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hyunbelievable · 4 months ago

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Painted in Sin

Part Two.

Summary: a heated one night stand in your new city leads to a world of hurt.

This is PART TWO of an ongoing series! The series as a whole is NSFW, though some chapters may not have explicit content. MDNI. Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked.

Genre: College AU, Non-Idol AU.

WARNINGS: alcohol consumption, mentions of student/teacher affair, swearing, student/teacher relationship (college level 18+), angst.

WC: 2.8k

Note: Honestly, this chapter went a whole different way than originally planned. There are no sexually explicit scenes in this chapter (but don’t fret — I’m cooking chapter three and it’ll be good hehe).

Chapter Two

—

Having drunk yourself into a stupor after classes let out the day before, you barely hear the rhythmic chiming of your alarm urging you awake. With a long-suffering groan, you lift your head from the pillow, pry your heavy eyes open, and fumble for your phone to silence the offending noise.

A notification on the screen catches your attention. An email notice from the Dean of the college. Your stomach churns violently as you swipe the screen and skim the contents.

‘Newly Enrolled Students and Transfer Students,

Please allow me to be the first to welcome you to our illustrious school. The faculty, staff, and administration are all pleased to receive the newest members of our talented university.

Due to the recent influx of new students, there will be a New Student Orientation tonight at 7:00pm. Attendance is mandatory. The event will be held in the Main Hall’s Amphitheatre.

During Orientation, we aim to ensure all students are properly acclimated to their new environment. We will discuss the campus layout, review our policies and rules, introduce campus resources, and more.

New student IDs and school photos will be taken at Orientation, so we urge you to come prepared.

Regards,

Dean of Students’

Great.

What better way to meet the Dean than hungover and carrying the memory of having been involved with a professor?

Sighing deeply, you go through the motions of getting ready. The moment you step outside, only one thought dominates your mind. Caffeine.

Despite your inebriated state the night before, you’d managed to wake up early enough to drive to the cute little cafe you’d spotted while moving into your new apartment. It’s tucked between a secondhand bookstore and a small restaurant, its exterior painted a rich, fern-green. A mustard-yellow door stands in stark contrast, surrounded by artfully hung flowers that spill out over the veranda.

Inside, the air is thick with the scent of roasting coffee and freshly baked bread. The exposed brick walls are covered with paintings in mismatched frames, each piece created by local artists. Your gaze lingers on one in particular — chaotic strokes of muted blue-grey swirling together, interlocking and merging at the top of the canvas. It’s different from the others. Mesmerizing.

A voice pulls you from your thoughts.

“Next in line!”

You turn to the barista and offer a polite smile, ordering the drink with the highest caffeine content and adding an extra shot of espresso for good measure. As you reach for your wallet, a man’s arm stretches past you, a few folded bills held between two fingers as he passes them to the barista.

A familiar chill skitters down your spine.

You look up into a pair of dark eyes.

His other hand grazes across your lower back as he leans in, and you instinctively step away, out of his near-embrace. The barista, fully aware of the awkward exchange, hands you your coffee with amusement shining in her eyes. Irritation mingles with your shock.

A familiar laugh brushes against your ear.

“Trouble sleeping?”

Your professor’s gaze flicks down to your drink before settling just under your eyes, where the evidence of your late night is surely on display.

You don’t dignify the comment with a response. Instead, you drop some cash into the tip jar and turn to leave, face burning.

Footsteps follow you.

A firm but careful grip closes around your upper arm, halting you mid-step. Inhaling deeply, you turn to face him.

“I’m starting to think you enjoy running off on me,” he says, that damnable spark of amusement lighting his eyes.

You gesture vaguely toward the cafe. “What was that?”

His brows furrow. “What was what?”

And there it is. The cocky tilt of his lips. The knowing glint in his gaze.

You exhale sharply. “I’m late,”

This time, when you step around him, he lets you go. But you can feel it. His eyes lingering on you, tracking your movements all the way to your car.

You slide behind the wheel, sinking back against the seat.

Doesn’t he care that he could lose his job over this?

Doesn’t he care that you could lose the scholarship you’d worked so hard to achieve?

It was just a one-time thing.

So why does it feel like it’s only the beginning?

—

The rest of the day passes quicker than expected, but dread blooms in your stomach as your final class looms closer.

And after that, the student orientation tonight…

You take your usual seat beside the girl with the pixie cut, offering her a small smile. She returns it before glancing around the room, and, noticing that Professor Hwang has yet to arrive, leans in.

“I’m Olivia, but you can call me Liv.”

You introduce yourself, and the two of you talk for a few minutes. She’s friendly, and very talented. That much becomes clear when she shows you her “introductory project.” Your breath catches at the beautiful brush strokes adorning her canvas. She’s chosen bold colors that should clash, but made them blend well as if she’d bent the very paint to her will.

“It’s still a work in progress, but I’m happy with it so far.” Her gaze slides pointedly to the still-blank canvas on your desk. “How’s yours coming?”

You glance at your untouched canvas and smirk. “I call it ‘I have no personality and my head is a mess. Nice to meet you.’”

“Catchy.” She laughs, her head tipping back. She quickly schools her features as the door opens. Professor Hwang strides in, hands tucked casually into his pockets as he rounds his desk and sits.

A moment later, Liv slides a folded piece of paper across your worktop. You unfold it to find a phone number. When your eyes meet hers, she flashes a friendly smile before returning her gaze to the front as the professor begins speaking.

He talks animatedly about upcoming topics, his passion for art evident in every word. It’s infectious. As he paces before his desk, his gaze lands on each student, holding their attention with ease.

The class passes without incident, surprisingly. No lingering glances. No secretive smiles.

Disappointment swirls in your stomach, but you shove the feeling away.

Why would he single you out? You’d made yourself clear this morning at the coffee shop. It’s best to pretend that night never happened.

By the end of the lesson, your mind buzzes with ideas. Your long lost creativity seems to have bloomed anew. As much as you loathe to admit it, Professor Hwang’s passion has ignited something within you. You’re eager to get home and bleed these pent-up emotions onto your canvas.

You stand as the professor dismisses the class, walking alongside Liv to the exit. Before you can leave, he calls out to you. You hesitate, then gesture for Liv to go ahead, turning back toward his desk. Your fingers fidget with the strap of your bag.

“I noticed your canvas is still blank,” his tone is professional, almost bored as he relaxes in his seat, eyes locked on yours.

You don’t let your gaze waver. “I’ve been a bit…distracted.”

“I see.” He stands, resting his hands on the desk as he leans slightly toward you. “Care to elaborate?”

A dry laugh escapes you. “You know damn well why,” you hiss, keeping your voice low. “Had I known—”

He cuts you off.

“Had you known,” he cocks his head, “that I was your professor, you wouldn’t have gone home with me that night?” A slow smile spreads across his lips. “In case you haven’t realized, I didn’t know either.”

His expression is unreadable, but something flickers in his eyes, too brief to decipher.

He continues before you can speak. “I might have told you what I do for a living if you hadn’t run out like my apartment was on fire.”

There it is again, the flash of something in his eyes. A pang of guilt twists in your stomach, but you brush past it.

“And now, I have that orientation with the Dean tonight.” You pause, exhaling sharply. “I could lose everything for what we did.”

He pushes off his desk, rounding it and coming to a stop before you. His gaze darts to the cracked classroom door before returning to yours.

“So could I.”

You nod. “Then we agree. We pretend it never happened. For both our sakes.”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, his eyes roam over your face, lingering on your mouth before meeting your gaze again. Slowly, he leans in, his breath ghosting over your cheek. His fingers skim over the foundation-covered bruise he’d left on your neck.

“You covered it up,” his voice is barely above a whisper.

Your pulse quickens at his proximity, at the light touch of his fingers.

You swallow hard, stepping back. The second his skin is no longer touching yours, you take a deep breath. “Yes, I covered it up.”

He doesn’t let the distance deter him. He steps forward, and instinctively, you retreat — until the backs of your thighs press against his desk. His hands land on either side of you, caging you in. His nose brushes the side of your neck, and your hands flatten against his chest.

You should push him away. You go to do just that, but your traitorous fingers curl into the material of his shirt instead.

“If you can’t find your inspiration,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to the empty canvas tucked into your bag, “you know where I live. You can use my body as your canvas and your lips as the medium.”

Your breath catches. Heat curls low in your stomach.

Then your phone chimes, and reality creeps back in.

You push against his chest, stepping out from his embrace. Without another word, you turn and walk out of the room, your heart hammering against your ribs.

As the evening wears on, his words plague your mind. It’s as if he’d painted the image of those words directly on your mind. An almost uncomfortable thrum settles between your thighs at the thought of giving in. Of throwing caution to the wind, damning the consequences, and engaging in an affair with your professor.

By the time you arrive at orientation, you’ve cooled down. Somewhat.

You spot Liv waiting outside the amphitheater and rush toward her.

“Hey! I waited for you.” she says, linking her arm through yours as the crowd begins to shuffle inside.

A man in his late forties ushers students in. He’s balding, his stomach straining against the confines of his suit. Beady eyes scan the crowd as he produces a tissue to dab the sweat from his forehead.

The sight of him douses the fire in your stomach, more efficiently than if a bucket of ice were dumped over your head.

Once everyone is seated, the man makes his way to the stage. He comes to a stop behind the podium, fiddling with the neck of his shirt before adjusting his tie. He introduces himself as Dean Bouchier.

Over the next two hours, he drones on about campus resources, student clubs and activities, and the impressively long list of rules each student must abide by.

Then, his tone shifts.

Dean Bouchier clears his throat, and an almost ominous silence settles over the restless students.

“Now, we come to the most important topic of our meeting.” His voice is severe, gaze sweeping the room.

You sit up a little straighter.

“As you all know, creating art, performing a scene, and learning a new dance routine can be very emotional. It’s normal for you to lean on your instructors, and we encourage professional relationships with them.”

He pauses, hand straying to adjust his tie for what seems like the thousandth time.

“We are committed to fostering a creative, inspiring, and professional learning environment where all students can thrive. As I mentioned, collaboration between students and professors is essential to your growth, but it is equally important to be mindful of ethical boundaries. To protect the integrity of our community, we have a strict zero-tolerance policy prohibiting romantic or sexual relationships between students and faculty.”

A chill runs down your spine.

“Such relationships can create power imbalances that can compromise artistic freedom, academic fairness, and individual development. Any violation of this policy will result in serious consequences, including faculty termination or student expulsion.”

He takes a deep breath, then smiles at the crowd. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

After a few closing remarks he dismisses the students to line up for their ID photos.

Liv leans in. “They emphasize that last bit more now. My sister went here a few years ago. Apparently, there was a huge scandal involving a relationship between a student and a professor. The student was expelled, but my sister said the professor still works here.” She shakes her head. “So unfair. But… I do wonder which professor it was.”

She pauses, eyes suddenly sparking in amusement.

“I bet it was Professor Hot as Fuck Hwang. Who wouldn’t take a chance at that?”

She giggles as the two of you approach the photographer. You force a laugh, but your mind is spinning.

Your body moves on autopilot as you sit for your ID photo and make your way to the parking lot. Liv walks beside you, filling the silence with happy chatter.

When you reach your car, she grabs your arm.

“There’s a frat party next week. Apparently, it’s a big thing every year. Want to go with me?”

Her eyes shine with excitement. You hesitate, then nod.

Maybe you’ll find someone to rid your mind of Professor Hwang.

If only it were that simple.

—

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