaxing little whines out of him. Jisung’s mind shattering. His limbs honeyed, teetering.

‘You’re—’ he tries, but gives up to kiss Minho again. Mouth open and willing, so eager. So wet
and needy. ‘You’re—Professor, I’ve worked so hard.’

He kisses the corner of Jisung’s mouth. ‘You have.’

‘For you.’ He blinks at him, his vision all blurry, and loops his arms around his shoulders. He leans
closer, rocks sloppily against Minho’s sturdy thigh. ‘You said I had to give you more.’

‘I did.’ He licks into his mouth, slow, patient; each flick of his tongue makes Jisung buzz.
Butterflies crawl around beneath his skin. ‘And you gave me more.’

‘Can give you even more.’ His whisper is rough, gravelly. There’s dirt in his mouth. He feels dirty
and he feels good. ‘You know, I’ve never—before. With anyone.’

Minho’s fingertips dig into Jisung’s thigh. ‘I know,’ he says roughly. ‘Been thinking about it.’

‘And you said—’ He shudders as he exhales, ‘said tonight, anything I want.’

Minho grips him even tighter.

Jisung’s dick twitches. Minho’s touch aerates the hope in his chest. The desire, the want—the
need. He needs him, right fucking now. He’s worked so hard and been so good and patient and
brave and he’s fallen in fucking love and made a mess of himself. He wants this, now. He wants
everything and more. He licks his lips and leans even closer, breathes right next to Minho’s ear.
‘Please,’ he says. ‘Please, I’ve been good.’

He presses him against the door again and opens his mouth up with his tongue. He kisses him so
hard Jisung forgets how to breathe. He forgets that he needs to breathe at all. ‘Sweetheart,’ Minho
says, so quiet it sparks goosebumps all over Jisung’s body. ‘What’re you asking for?’
‘You know,’ he says, just a beat late. A little bit whiny. He could cry, it’s so close. Minho’s so
close, touching him so nicely, kissing him so deep. Rewarding him with all his attention. Giving
him everything he wants, and even this—even this, he’ll give him. Jisung knows he will. ‘I need
you—I need you to teach me,’ he says. ‘Show me. How it works. How it feels.’

Minho makes a noise that sets Jisung’s insides on fire. He grabs the backs of his thighs and hoists
him up; Jisung’s so startled he whimpers, then giggles semi-hysterically, as he wraps his legs
around Minho’s waist and clings on to him. He digs his toes into the back of his shoe and manages
to kick off his sneakers.

Felix is going to freak out when he tells him about this part.

Minho’s bedroom is nice and spacious, the sheets slate grey and the walls off-white. Jisung notices
a curved, matte black floor lamp in the corner and a potted aloe vera, but he doesn’t notice much
more than that—too focused on Minho putting him down on the bed and crowding him against the
mattress to kiss him again. He arches up against him and grasps at his arms, panting lightly,
embarrassingly hard already.

Minho smoothes his hands up Jisung’s thighs and squeezes. He keeps kissing him, and it feels so,
so good. Open-mouthed and nasty and loud, all these wet sounds from their tongues, their spit,
Jisung’s choked-up moans. Shamelessly desperate. Forged by pure need and pent-up daydreams
and sickening, dizzying, devastating longing.

‘Ah—ah, God, you’re so…’ He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. What is Minho,
exactly? Everything Jisung has ever dreamt of? More than that?

‘You are—’ Minho murmurs, kissing down Jisung’s throat, ‘—so lovely.’

His head tilts back as Minho licks at the hollow of his throat; he makes a strangled noise. ‘Nnnhgg
—’

His thumbs rub small circles on the insides of Jisung’s thighs. When he kisses him again, he snags
his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down lightly.

Arousal sings in Jisung’s belly. His whole body feels knocked loose and feverishly hazy. There’s a
timidity, a burgeoning shyness—even as he feels safe, he’s still uncertain too. Anxious. He doesn’t
want Minho to laugh at him. He doesn’t think he will, he trusts he’ll make it good, but still. Still.
‘I’m nervous,’ he whispers into Minho’s mouth. Saying it out loud, even so quietly, makes him
blush. He hopes that turns Minho on more. ‘But I want you.’ He licks his lips, sighs softly as
Minho pets under his skirt. ‘Professor.’

He smiles against Jisung’s mouth. ‘Are you still going to call me that when I’m inside you?’

Jisung shivers. Helplessly, he brings his hand up to his mouth and bites the first knuckle of his
index finger. ‘If you want me to,’ he manages, shaky at the promise Minho just made. How
casually he said it—when I’m inside you. When, when, when—the way it’s happening, right now.
Don’t close your eyes. Look at what’s happening to you, how beautiful it is. How real. ‘Is it your
first time,’ he starts, ‘fucking your student?’

He laughs softly, his smile so warm. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Just you.’

‘So I’m special.’

‘You are, darling.’ He kisses him so tenderly the edges of Jisung’s nervousness cloud over. He
runs his hands further up his thighs and squeezes his ass, thumbs running along the edge of his
underwear. ‘The prettiest thing.’ He catches his eyes before he slips his fingertips beneath the
cotton fabric of Jisung’s briefs. ‘Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.’

Jisung holds his breath as Minho slowly peels his briefs down his thighs. He wants to press his
legs together. He wants to hide his face in the pillow, buckling under his shyness now. He feels so
wet. His dick twitches again when Minho touches him under the skirt, jerking his fist loosely down
the length. ‘Ah—hhh…’

‘There you are.’ He presses his mouth to Jisung’s lower lip and works his palm over the head of his
cock. ‘Baby, I’ve got you. Look at me.’

He blinks bleary eyes at Minho and bites his own fingers. His hips grind forward, the touch so
nice. Already handling him so well, the way Jisung knew he would. ‘Good,’ he mumbles, ‘feels
good.’

‘Good boy,’ he says. ‘I’m going to need you on all fours.’ He lets go of Jisung’s dick and sits up,
but doesn’t stop touching him—he puts one hand above his knee and runs the other down his shin
to touch his ankle. ‘Can you do that for me?’

He nods belatedly. He feels clumsy as he pulls up his legs and turns around to kneel on the bed.
He’s so—exposed. Even with his t-shirt and the skirt still on. He looks at him over his shoulder and
bites his lip when he meets his dark, firm gaze. ‘Like this?’

‘Just like that.’ He smoothes his warm hands up the backs of his thighs. He flips the skirt out of the
way and squeezes his ass again, pulls a little, rubs his thumb around his hole.

Jisung’s breath dies inside him. He bites his lip so hard he nearly trembles out of his own skin. He
squeezes his eyes shut and rocks back against Minho’s hand on instinct, makes a strangled noise.
Makes another, a shocked gasp, when—when, when—something wet, his mouth, his tongue right
—his eyes fly open and he flinches away, flinches closer, but Minho’s steady hands hold him in
place, spread him open, and he licks at Jisung’s asshole. ‘Ngghnhggf wh—’

‘Shh,’ he murmurs, kissing him, right there, squeezing his skin. ‘Hold yourself up for me, darling.’

It feels like nothing he’s ever felt before.

Minho’s tongue teases around his asshole and down his perineum with unflappable, focused
strokes. His thumbs rub at his cheeks as he licks at him, wet, so wet, slow and leisurely. ‘Good
boy,’ he praises, circling his thumb at his wet rim, tugging lightly. ‘Tell Daddy how you’re feeling,
darling.’

He feels delirious. His mouth on him, and the words he’s saying—Jisung barely feels lucid. He’s
crossed into some fantastical sphere; a world where he’s not only rewarded with unimaginable
pleasure, but where he’s wanted. A world where he’s adored. ‘G-good,’ he manages after a slurred
moan, spit dribbling down his tongue. His elbows shake. ‘Good, good, so good, Daddy, I feel—’

He grabs him tighter and flattens his tongue against him. He moans into Jisung’s skin and mouths
at him, trailing the tip of his tongue in tight circles around his hole. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘You’re so
soft for me. Figured you’d be so sensitive, sweetheart.’

Jisung hangs his head and pushes back against Minho’s face. Inside him, the sun grows and grows.
It eats all his organs. There’s only desire left, only pleasure and attention; the slick, dirty sounds
overwhelm him, Minho’s moans as he eats him out. ‘H-how—’ He feels like curling in on himself
and he can’t curb the growing, glittery pleasure much longer. He’s going to come from this.
Minho’s going to make him come on his tongue. The feeling is so new and overpowering, he’s
powerless to stop it. ‘How long—ah—fuck. Feels good.’

He spits on Jisung’s hole and smears it around with his fingertips. ‘You’re twitching,’ he says in
that soft, attentive voice of his, smudging another kiss to Jisung’s ass. ‘Your thighs are trembling,
baby. Feels that good?’

‘Yes,’ he pants, ‘yes, yes, yes—’

Cooing over him, Minho spreads him open again and fucks his tongue inside him.

Jisung feels like his whole body is fracturing, like he’s melting, like this is too much to handle and
Minho is right here and his hands are so warm and his mouth is so wet and purposive and
everything—everything is so intense. And it’s so real. And it feels so good and it bursts inside him
and he can’t stop moaning, sweet, high-pitched sounds shimmering out of him, trembling as the
pleasure keeps building and snaps abruptly, as he spasms and spills all over the sheets. ‘Coming,’
he gasps, only kept up by Minho’s hands on his hips, ‘coming, I’m coming—’

‘Good boy,’ he says, moans, tongue working around Jisung’s rim as he rides out the orgasm.
‘Sweet thing.’

‘Ah—ahhngff—’ He collapses the moment Minho withdraws his hands. He exhales a ragged
breath and turns his head to look at him over his shoulder, shy and flushed. Minho’s dark gaze
makes him shudder again, his dick twitching weakly. He swipes his tongue across his lower lip
and looks at Minho’s mouth, then his eyes again. ‘Daddy…’

Minho’s jaw tightens. He flips Jisung around on his back and presses his thighs further apart.

‘You like that,’ Jisung gasps, a frenzied thrill to his words, ‘you like when I say that.’

Minho digs his thumbs into the insides of Jisung’s thighs. ‘I do,’ he says plainly. ‘Wonder if I like
hearing it half as much as you like saying it, though.’

He throws his arm over his face. Into the thin skin of his wrist, he mumbles, ‘shut up.’

Smiling audibly, he glides his hands further up Jisung’s legs. He untucks his t-shirt fully from the
waistband of his skirt and rucks it up his belly. ‘Sit up for me, love.’

Jisung pushes himself up awkwardly and lets Minho help him out of his shirt. He’s nearly fully
naked now, just the skirt left, rumpled and stained with cum, and Minho’s still wearing his clothes
—the dichotomy goads his heart into overdrive. His foot flexes, and something throbs inside him.
He feels small and needy and deliciously, safely trapped. His eyes scan down Minho’s body. A
clipped moan escapes him when he sees the imprint of his hard cock and he falls back on the
mattress, wriggles a bit.

‘You told me you fuck yourself stupid while thinking about me,’ Minho says lightly, crowding
against Jisung to kiss him again. ‘You must be so cute like that, all worked-up and desperate trying
to make yourself feel good.’

‘Nngnfgh.’ He clutches Minho’s arms and rocks upwards, licking into his mouth. ‘Did you—ever?’

‘Fuck myself stupid?’

It makes him laugh into his mouth. ‘Think about me,’ he says under his breath.
Minho sucks on Jisung’s lip. ‘Of course I did, darling.’ He pinches his nipple and runs his hands
down his sides, smiles at him. ‘Thought of your pretty face, your little mouth. How good you’d
feel stretched around my cock.’

‘Hhfuck,’ he manages, breathless and ruined.

‘You’re so sweet.’ He teases his thumb along Jisung’s dick and rubs behind his balls. ‘You want
that right now, baby?’

‘Please,’ he says, nodding and nodding, ‘please.’

He dips his fingertips lower and skims them over Jisung’s hole. ‘Still nervous?’

‘Still nervous,’ he echoes, a beat later. Meeting Minho’s eyes properly, he bites the inside of his
cheek. ‘But Daddy’s got me,’ he exhales, goes lax in Minho’s hold. Doesn’t blink, barely breathes.
Swipes his tongue across his lip and whispers, ‘right?’

Minho squeezes the base of his dick meanly. ‘That’s right, you tease,’ he says. ‘Daddy’s got you.’

All the tension drains out of him with a sweet, pleased noise, and his body shudders lightly. When
Minho slicks his fingers up with lube, Jisung stays still, eager.

He prods at his ass and circles his hole with wet fingers, dropping a kiss to his knee as he presses
inside. ‘Relax for me, baby,’ he says. ‘Just like that.’

Jisung sucks in a sharp breath and nods at Minho. He clenches tight on instinct but relaxes when he
exhales. Minho’s hands are on him, inside him, and he’s kissing him, murmuring things that Jisung
doesn’t properly pick up on—it’s all so much, all so real and overwhelming. He can scarcely
believe it’s really happening. He gasps as Minho eases in a second finger and rubs at his prostate,
enhancing the pleasure simmering in Jisung’s veins.

‘You’re doing so well,’ Minho says softly. Jisung feels split open. He feels undone completely, and
it’s only his fingers. He’ll cry when he gets his cock inside him. ‘Darling, you’re so pretty like
this.’

He bites his wrist again. He’s flushed all over and can’t keep his eyes open, can’t think, just grinds
back against Minho’s hand and feels each touch zing through him. Desire livewires him. His thighs
shake from it and his tummy keeps twisting and it’s so seismic. The apple, finally fed to him crispy
slice by slice. Fingers stained red with pomegranate juice, each seed slipped on to his tongue. One
after the other. What he’s been gagging for. Touch, and something else. ‘I want you to—’ He
gasps in a mouthful of air, too shallow, his mind still spinning. Blissed out like this, he babbles
without thinking, asks for more than he maybe should—‘want you to ruin me, Daddy. For anyone
else.’

Minho groans below his breath and thumbs at Jisung’s rim, tugs on it, adds more lube. Gets him so
wet it reverberates.

Jisung feels deliriously hot. Dirtied, pretty—ruinable. He whimpers when Minho pushes a third
finger inside him, stretches him open so wide. The most vulnerable part of him. All Minho’s now,
all of him all his. ‘Please,’ he whispers, ‘I’ve been good.’

‘You’ve been so good,’ Minho says. ‘Ask me again, darling. Tell me what you need.’

‘You,’ he begs, ‘you, I need—I need you. Please.’

‘Good boy.’ His voice is still soft and kind, but it’s speckled with lust. He’s all worked-up because
of Jisung. It turns him on more than anything else, to be the object of desire. To incite so much of
it. ‘You need Daddy to fuck you stupid?’

‘Oh God.’ He makes an embarrassing sound, like a cornered animal, and nods frantically. He feels
so empty when Minho slowly pulls out his fingers. ‘I do. I need it.’

Minho stands up and takes a tissue from the box on the nightstand. Clinically, not taking his eyes
off Jisung’s face, he wipes each of his fingers clean before he unbuckles his belt.

Jisung’s leg gives a feeble kick under the heavy weight of Minho’s gaze. His cock is so wet,
smearing at his skin when it twitches needily.

‘You’re not touching yourself,’ Minho remarks, undoing the fly.

Truthfully, Jisung forgot that was an option. Minho didn’t tell him to do it, so he didn’t. Didn’t
even think of it. He shakes his head and licks at his lips, eyes probably so wide and round and
useless as he stares at Minho’s hands. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Want Daddy to do it.’

Minho groans again, gives a little shake of his head. ‘Unbelievable.’ He’s finally out of his trousers
and cups himself through his boxers before slowly unbuttoning his shirt to take it off. On his
ribcage, there’s a tattoo. Steady, solid lines of black, something geometric and intricately abstract,
a sentence scrawled beneath it.

Jisung gawks at it.

Minho notices him staring and quirks an eyebrow at him. ‘What?’

‘You have a tattoo.’

‘So perceptive,’ he says dryly. ‘That’s why you’re my favourite student.’

He flusters, keeps looking at it. ‘What’s it say?’

‘Oderint dum metuant.’

‘What does it mean?’ he asks, and for some reason it’s embarrassing that he has to ask at all. It
feels like he should know. ‘My Latin’s not that good.’

Minho smiles at him, which eases the embarrassment. ‘Let them hate, so long as they fear,’ he
translates, and pushes his boxers down his thighs.

Consciousness gets a little blurry when he sees Minho’s dick for the first time. Still reeling from
the sight of the tattoo, the sound he makes is high and keening before it melts into a rough moan
and a murmured, ridiculously cliché, ‘you’re so big.’

He laughs, gives himself a slow stroke, palm working over the slippery head. He kneels on the
mattress again and inches closer to Jisung. ‘Who are you comparing me to, darling? Your many ex-
boyfriends?’

‘Shut up!’ He digs his heel into the back of Minho’s thigh. ‘Just ‘cause I’m a virgin I can still tell
you’re… bigger than average.’

His smile is so lovely, almost a little bit shy, and his ears are tinged pink. He runs his hands up
Jisung’s thighs again and squeezes him, pushes him wide and open. Knee-walks even closer, slicks
himself up with more lube.

‘What if it’s too big?’ Jisung murmurs, tugging his lip between his teeth. He gasps when he feels
the head of his cock nudge against his hole. ‘What if I can’t take it?’

‘You’ll take it,’ Minho says, a hot whisper next to Jisung’s ear, their bodies pressed together. ‘You
want to pass my class, don’t you?’

It shocks Jisung how wildly he spasms, and how loudly a moan hurtles out of him. ‘Nngngnfg—’

Minho kisses the soft swell of his cheek and sits back, taps his cock teasingly against Jisung’s rim.
‘You’re so sweet, my pretty thing.’

The urge to hide his face itches him. Instead of giving into it, he reaches out his hand and presses
his fingers to Minho’s tattooed skin.

Gently, Minho starts to push his cock inside him. He shushes him as Jisung cries out, legs tangling
behind his back to keep him close, to get him deeper—he’s bigger than anything he’s ever shoved
inside himself, realer, hotter. He throbs inside him, tugs on his waist, and all of it sets Jisung on
fire. Makes him feel unstoppably good. He whimpers till he loses his breath. His eyes keep drifting
shut. He clings on to Minho, moans brokenly when he starts to move inside him.

‘Fuck, baby,’ he mutters, ‘you’re so tight for me. You feel so good on Daddy’s cock.’

‘Daddy,’ he nearly wails. His cheeks feel wet, his eyelashes sticky. He clutches his wrist where
Minho’s holding him, digs in his fingers. Feels something split inside him, pink and perfect. His
shame melting, melting, gone. His thighs trembly as his ankles cross behind Minho. ‘It feels so
good,’ he babbles. He gets to just receive it. He doesn’t have to work for it, doesn’t have to fuck
himself, just has to take it. Moans with each thrust, nearly hiccups when Minho presses in so deep
his throat goes all tight. He touches his own belly and swears he feels him there, swears his body’s
being remoulded to take Minho, to fit him perfectly.

‘Darling,’ Minho breathes. He opens him up wider, pinches at Jisung’s nipple. Digs in a fingernail.
Thrust into him smoothly, makes him gasp again and again. ‘Feels good being this full?’

‘So good,’ he says, ‘so full. You’re so—’ He presses harder on his tummy, catches Minho’s eyes
through tear-clumpy lashes, ‘—so deep in me, Daddy. Professor, I feel so good.’

He grabs him tighter, tight enough Jisung is sure it’ll bruise. He can’t wait to touch the marks
tomorrow and catalogue all the ways his body gave way to Minho’s, all the evidence of what
transpired. How real it was, as shocking as an ice bath. Softer than a dull knife. Minho’s tenderness
leaves him breathless, the sweet way he brushes his hair away from his forehead, the endeared
smile. ‘Look at you,’ he says. ‘So desperate for it. Is it as good as you hoped it’d be?’

‘Better.’ He clenches around Minho, throbs everywhere. ‘So much better, Daddy.’

Minho wraps his hand around the base of Jisung’s cock and squeezes again. ‘Let me make you
come again then, sweetheart.’ He polishes the head while he fucks him, deep thrusts that rewire his
whole body.

Jisung spasms. Everything’s so close and warm, his skin’s so sticky with sweat, his body doesn’t
feel real any more. It feels like honeyed sunshine. It feels like water or something purer, limitless,
as he falls apart again with a frenzied moan. ‘No, no, no,’ he begs when he feels Minho pull out
and tease his cock around his perineum, ‘no—no, inside, inside me, please, don’t—don’t pull out
yet, Daddy, don’t—’
He curses below his breath and slides into Jisung again. ‘Fuckin’ hell.’

Jisung jerks from it, deliciously oversensitive. The pain-pleasure so thrilling and sweet. ‘Please.’
He blinks at him, too giddy to really register what he’s seeing. Still the most handsome figure in
the world. What a miracle to be here, held by him. ‘Tell me to take it,’ he says, a bit slurred. Licks
spit off his lips. ‘Please.’

‘You were made to torment me, weren’t you?’ he asks, asphaltic, so sweet. ‘Sweet boy who likes it
when Daddy’s a little mean, yeah?’

‘Please.’

‘Take it, then,’ Minho demands, fucking him rough and deep. ‘Such a good boy for me, baby. You
take it so well.’

‘For you,’ he whispers. He shivers with each thrust. Every part of him is pleasantly raw.

Minho cradles Jisung closer when his hips stutter and he comes inside him. Jisung’s eyes roll back
and he holds on to him, safe and sated, so happy.

‘There you are, darling,’ Minho murmurs into his cheek, petting him softly. He kisses his cheek
again, grinds a little deeper into him. Bites his clavicle. ‘Perfect boy.’

He spasms again, from dizzying joy this time. Throws his arms around Minho properly and
squeezes him tight. Nothing about this feels real, not yet. Maybe it never will.

Minho gets them cleaned up a bit and tugs Jisung closer to cuddle. ‘I was going to order food,’ he
says, absently playing his fingertips around Jisung’s upper arm. ‘Thought we were going to watch
Sharknado.’

‘You said it wasn’t on Netflix.’

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Too bad, really.’

‘D’you think—’ Jisung closes his eyes and takes another breath. He splays out his fingers on
Minho’s chest, circles his thumb between two ribs. He huffs when he fails to figure out the right
words.

‘Do I think what?’ Minho prompts.

‘Do you think,’ he starts again. He chances a glance up at him and gets distracted by the sharp line
of his jaw. Shyly, he tilts his head to press a kiss there. He smiles when Minho smiles. ‘Do you
think we could, um—do this again? At some point?’

Minho blinks at him.

‘I mean, if you want to,’ he rambles, cheeks heating fast, ‘like, because I do. So maybe it could be
a recurring thing, or something, but if you don’t—’

‘Jisung,’ Minho cuts him off, ‘darling. We’ve been dating for weeks, I thought?’

The words echo through him. His consciousness splits cleanly in half with a loud snap, then
everything’s quiet. ‘Oh,’ he whispers. ‘What?’

‘I figured I’d order Italian and fuck you again later. But if you have other plans…’
 ‘No!’ he blurts. ‘No, oh my God. Stop. We’re—you’re—?’

Minho laughs and smacks a loud, ridiculous kiss to Jisung’s forehead. ‘Doesn’t have to be Italian,’
he says. ‘I promised you anything you wanted.’

‘I’m going to pass out,’ he mutters and rolls around to straddle Minho’s lap. He looks down at him,
hair messy and cheeks flushed from sex, naked and beautiful and his, now, all his. ‘Can I blow you
in the shower while we wait for the food?’

‘Insatiable,’ he says, lips pulled back in a toothy smile. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Terribly so,’ he agrees. ‘And spoiled rotten. Daddy can’t say no to his favourites.’

Minho reaches up and cradles the back of Jisung’s neck. ‘He really can’t,’ he says quietly, tugging
him down for a slow kiss. ‘Who could say no to you, darling?’

Chapter End Notes

this does not feel real at all but tada, look how far they've come. i never thought i'd write this fic at all and
now i can't believe it's finished. wtf?! i'm sorry to get a little emo for a second but — thank you to
everyone who read as i wrote and encouraged me to write more and left wonderful comments and invited
this story into your heart and got excited about it. it has meant the whole world to me!!!

thank you bun and adis for holding my hand every time i forgot how to write and convinced myself i could
never do it again. i adore you both and i'm so glad to have you in my life. mfa wouldn't exist without you.

if you've made it this far, i hope you liked the ending too. maybe one day we'll meet professor lee and his
favourite student again.

End Notes

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