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[criceofpain]

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[criceofpain]

HE NEEDS TO FUCKIN CHILLLLLLLL

[criceofpain]

wow . as if jake and jungwon weren't just tagteaming me making me go feral

[criceofpain]

FOLLICULATING SO HARD.

[criceofpain]

CURATED — PARK JONGSEONG

[ captured : part one ] [ part two of the love in art series ] | [ painted: part three ]

pairing: art gallery curator!jongseong x physics major!reader

featuring: enhypen's jay, ni-ki, and sunghoon, le sserafim's chaewon

summary: jongseong has built his life around art—curating, refining, and knowing exactly what belongs within the walls of his gallery. but when he meets a woman grounded in logic, her perspective begins to challenge everything he thought he understood. somewhere between structure and spontaneity, he is forced to confront what can’t be curated: the way he’s slowly falling for her.

genre: smut, fluff, angst

word count: 21,462

warnings: porn with plot, unprotected sex (p in v) (wrap it b4 u tap it!), oral sex (f receiving), multiple orgasms, ass spanking, too much art and science sexual innuendos, jay has a big dick, sunghoon is kinda a jerk, riki's an enabler, mentions of misogyny and antifeminism that will send girls like me flying out the window

notes: THIS FIC IS CONNECTED TO "CAPTURED" BUT CAN ALSO BE A STANDALONE STORY. HEY Y'ALLLLL another long form that took me almost 2 months to finish (rip) this was supposed to be a birthday special for jay but i haven't finished it on time :( happy to have finally written smth proper for him after a long time!!! i had a ball writing this for the most part (except for the writers block hmph) HERE'S PART TWO YAY for all my jay hoes and non-jay hoes who're nosey 😝

“Thank you, Mr. Park. I look forward to working with you and the team soon.”

Sitting in front of Jongseong’s desk was the former young trailblazer of The Herald, Korea’s most prestigious news and media outlet. The very woman who braved navigating the vulnerability of Korea’s young artists and turning them into meaningful stories. The woman whose talent was wasted by greed and corruption, now back on her feet to thrive in the art industry.

The woman also happens to be two-time Hasselblad winner—and his best friend—Park Sunghoon's girlfriend.

What a small world. Jongseong peers at his peripheral vision to see Sunghoon with that familiar smug grin on his face, and he rolls his eyes. Sunghoon had been adamant about his girlfriend's reporting and communicating abilities—admirable, but a little annoying on Jongseong’s end. 

But as it turns out, Sunghoon did not disappoint with the sudden referral, because now, Jongseong has a reliable co-art curator he certainly cannot wait to work with. With her impressive resume, journalism accolades, and a whopping 4.0 masters GPA, Kukje Gallery has secured a gem in its hands. 

“It's Jongseong to you,” Jongseong affirms. “Your boyfriend would kill me if I let you call me that.”

The woman chuckles awkwardly. “Oh, I don't think he's that—”

“Oh, trust me,” he cuts her off. “He is. Not to scare you, but Park Sunghoon is one of the most sensitive people I’ve ever met.”

She squints, but lets the remark slide. “Okay… I’ll see you on Monday, Jongseong.”

“Welcome to Kukje, co-art curator.”

The two of them shake hands for the last time before Jongseong sees her off. From the main hall of the gallery, he watches as she and Sunghoon have a little kisses and hugs of celebration before walking off to a shiny white sedan parked nearby. 

“Huh,” his voice echoes through the wide gallery halls as he sees the couple slowly disappear from his view.

Something tugs at Jongseong’s chest—neither jealousy, nor longing. He's been supportive of his best friend finally finding love after seven years of avoiding it, but there's a strange feeling lingering in him—one he can't quite pinpoint.

The sight elicits curiosity in his mind. He notices how natural she reaches for Sunghoon. How he listens to her like it matters. How she looks at him like he's the first person she wanted to tell the good news. How he celebrates her victories as if they were his own.

Jongseong sighs, arms crossed over his chest as he leans leisurely against the wall. “What's it like…”

He's always declared not being boyfriend material—at least that's what he tells himself. In his twenty-five years of existence, he's never centered his life around the world of romantic relationships. Ironically enough, he has the face women his age would describe as “sculpted by the gods”—a phase definitely not up his alley but more Sunghoon’s, the “handsome” Park of the art world. 

Jongseong’s life has always been focused on Kukje from the moment he got promoted to head art curator. Tucked in a peaceful corner of Hongdae, away from the bustling nightlife, he has made the gallery his second home. He dedicated his time to keeping the art community alive, inviting local artists and featuring them in special exhibitions. 

It was his way of sharing the beauty of art—his found family—to the world.

It's a slow Tuesday afternoon. The sun begins to set, and the gallery sculptures start to cast shadows over the marbled floors—just like how nature intended. Jongseong meant for the gallery to be a manifestation of the natural world, with the pieces and installations working with the environment and not against it. 

He peels his back off of the wall after how many minutes then saunters along the halls for a quick routine check: walking past exhibits, straightening a placard, making mental notes on what needs to be reprinted, who forgot to dust the sculpture base, and why the track lighting on the mezzanine is still uneven.

He peeks at the gigantic clock that doubled as an art piece. 5:40 PM. Twenty minutes left before the gallery closes. He could grab himself a coffee or take a nap in the back room where he keeps his softest duvet in case he needed to crash—but not before the very last step of his daily routine checks.

He grabs his phone and connects it to the gallery's Sonos speakers, originally meant for soft, classical music to be played in the background. Instead, he plays the very song he dreads to hear when he's clubbing on a Saturday night—Closing Time by Semisonic.

He continues his routine check anyway, humming along to the song without any care for whatever happens within ten minutes. His footsteps follow the rhythm of the song, albeit more gently. He didn't want to be too aggressive in a place where every item has a fragile warning sign in it.

“I know who I want to take me home—”

“Wait… is this supposed to look like a neuron firing?”

Jongseong freezes. He peers at the clock again. It's 5:55. The gallery is supposed to be clear of people except for staff members. He turns his head slightly to see a woman, presumably of his age, standing in front of the newly installed mixed media chaos piece—a burst of tangled wires, light nodes and splattered pigment to represent internal unrest. But you're crouched. Squinting. Leaning forward like you're trying to decode it.

You never thought an aimless walk would lead you to this hidden gem in the town. All you wanted was to get some steps in and hopefully burn some of the calories from your frustrated Buldak mukbang last night, thanks to your petty professor who decided he was going to give you a challenging time for the remainder of the semester.

It hit a nerve—for someone in her senior year, it did. But mourning for a part of your whole year was a waste of time and a grave misuse of your precious tear ducts. So you set your half-done term paper aside and walked along Hongdae like it's free real estate.

And you were glad to be lost in this part of town.

Kukje Gallery was a diamond among greenery, with the golden sunlight reflecting off of its glass panels. You couldn't help but wonder how the architecture and engineering was executed with physical laws in mind—the thermodynamic aspects of construction would have been very complicated with this unusual building design.

You didn't seem to mind that the gallery would be closing in ten minutes—the security guard wasn't too hesitant to let you in, either. But that was when you realized your first mistake of the day—your outfit's aesthetic mismatch with the serene nature of the gallery.

You wore your usual quirky combination of a lime green top, a colorful tiered skirt, and a vintage pair of Dior Chelsea boots that the thrift gods led you to. The bag over your shoulders didn't help your case, either: a white laptop bag with the most eccentric combination of keychains, badge pins, and trinkets known to man that made a jingling sound with every step you took. It was your way of sticking out like a sore thumb in a male-dominated major.

Even the interior of the gallery did not disappoint. Every corner and wall of art left a lot to the imagination, even that of a relatively left-brained person. It drove curiosity. Disturbance. Exploration. Everything that would awaken one's subconscious if they were spiritual enough.

So you find yourself in a more secluded spot of the gallery, eyes hovering over the wires and lights… well, until a broody-looking man in rimless glasses and a soft brown cardigan appears from a corner. He looked like what you and your friend group would call a “stereotypical finance bro”—always dressed to the nines and looked like they had a lot of things to say—except he surely wasn't one. What would a finance bro be doing in an art gallery, anyway?

He had the aura of a scholar, for sure. From his relaxed yet authoritative stance to his clean-cut features, you were sure he's got an impressive résumé hiding behind that strong, masculine face. Not one you could easily mess with. You stiffen slightly. Surely he wasn't going to scold you or something… right?

Jongseong facepalms. How couldn't he have heard the sound of shuffling footsteps and the loud jingling of keychains from the very center of the gallery’s first floor?

He clears his throat and puffs up his shoulders in an attempt to assert dominance. “Excuse me, we’re—”

"It's kind of like a dendritic response, no?" you mutter to yourself. "Like... if synapses were made of broken copper and LED strips—oh my god. That's kind of brilliant."

He stares, dumbfounded, the unfamiliar terminology sending a strange buzz in his ears. Dendritic response? Synapses? In what way was internal unrest related to science? He tilts his head, scrutinizing your crouched figure and the faces you make as you go

Now you turn and smile at the gallery guy as if he’ll eventually get the gist of your scientific observation. Jongseong shifts awkwardly, subtle enough for it to completely fly over your head. Too bright. Too sudden. Too unfiltered.

You stand up hurriedly, and the clink of your keychain fills his ears once more. “Hi! Sorry for barging in. Didn't know anyone was around. Uh… do you work here?”

“Yes,” Jongseong replies curtly. “Park Jongseong. Art gallery curator.”

You stutter despite yourself. "Cool! Uh—sorry for the monologue. I’m Y/N. Woman in STEM. Masters student in physics but I love, love neuroscience. I was just trying to make sense of the exhibit. Not that it's nonsense, I just mean—uh. You know what? l'Il shut up."

You definitely do not shut up. Jongseong opens his mouth to remind you of the closing time, but the enthusiasm in your voice completely drowns him out. "Do people usually get this one? Or do they just pretend to?"

Jongseong blinks, then says, dryly, "Some people think it's about climate change."

Climate change? You laugh—full-body, unrestrained, like you’ve been caught mid-sneeze. The sound bounces off the walls and the almost empty halls, filling the whole floor with a sound Jongseong wouldn't usually hear in a relatively quiet place. This is when he'd press play on a pre-recorded silence reminder from his office, but alas, he gets sidetracked by a quirky physics student five minutes before closing time.

So much for keeping a strict routine.

"That's... okay, I love that,” you say sheepishly, staring at the top of his head rather than his face—why is his facial makeup so unique? You figured if you met his eyes, you’d lose your train of thought. 

He turns slightly, intrigued despite himself. "And you think it's about neurons?"

"Synapses, more specifically. Like a transmission overload."

"That's not in the artist's statement."

"I haven't read it yet."

That stuns Jongseong completely. How does one even—never mind. I need to close. He swallows, determined to keep his composure. Usually, people would peer at the teeny little gold panels below the pieces to get a brief introduction of the minds behind the art, often at the risk of tampering with them. 

But first-time occurrences in this gallery are just as usual.

“You interpreted all that… without context?” he says rather hesitantly.

You straighten up, finally mustering up the courage to meet the art curator's eyes. "I like seeing what I feel first, then checking if I was 'right.’ Not that there's a right answer, obviously. That'd be depressing."

Jongseong’s lips part slightly, stunned by the choice of words and the fact that your eyes didn't avoid his as you spoke. Speechless was an understatement as your pursed lips curled into a sheepish smile. A big portion of the gallery's visitors would only care for what photos would look good on their Instagram feed, or call art boring as if they've studied it for years, but never to appreciate the art, do some research on the artists, or discover the meaning behind it.

And with the way Jongseong’s expression changed from uninterested to suddenly intrigued, you realize you’ve been word vomiting for the past five minutes.

“I’m sorry,” you fidget, shove your hands in your pockets. “I talk too much.”

“No,” he says quietly. “It's… an interesting interpretation. Never thought of the artwork that way before.”

“Hmm,” you shrug, assuming he didn't mind your brainy banter. “Then I guess I’ll keep talking—oh, shit!”

You jump in your spot as the Westminster chime sound blasts through the speakers, your trinkets rattling as you do. Jongseong, however, is unfazed. Hearing the pitchy chimes five days a week for the past two years was a cross he unfortunately had to bear. It reminded him too much of high school—a pretty embarrassing phase of his life.

“Sorry, Y/N, we're closing,” he breaks his silence, motioning to the main exit of the gallery. He's supposed to be exasperated because this woman has been in his hair for minutes and disrupting his gallery closing routine, but somehow he's cool-headed. “If you could just—”

“Oh, right!” you scramble out of the hallway and to the exit. “Bye, Jongseong! See you around.”

He watches you skip giddily out of the gallery, the clinking of your trinkets getting fainter and fainter in his ear. Somehow the incessant chimes become nonexistent as the question dances in his head: what's going on in that little head of yours? His mind has never been this shaken, this suddenly interested in the world of physics. Synapses? Dendritic response? How would physics elements play into installation art just like you said? 

But when he snaps back into reality, the steel shutter doors are already drawn, and it’s officially time for him to go.

For the first time in a long time, his mind is disturbed—awakened by a perspective he's never thought possible.

***

“Park Jongseong?”

One hour after you’ve been escorted out of the gallery by its handsome art curator, you’re hunched over your dorm desk, furiously typing “Park Jongseong Kukje Gallery” in the Google search bar. There has to be a mistake in the employee distribution system—why would someone handsome like him be managing a secluded art gallery instead of walking the Prada S/S runway in Milan this year?

You scroll up to the 25th page of the search results just to find usual promotional articles from art forums and news sites, some gala appearances here and there, but no scandals or gossip involving him—nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the fact that he's best friends with famous photographer Park Sunghoon, and that they're called the “Art Parks”—both good-looking, both artistic advocates.

Maybe he's really just an avid art enthusiast just like what the journalists say he is? You sigh, closing your laptop with a soft thud and crawling to your bunk, cocooning yourself in the blanket you’ve forced yourself to get used to the scent.

You missed home. You missed bantering with your siblings about the most nonsensical things. You missed your bedroom—the one you've gotten used to for more than half of your life—and listening to the pitter-patter of the rain while the petrichor gently tickles your nose. You missed peeking into the kitchen to see what your mom made for dinner, or what your dad's complaint of the day was. 

A few more months. You only have less than a year left before graduation, and the wait seemed longer and longer the more you thought about it. Being a physicist was something you’ve wanted for yourself ever since childhood, and unlike the women from your city who were discouraged to pursue the scientific field, you wanted to make a name for yourself. 

But it's never been an easy journey. Especially when you're alone and moving to a new city to study.

Coming to Kukje Gallery was a breath of fresh air—a semblance of peace, even. Finally getting to look at something other than graphs and numbers was a reset your brain needed, and you were pretty annoyed with yourself. Where was this greatness all your life? Where was the space to look at things outside of a scientific, objective point of view?

But what was it about the head art curator, Park Jongseong, that kept you up at night?

You grumble in your pillow then open your laptop again, hands frozen but mind running at a hundred kilometers per hour.

***

It's a Thursday this time. The gallery is a little busier—an elementary field trip with kids in one wing, quiet murmurs echoing through the marble halls. On another wing is a small group of scholars from Yonsei University who dropped by for casual surveying, dressed in flowy linen and chunky loafers. The traditional Korean art wing is filled with middle to old-aged folks humming along to “Arirang” softly playing in the wing speakers. 

This was one aspect of art Jongseong admired so much—inclusivity. The gallery viewing has always been free of charge, free for all. It was interesting to see people from different backgrounds come together in a place of free expression. He’d compare it to bibimbap—a mixture of ingredients that are bland on their own but taste scrumptious together. His stomach growls softly. He could use some bibimbap in a stone pot to get him through the second half of his day.

Jongseong sits at the front desk instead of Chaewon, the receptionist, thanks to the air conditioning malfunction in his office. His face is slightly scrunched, glasses perched low on his nose, typing up artist bios and checking the gallery inventory for updates. He has no track of time from the very moment he sat on the receptionist's chair, except for the number of songs on the janitor's 80s playlist.

Finally. He types down the last artist bio of the lineup then slouches on the chair. “Ugh, that was a handful to type—” 

“Hey.”

His eyes shot open at the sudden voice in front of the counter. You're back. With an iced coffee and your phone in one hand and a rolled-up notebook stuffed with sticky notes and a sandwich on the other. Hair tied messily and glasses unwiped as if you didn't expect to be perceived. How are you holding that much stuff with just two hands?! He straightens up, fixes his shirt and glasses, clearing his throat in an attempt to alleviate the awkwardness on his part.

You grin at him like it's totally normal to come up to Kukje Gallery’s head art curator without an appointment.

“Y/N… right?” Jongseong hesitantly says, closing his laptop. “Did I get your name right—”

“Sorry, I didn’t know if walk-ins were okay—well, they obviously are, I’m here—but I wasn’t sure if you needed an appointment to just nerd out about abstract installations.”

He blinks once, silent a moment too long. Abstract installations weren't Jongseong’s best area of expertise—he's always been an impressionism and Fauvism type of guy—and abstract installations weren't a thing in Kukje until last month, when a partnership with a science institute proposed that the gallery integrate scientific aspects into the collection “to appease the left-brained.”

Safe to say, the partnership worked—just not in the ways he was expecting it to.

“You came back,” he eventually says. Not a question, just surprise. He kind of expected you to, considering all of the yapping you've done the other day about a single installation—you couldn't possibly be done yet.

You shrug. “It's your fault. I can’t stop thinking about that neuron piece. Do you know how annoying it is to be haunted by art? My entire lecture got derailed yesterday. My professor asked a simple question about algorithmic bias, and I ended up drawing tangled wire patterns on the whiteboard.”

He blinks, leaning forward. “...and what did they say?”

“He told me to get some sleep,” you deadpan.

You say it so seriously, Jongseong huffs a laugh despite himself. He didn't plan to crack a laugh—not today of all days when he's swamped with work—but the unrehearsed humor wasn't something he can shrug off. Being funny is an asset, but a good sense of humor takes guts to master.

You blink rapidly at him. How dare Park Jongseong make fun of your disappointment? You feign offense, turning your back on him aggressively enough that the ice in your coffee jingles in his ears. “I was serious, you know…”

And that's when Park Sunghoon enters, carrying two takeaway bags—one for him, and one for his girlfriend. Jongseong's eyes roll again. “I’m sick of your ass, Hoon.”

“Ah, yes,” Sunghoon cackles mockingly. “If it isn't the ’aesthetic‘ Park of the arts, and… oh, who's this?”

You gasp, finally getting to see the most famous photographer up close. No wonder Sunghoon was called the ‘handsome’ Park of the art world. You bow slightly. “Oh, my God—hello, Mr. Park.”

Sunghoon freezes, glances at Jongseong with a knowing smirk, then  at you, then back at his best friend again. “Ohhhh. Oh…”

Jongseong grumbles. “What is it this time? I swear to God, if this is one of your ahjussi antics again—”

“So this is the synapse girl,” Sunghoon quips, then nods once. “Hmm. Okay. I see what you're working with.”

You could feel Jongseong’s death glare at Sunghoon burning through your back, and you could see it from your peripheral vision, too. Sunghoon’s smirk grows into a cheeky grin, jabbing a finger at his best friend. 

“‘Synapse girl?’” you scowl, turning back to Jongseong as you sipped your coffee. Usually you would get called a ‘nerd’, or ‘one of the boys’ for being in a traditionally male-dominated field. “You gave me a nickname?”

“No,” Jongseong mutters too quickly. Guilty. “Sunghoon was eavesdropping.”

“Let's not lie in my face right now, shall we, Jjongsaeng?” Sunghoon steps closer to the counter with a wicked cackle. He turns back to you. “He called you ‘the one with the LED neuron theory.’”

Jongseong facepalms, ears red with embarrassment and veins popping out of his hand. Having known Sunghoon for years, he's supposed to have gotten used to the latter’s teasing at this point. But with Sunghoon’s way with words and quick wit, Jongseong has always been at the receiving end of what kids these days would call ‘ragebaiting.’

And you, equally embarrassed, gasp. “Wow, you remembered that?!”

“Unfortunately,” Jongseong replies, the blush of his cheeks intensifying. “Just eat your lunch and go, Sunghoon.”

“Damn…” Sunghoon trails off teasingly. “You're something else, Jjongsaeng.”

Jongseong, exasperated, finally raises his head up from his hand. “Can you please stop calling me that—”

“Anyway, I’m gonna have lunch with my girlfriend and mind my business as always.” Sunghoon walks off slowly, smirking at his best friend the whole time. 

Jongseong lets out a sigh he doesn't know he was holding, scrubbing his hand down his face. You smile at him again, bright and too genuine for his liking. He still couldn't put a finger on why this situation was smileworthy, so he avoids your gaze, not wanting to offend you with his scowl. Of course he was scowling again when five minutes ago, he was letting out a full-bodied laugh. Mood swings.

“He's fun,” you comment, matter-of-factly. Then grin at him. “You're fun, too, you know. Just in a broody, existential way.”

“I’m not fun,” he mutters, cringing at himself after. What a blatant lie. Of course he was fun. He went to art galas and international exhibitions, indulged himself in the finest food known to man, conversed with the big bosses of the art world, watched Formula One races and got invited into paddocks—how was he not fun? Maybe him lying was just his way of deflecting himself from your naturally bright persona.

“You keep saying things like that, Mr. Park,” you say lightly, sipping your drink. “but I think you're trying to convince yourself.”

He finally stares back at you, dumbfounded and surprised out of his wits.

And for the first time, Jongseong doesn't have a comeback.

“Anyway, as I was saying…”

***

“I think I drained his social battery pretty quick,” you mutter, fidgeting with your fingernails. “I yap a lot, don't I?”

“As long as you weren't womansplaining neuroscience to that gallery man,” your seatmate shrugs. “I think you're good.”

“I did talk about neuron firings in front of a painting there, though…” you trail off, your mind immediately recalling last Thursday’s events. “Does that count?”

Park Jongseong looked cool—too cool to even hang out with your rather quirky self. He had the stature of a chaebol and the face of a K-Pop idol. Finding out he’s just less than a year younger than you didn’t help your case, either. He’s already a head art curator at 25, meanwhile, you’re still finishing the last stretch of your student loans. 

You know well he’s worlds different from you just from where he works. Kukje Gallery was no charity case; it’s been rich in resources from its groundbreaking day. Sure enough, only the wealthy people could work in such wealthy places. He’s rich, rich, and you were nowhere near his tax bracket.

But he somehow took interest in whatever was on your mind the day you met—you could see him lock in. Like when a cat’s pupils dilate when it’s going for the kill. Or whenever a dog hears the word “walk.” Millions of synapses firing in his head, a bottomless black hole, or the whiplash of getting catapulted a million light years into space. A sudden switch turned on. 

Of course a man that good-looking would still have some whimsy on him. You shake your head to yourself.

“Can you turn that damn phone off?” a seatmate on your right grumbles. “That number’s been calling you thrice. You’re lucky we’re on break.”

Of course. You were so deep in your thoughts again that somehow your annoying ringtone wasn’t able to pull you out of your trance. What’s special about a gallery art curator named Park Jongseong, anyway? You jab your finger into the power button aggressively, shifting your attention back to your daily physics journal—

“Oh, no.”

—which was nowhere to be found in its usual spot in your bag.

“No, no, no, no—” you frantically fish inside your bag, keychains clinking and pens smacking each other aggressively. “Fuck, where did I leave that thing?”

You couldn't have misplaced your very beloved, weathered leather notebook that your mother gifted you for your sixteenth birthday. Of course you understood the concept of sentimental value—though it's always been psychological in nature. It had years worth of knowledge you would never get in instructional materials because to you, discovery always goes beyond the four corners of the classroom.

“Ugh, women and their sentimental items,” the male seatmate grumbles, followed by a haughty scoff. “It's just a notebook, man. Let it go.”

Just a notebook. You stop in your tracks, hearing a sharp buzzing noise in your ear getting louder and higher by the second. Just a notebook. How dare he belittle your prized possession and scoff over it. You exhale breathlessly, knuckles turning white with rage, jaw tightly clenched, 

Just before you could open your mouth to retaliate, your friend steps in. “You would've cried if that happened to your gaming laptop. Just saying.”

“Tch. Leave me out of that cringey nonsense,” the guy snatches his bag and storms off, not remorseful whatsoever.

You sigh. It's always been men against you—your quirks, your fashion, the way you talk, and the mere fact that you're one of ten percent of women running for graduation in a male-centric physics class. You find it difficult to see the tie-in between your self-expression and the field of study you're pursuing—well, except that men are greedy and would do everything to look down on women who don't fit the male gaze.

“You okay?”

Of course you weren't. But you nod at your best friend anyway, then look down at your open back in total dejection.

“I’ll help find the journal, alright? Maybe look into our usual spots and ask around.”

Somehow that puts a small smile on your face.

***

“Oh, so you're planning to turn this gallery into a… what, a minimalist science museum? Kinda interesting.”

Jongseong chuckles sarcastically at the tall, lanky guy sitting leisurely on one of the gallery benches. It hasn't been two hours since Nishimura Riki—his former exchange intern, Sunghoon’s prodigy—has landed in Seoul for another temporary residency, but he's already back into his element—teasing Jongseong until the latter hisses at him.

“You're way off the grid with that wording, Riki,” Jongseong shakes his head, then sighs. “Not a science museum. I’ll talk about it more on another day cause my head is a total mess right now.”

He's been thinking, but not like how he usually does. He's been thinking harder—specifically about incorporating scientific concepts into the art-centric atmosphere of Kukje Gallery. The rambling you did last week about neuroscience hasn't left his head quite easily, which probably meant it carried some significance to him—except he's always dreaded science since high school.

What was it about you—your thoughts—that has him all worked up?

“Aww, is harabeoji already sleepy at 5 PM?” Riki coos, and Jongseong is already scowling aggressively at him. “Nah, nah, I’m playing with you, hyung.”

“Can you quit talking to me like I’m some fossil or something? I’m just three years older, for God's sake.”

“Then quit acting like an old bachelor when you're clearly giving ‘single and ready to mingle’ vibes,” Riki nudges his hyung’s shoulder. “You should get a girlfriend, maybe you’d be less broody. I mean, look at Sunghoon hyung and his new girlfriend. It was the first time I’ve seen his teeth in a while—all 32 of ‘em!”

“If you think a girlfriend's gonna solve all my life's problems,” Jongseong raises a brow at Riki. "Where's yours, then?”

Riki shrugs. “I don't know, maybe she's coming in sooner than I think… Faster than yours.”

“Aren't you supposed to be out of here, kid?” Jongseong swats Riki away. “Don't you have a painting to finish?”

“Oh, shit, I actually do,” Riki's eyes widen slightly, walking backwards to the gallery's fire exit while waving Jongseong goodbye. “I do have to go, hyung. I’ll see you around—” He opens the heavy steel door, “You better have a girlfriend by the time I get here or I’ll get your ass!”

The steel door echoes in the hall. Jongseong shakes his head as he takes out a small leather notebook from his pocket that clearly didn't belong to the gallery, or to him. He scrutinizes the exterior of it—an old, weathered vegan leatherback with an engraving of your initials on the lower right side, bound by elastic thread. The stickers on it were discolored, too, but surprisingly not peeling off.

Seeing you leave that notebook on the receptionist's counter where he was temporarily seated the other day, it intrigued him even more—you intrigued him. Maybe it was the way your train of thought came with no brakes, or the fact that you were just rambling about your niche interest with no regard for external judgement.

Even your fashion stood out in the muted, minimalist colors of the gallery. Your presence would be the most noticeable in a room full of people, and your absence would be the most evident. He wouldn't know it, but he could tell so. 

Maybe you haven't acknowledged it yourself, but to him, you were unapologetically, authentically yourself. Totally different from the women he’s always encountered in his field of interest—overly condescending and hiding their lack of substance behind designer clothing and tacky jewelry.

You were a fresh face. On top of that, he believes you could challenge his knowledge—which you've done—and win every single time.

He peers at the notebook again, his gaze quivering with curiosity. He never opened it, nor bothered to guess what the contents were out of pure respect. Seeing the sheets discolored and uneven from the side, he assumes it holds sentimental value—something he's understood perfectly as a person working in the art and archival industry.

I should probably propose a lost and found section next time. He sighs, jams the notebook back into his pocket and stands up for his daily routine check—this time, looking forward to when you’ll come back just so he can experience a semblance of adventure.

Or probably potential romance. But he wouldn't admit that to himself.

***

“You're back.”

Jongseong's tone wasn't matter-of-factly like the first time you met him, but rather relieved. You couldn't give him the same energy, though, considering you still haven't found your beloved physics journal after almost a week of thinking about where it could be. Seven. Sleepless. Nights. And the little guy still isn't back in your bag.

He wore his usual cardigan-slacks tandem, but his glasses were out of the picture. His expression is unusually bright—a little hopeful, even. It's as if the broody art curator went for a vacation overnight and got replaced by whoever’s standing in the abstract art hall.

You're different from his end, too—just not the ‘different’ he was expecting to see. Your keychains were out of the picture, and you had a brown monochrome combo that you hastily put together for the sake of ‘fitting in.’ He could tell you haven't gotten proper sleep; the sparkle in your eyes was dull—almost nonexistent. It was because of the notebook.

His smile drops slightly, feeling guilty for not putting in more effort to reach you. He could've resorted to writing to your university e-mail after you've constantly ignored his phone call, but he got swamped with exhibition duties himself. He just put trust in you coming back to the gallery and called it a day.

“You're not supposed to be here yet, though,” he continues, checking his watch. “It's still 9:30. Kukje opens at 10.”

You sigh. “Neither are you, Mr. Park—” 

“Please, call me Jongseong,” he cuts you off with an awkward chuckle. “People call me ‘Mr. Park’ too often that I forget I’m still 25.”

“Jongseong,” you echo hesitantly, the name rolling off your tongue smoother than you thought. “Hmm. Sounds fine to me.”

Jongseong was adamant to completely eliminate the awkwardness of talking to you, and he started by dropping the honorifics. What did you do to even get to this point? You shrug it off anyway.

“I don't know what led me here,” you blurt out in the dark hall. “Of course, I know the gallery isn't open yet, I just—” You suck in a breath, “I just felt like I needed to be here as soon as I woke up.”

That explained the lack of thought in your whole get-up. You were in a rush to get to Kukje as soon as breakfast was finished, your feet leading you to the building like it was the will-o’-the-wisp or the Pied Piper. You knew that something about the gallery would ease your frustration with your missing notebook—not lost, you haven't quite given up on your search yet.

The gallery was still dark—even the dim lights hadn't been switched on yet. There’s only the soft hum of HVAC and the faint rustling of the blinds. 

Jongseong doesn't reply, rather, he starts switching the lights of the whole floor, one by one, until they're fully lit. He then stops by a corner of the exhibit hall, standing still in front of a single piece. 

It’s not one of the popular works. It’s smaller, less flashy. A muted, abstract canvas—a blend of dull colors, almost stormy, with faint gold veining across the middle. You’ve never paid much attention to it, but he’s staring at it like it’s a secret.

His hands are in his pockets, shoulders relaxed and expression soft. Something about the painting the way Jongseong stills in front of the painting draws you closer, taking careful strides to the spot beside him until you're just a few feet apart.

He doesn't notice you at first. He doesn't know you're standing as still as he is, scrutinizing the painting and getting an up-close look at every stroke, every streak, every line.

“What is it about this one?” you mutter softly.  

“Nothing. It’s…” he pauses, then exhales. “It’s not about anything. The artist said it’s ‘unresolved emotional tension.’”

“So… it’s you, in a frame.”

He stares at her. You just shrug at him with a proud smile. You didn't have a lick of idea what his state of mind was, but for someone dealing with thought-evoking material for six days a week, you're pretty sure there's something tense brewing in that broody mind of his.

“That’s not flattering,” he says, but there’s a ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

You look back at the painting. “I kind of get it, though. It’s like… it’s heavy, but you’re still searching for the gold in it. That’s what those cracks look like to me.”

He’s silent. And she feels the air shift—just a little. The silence wasn't deafening anymore, but comforting. Like an intermission between two acts of a theater play. A silence so necessary that no one bothers to speak.

After what felt like forever, he speaks softly now. “It’s based on kintsugi. The Japanese philosophy of repairing broken things with gold.” 

“Oh…” you murmur. “Like… honoring the breakage.”

He nods. “The flaws become part of the history.”

You look at him. The stillness in his eyes is still there—more intense, even. There's a lot of thought in his stare that disturbs you despite the nonchalance in his stance. 

He’s not looking at the painting anymore. He’s looking at the space between them. Like he’s afraid you'll look too closely.

And you just say, “It’s a good piece. Makes you feel things.”

“That’s what you said the first day.”

“Yeah. Guess I was right,” you shrug again. “Did you know pure gold is non-magnetic? Pretty ironic for an eye candy metal, don't you think?”

He hums. “Where are you going with this, Y/N?”

“Well, it's not ‘attractive’ for something widely considered physically attractive, you know?” you giggle, and the lilted sound bounces off the halls.

Jongseong doesn't react immediately, just looks at you in surprise.

It was a sound he's always heard before—people giggling amongst themselves in the gallery halls all the time—but never one that echoed in the whole floor as clear as day. Crisp. Sharp. Real. Beautiful. It was a different experience hearing it from one single person, rather than in a tangled cacophony.

“So does that mean some of the ‘less precious’ metals are more attractive, then?”

“There's more than meets the eye, Jongseong,” you mutter softly, eyes still on the painting. “A lot of undiscovered things are waiting for us out there.”

Us. The corner of his lip tugs upward instinctively. It was a collective pronoun he seldom used unless he's with his parents or friends. He's always done things alone—working, traveling, clubbing—so it's always been ‘I,’ ‘me,’ or ‘my.’ Never ‘we’ or ‘us.’ He's never shown enthusiasm in changing that whole narrative, so far.

But with your way of words breaking his walls, he figures it might change.

“I appreciate you being inclusive Y/N,” he nods. “You left your notebook here, by the way.”

“Of course, I’m gonna be inclusive—wait, what?!”

“I said,” he fishes out your physics journal from his pocket. “You left this here.”

Your eyes light up at the sight of your physics journal—unscathed, intact, and very much not missing. In a rush of excitement, you grab the notebook from his hands. The fact that your fingers momentarily brushed with his completely flew over your head—but not his.

The warmth of your fingers momentarily pulls him away from the cold air he’s gotten used to. He realizes something. His hand has never been touched by something—someone—warm in a long, long time.

“Where have you been all my life?!” you exclaim, giving the leatherback a quick peck. You turn to Jongseong, whose smile has gotten a little wider in amusement. “Where did I even—how—you kept it?”

“You left it in the reception area,” he chuckles sheepishly. “Don't worry, I didn't open it. I promise.”

“I wasn't even worried about that…” you murmur, finally calming down from the rush of dopamine. “But thank you, Jongseong.”

“No big deal,” he coolly replies, hiding the psychological warfare in his head behind his voice. “You're lucky I was the one who found it.”

“Oh, I’m lucky, alright,” you nod proudly, chucking the notebook in its usual compartment in your bag. “I might invite you to my graduation if you keep being this nice to me.”

“Oh, right, you're graduating,” he replies. “When's that again?”

“In a few months. Maybe six. It’ll pass me by before I know it.”

“Well, congratulations in advance,” Jongseong offers his hand to shake. “Your master's degree is waving at you.”

Your lips curl up in a shy smile, take his hand and briefly shake it. An art gallery curator congratulating you on possibly one of the scariest moments of your life wasn't on your bingo card, but it's better than the fear of not having your physics journal back.

“You know, Jongseong,” you clasp your hands together. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

***

“‘Friendship?’” Sunghoon throws his head back, full-bodied laughs coming out of his mouth as he echoes the word. “Did Miss Synapse just friendzone you, Jjongsaeng?!”

“You come here after a week-long honeymoon with your girlfriend to what, torture the fuck out of me again?” Jongseong scratches his head exasperately. “That's childish, man.”

Sunghoon flails his arms, still consumed by laughter. “No, I meant—did she just tell you it was ‘the beginning of a beautiful friendship?’ Has she always been poetic like that?”

“Fuck you,” Jongseong rolls his eyes. “I make one friend and suddenly you're overanalyzing shit. Go back to taking your photos, Hoon.”

Jongseong thinks Sunghoon (or Riki) teasing the living daylights out of him was the worst thing he could ever experience, but today, it was the fact that Sunghoon could always read his mind. 

Neither Jongseong even had friendzoning on the radar when he opened the topic of new friendships, nor did the word 'friendship’ leave a sting on his chest. The conversation was supposed to be lighthearted, but here came Sunghoon with a remark that's going to have him rethink his life choices every single time.

“You're boring,” Sunghoon huffs. “You didn't even bother to stalk her on LinkedIn or something. You really waited for her to come back here while you held onto that damn notebook for a week.”

“Says the one who got drunk in the bar when he got ghosted,” Jongseong retaliates.

“Fair,” Sunghoon shrugs. “Anyway, break’s almost over. I’m off.” 

Jongseong nods and shoos Sunghoon away, eyes glued to his phone as soon as it chimes. He scrolls through his notification center to see a bunch of messages from your number—he eventually got it after yesterday's encounter.

y/n:

sooooo

there's something i need to tell you

there's this final project i have

i need your help 😁

maybe you can work on an installation art piece with me? they say it has to be based on a physics concept 

🥺🥺🥺

they said we needed to collaborate with artists but i don't know anyone personally in the art industry except you

so i come in peace mr. park 👉🏻👈🏻

Jongseong’s eyes light up instinctively, because this couldn't be a plain coincidence. Just last week, he's been on the planning stage for a science-aligned exhibition in the gallery—maybe a permanent section if the conditions permit—and now you're hitting him up for the exact same thing.

jongseong:

Sure

Just send me all the details

Like when's it due and all the stuff

Looking forward to working with you :)

Jongseong sighs, reclines leisurely in his seat as if he has solved the Goldbach conjecture overnight. The subconscious voice in the back of his hand is screaming at him to stand up and do a somersault, but his body remains relaxed despite the chaos in his head.

Five kilometers away from Kukje, though, you’re tossing and turning in the bottom bunk of your dorm room, trying your hardest not to squeal because your roommate sleeps lighter than a cat on high alert. It was the first time someone hadn’t made you wait unusually long—maybe Jongseong has felt the urgency in your messages that he agreed so easily.

“Oh, my God…” you cup your mouth in delayed realization. “I’m working with Hongdae’s most famous art gallery…”

“Girl, go to sleep…” your roommate groans from the top bunk.

You giddily kick your feet in the air. For now, his true reasons for saying yes were an afterthought. At the moment, you couldn’t wait to be in the halls of Kukje’s first floor and let your voice swallow the building whole.

And Park Jongseong, for the first time in his life, couldn’t wait to be in the corner of the gallery he dreaded the most—the south wing.

***

“So,” Jongseong clasps his hands together. “Where do we start, Miss Physicist?”

“Welcome to my mind, Mr. Park,” you quip proudly, crossing your arms over your chest. “Slow down. Accident-prone area. You’re dealing with swerving roads here.”

“Huh. I’ve been told I’m a good driver,” he rolls his sleeves gingerly. “A very reliable one, might I add.”

“We’ll see about that,” you lightly shove a notepad and a pencil in his chest. He chuckles. “Whenever you’re ready, Jjongsaeng.”

“Hey, drop the nickname!”

Jongseong couldn’t even be annoyed at you right now. You’re smiling appropriately bright, and the odd color combinations in your clothes are back. Even your shoes commanded presence, too—vintage stiletto boots that made a satisfying clacking sound with every step. You ran in them as if they were flip-flops, which slightly concerns him. He would have to do first-aid the moment you twist an ankle (as long as it’s not CPR, he’s good).

“How are you running in those…”

“It's simple pressure distribution, Mr. Park. P = F/A*. I’m just... very precise with my A."

"You're going to distribute your F all over my floor if you trip," he replies, earning him a soft ‘tch’. “Follow me to the study. We’ll lay out everything there.”

Jongseong doesn’t frequent the gallery’s study room as he’s always either roaming around the main halls or stuck in his office. It's always been a hanging out spot for students and employees who can work from everywhere, but never for the person on top of the gallery’s command chain. It's like a rediscovery, somewhat, not only for the head art curator—

“You clean up well, don't you?” you mutter as he's scribbling his ideas down on the notepad.

—but for you, too. You’ve never seen the man this close, only from a socially acceptable distance. His face was a balance of delicate and strong—soft, cat-like eyes and small lips, but countered by a prominent jawline and thick eyebrows that framed his face perfectly. 

Interesting how two opposite aspects of physical appearance can complement one another and make them into whatever Park Jongseong was.

He’s basically a walking contradiction. His fashion is fifty percent tailored coats and fifty percent slacks, but his voice sounds like a grounding piece—soft, deep, full, a little pouty if you listen hard enough. His handwriting gave off the vibe of a high school boy, too—rounded, a bit bubbly, and cute. You stifle a giggle as he double-strokes a letter he wrote by mistake.

“But, hey,” you tilt your head slightly to decipher his writing. “Those aren't too bad… An interactive installation sounds good!”

“Depends on how interactive we're talking,” he props his elbows up on the table. “What do you think?”

“An exhibition that brings out people's inner emotions,” you reply, putting your pencil down. “Think telepathy, but through colors or sound. Ultrasonic sensors and LIDAR to body movement.”

“And every color would have emotional resonance…” he continues instinctively, jotting it down. “Like yellow for happiness, blue for sadness, and red for anger—”

“Exactly!”

“That's kinda like Inside Out, if you ask me,” he chuckles in amusement. “And when those sensors sense multiple emotions in that room—”

“The room would be a colorful rainbow,” you gasp belatedly. “We can play music, too. Do you like classical? Maybe we can do EDM. Or hip-hop—wait, that's kinda over the top.”

You stop talking. The silence isn't awkward, exactly, but it’s different. It’s the kind of silence that usually precedes a major breakthrough in a lab. You tilt your head, mirroring his stance, and for a second, the 'Miss Physicist’ persona slips. You catch his gaze and your heart does a frantic little skip-step, like a poorly calibrated motor. Instead of stopping, you start talking twice as fast, your voice rising an octave.

“Because if we go with the bass-heavy track, the vibrations might interfere with the sensors, and then we’d have a feedback loop, and—are you even listening? You’re just looking at me. That’s cheating! I’m doing all the heavy lifting here and you’re just... being a curator.”

He really should be looking at the LIDAR schematics. Honestly. He’s a professional—he has a reputation for being the most meticulous art gallery  curator in the city, but here he is, propped up on his elbows like a teenager, watching a girl in vintage stiletto boots explain the physics of Inside Out.

God, she’s still yapping. But the way your hands move through the air? Mapping out sound waves like you're literally carving the atmosphere into something he can finally breathe? It’s technically reckless. It’s chaotic. It’s the exact opposite of everything he’s spent years "curating" into a clean, broody silence.

I’m a good driver, he tells himself, watching the way your eyes light up. I can handle a few swerving roads. Except he’s not driving. He’s just... parked. Completely stalled out because you’re talking about LIDAR in a room that usually only hears the echo of his own expensive shoes. And the heels—those ridiculous clacking heels—he’s genuinely worried about your ankles, but mostly he’s worried about the fact that he doesn't want you to stop talking. He wants to see how far these roads go.

“Sorry,” you mumble, suddenly finding the rubber end of your pencil more interesting than his face. You reach for your notebook, fingers fumbling with the spine. “I’m doing it again. I just—I get into it and then I realize I haven't let you breathe for ten minutes. You probably have actually important gallery stuff to handle.”

You wait for him to agree, or to offer a polite out, or even to make a joke to ease the awkwardness.

Instead, Jongseong just shifts his weight, the sound of his sleeves brushing against the table loud in the sudden silence.

“I’m not bored,” he says. No "Mr. Park" polish, no curator-mask. Just a quiet, blunt fact. “I was actually listening to the part about the bass frequencies. Don't stop because you think I’m just being polite.”

You look up, caught by the sincerity in his voice. He isn't smiling, but his eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“Really?” you ask, your voice sounding smaller than you intended.

“Really.” He tilts his head, watching you with that same unwavering focus that made your heart skip earlier. “It’s... it’s a lot of noise in my head usually. Keeping this place running, the exhibitions, the artists. But listening to you talk about this? It’s the first time it’s actually felt quiet in here for a while.”

He gestures vaguely to the empty gallery around them, but his gaze never leaves yours.

His work days have always been noisy—but awfully silent. While he’s used to hearing the faint sounds of conversation among pairs or groups of people, or even among themselves, he only ever gets to totally talk to people outside the gallery—with potential donors, with Sunghoon or Riki, with his parents, and today, with you.

“So, please. Keep going. I want to hear the rest.”

“You sure?” you lean forward slightly, pushing your glasses against your nose bridge.

“Never been surer,” he nods, picking up his pencil again. “Continue.”

***

One month later, and Jongseong’s silent mind has now been a whirlwind.

You’ve been having meetings with him twice a week, conceptualizing and brainstorming to make sure the creation process was seamless to the T. Every meeting has been an exchange of sensory science and art movements, and passively, a discovery of each other’s personalities. He still calls you Miss Physicist, and you still call him Mr. Park, but the space between the labels is starting to feel... crowded.

When you push through the gallery doors today, you find two coffees already sitting on the edge of the drafting table. They aren't fancy or personalized; they're just two standard cups from the shop around the corner.

“I didn't know your preference,” Jongseong says, not looking up from his tablet. He’s wearing a sweater today instead of a blazer, a small crack in the curator-armor that makes him look annoyingly approachable. “I just got a black coffee and a latte with the milk on the side. I figured scientists liked to control their own variables.”

You pause, reaching for the latte. It’s a simple gesture—common courtesy for a colleague—but the fact that he went out of his way to get anything before you arrived makes the "whirlwind" in your chest pick up speed.

“Thanks,” you mutter, pulling the cup toward you. “Black coffee for you? That’s very... on brand.”

“It’s efficient,” he replies, finally looking up. He doesn't smile, but there’s a flicker of that amusement you’ve come to recognize. “And I needed the caffeine. I spent three hours last night looking at the LIDAR data you sent over. You weren’t joking about the swerving roads.”

He gestures to the blueprints, his fingers lingering near where yours usually rest.

“Your ideas are compelling,” he says, sauntering slowly to your direction.

You look up at him, push your glasses towards your nose out of habit. “Compelling?”

“Yes.”

“Like courtroom testimony compelling,” you raise a brow at him, “or like I’ll consider funding this art installation completely compelling?”

He blinks, silently panics at the sudden cornering. “Aesthetically compelling.”

You grin. “You think I’m aesthetically compelling?!”

He clarifies almost too quickly. “Your diagrams. Your diagrams are compelling.”

Jongseong’s whole brain blue-screens. He opens his mouth to defend himself—probably to say something about 'minimalism' or 'tonal balance'—but his brain fails to provide a coherent sentence. He just stands there, the man who manages million-dollar art deals, completely leveled by a single grin and a pair of pushed-up glasses.

He clears his throat, the sound tight and awkward. “I’m going to... I need to check the inventory in the back. For the sensors. The sensors that are... compellingly sophisticated—”

“That’s not what you meant, though, wasn’t it?” you eye him up and down.

He stays silent for five seconds, then turns away and clears his throat. “Please don’t quote me out of context.”

You giggle anyway, catching the art curator even more off-guard.

He turns on his heel a little too fast, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug he’s walked over a thousand times.

“Jongseong?” you call out as he retreats.

He stops, but doesn't turn around. “Yes?”

“The back room is that way,” you point in the complete opposite direction.

He freezes, shoulders tensed, then slowly pivots 180 degrees. He doesn't look at you. He just walks past, staring straight ahead like he’s marching into battle. “I knew that. I was just... checking the airflow in this corner. It’s vital for the installation.”

The next meeting, the gallery doesn’t smell like expensive floor wax and silence anymore. It smells like soldering iron and lukewarm coffee. Rock music blasts through the south wing’s speakers and Jongseong is politely headbanging on top of a ladder.

He’s currently holding an LED panel against the wall, his biceps straining against the rolled-up sleeves of a shirt that cost more than your tuition. He looked less like the broody art curator from the first day you saw him and more like a high-end construction worker, and it was doing terrible things to your concentration.

"Just a bit," you murmured, stepping in to adjust the sensor bracket. You were so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. "Wait—don't move. If the angle is off by even a millimeter, the LIDAR won't track the 'Yellow' zone correctly."

He goes perfectly still. You could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, and for a second, you forget to look at the bracket. You’re looking at the way his pulse was jumping in the hollow of his throat.

"Is it... is it aligned?" he asks, his voice a little rougher than usual.

"I'm checking," you whisper, though the only thing you were actually checking was how much longer you could stay this close before one of you went up in flames.

The soldering iron hums somewhere in the background, but the sound was drowned out by the thrumming in your own ears. You were close enough to see the fine texture of his shirt, close enough to realize that the "roughness" in his voice wasn't from exhaustion—it was the sound of a man holding his breath.

"You're shaking," Jongseong murmured. He didn't pull away. If anything, he leaned into the bracket just a fraction more, his shoulder brushing against yours. The contact sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the electrical wiring.

"I’m not," you lie, your voice barely a breath. You force your eyes back to the LIDAR sensor, trying to focus on the tiny green LED light that was supposed to indicate a perfect fix. "The... the calibration is just sensitive. It picks up everything. Even a heartbeat if you’re close enough."

"Is that right?"

He turned his head then. He was so close that if you moved even a centimeter, your nose would brush his cheek. You could see the way his dark eyes were darting across your face, scanning you with that same terrifyingly focused "curator" intensity. Except he wasn't looking for balance or composition. He was looking at you.

"Then it must be picking up a lot of noise right now," he whispered.

The silence that follows is heavy, weighted with the month of twice-a-week meetings, the shared coffees, and the secret rock playlists. The "Miss Physicist" persona was gone. The "Mr. Park" mask was cracked wide open. You were just two people standing in a half-finished gallery, surrounded by sensors that were designed to track human emotion but were currently failing to capture the sheer scale of whatever was happening between you.

Your hand, still hovering near the bracket, accidentally brushes the side of his neck.

Jongseong’s eyes flutter shut for a split second, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips. "The light," he prompts, his voice now a low, gravelly shadow of its former self. "Is it... is it green yet?"

You glance at the monitor. The sensor had finally locked on. The screen was bathed in a steady, unwavering yellow.

"Yes," you whisper, your heart hammering against your ribs. "It’s joy."

***

Jongseong's on his usual art curator duty, updating artist bios and inventory, when Riki literally corners him in the south wing, where your collaborative art installation stands—unfinished and full of potential. He blinks rapidly without a lick of idea why his best friend-slash-protégé has  a shit-eating grin on his face, palm heels mercilessly digging into his shoulders.

“What the fuck?!” Jongseong blurts out, hands in the air in half dumbfoundedness, half anger. “What's this supposed to mean—”

“You like her,” Riki says, his grin widening as he waits for the explosion.

Jongseong adjusts his cufflink, his movements slow and agonizingly deliberate. He looks like the picture of curator-grade composure. “Who?”

Riki’s laugh is short and sharp. “Who? Hyung, don’t do this. Don’t do the ‘I’m so busy and important I don’t know which woman you’re referring to’ bit. It’s pathetic.”

“I’m currently managing three separate artist residencies and an upcoming gala, Riki,” Jongseong says, his voice as flat as a desert horizon. He turns back to his tablet, scrolling through a list of names he isn’t actually reading. “If you’re referring to one of the technicians from the lighting firm, or perhaps the coordinator from the foundation—”

“I’m talking about the cute nerd,” Riki interrupts, leaning over the tablet to block Jongseong’s view. “The one who makes you writhe in your seat while she's explaining all this scientific shit.”

Jongseong’s thumb hitches on the screen.

“Oh,” he says, as if the realization just struck him. “The Master's student. I suppose she’s a competent collaborator. But to suggest that I have feelings for a consultant who spends half our meetings debating the merits of EDM is—”

“A lie,” Riki finishes for him. “It’s a big, sophisticated, aesthetically compelling lie.”

Jongseong finally looks up, and the 'Who?' defense crumbles instantly. His ears are betraying him, turning a bright, unmistakable pink against his dark hair. “Go away, Riki. I have an inventory to finish.”

“You’re looking at the inventory for the sculpture garden, hyung,” Riki points out, cackling as he dances away toward the exit. “We aren’t even working on the sculpture garden today!”

“Shut your annoying ass up, Riki. Seriously. Just—shut it and get out.”

Jongseong doesn't even wait for the younger boy to finish his cackling exit. He practically shoves Riki toward the hallway, slamming the heavy south wing doors with a bit more force than necessary. The echo rings through the hollow gallery, leaving him in a sudden, ringing silence.

He’s alone. Finally.

He leans his back against the cool surface of the door and slides down just an inch, exhaling a breath he feels like he’s been holding since the "aesthetically compelling" debacle.

Who? He closes his eyes, and the lie feels bitter. He knows exactly who. He knows the exact sound her vintage heels make when she’s frustrated (staccato, sharp) versus when she’s excited (fast, light). He knows that she pushes her glasses up her nose with her middle finger when she’s deep in thought. He knows that his "silent" gallery now feels unfinished whenever she isn't in it yapping about sound waves.

He looks down at his tablet. Riki was right—he is looking at the inventory for the sculpture garden. A project that isn't due for six months.

“Dammit,” he whispers to the empty room.

He walks back over to the installation—your shared territory. He looks at the bracket you were just both leaning over. He can still feel the ghost of your pulse in the air, the way the temperature in the room seemed to spike the second your shoulder brushed his.

He reaches out, his fingers tracing the edge of the sensor you just calibrated.

Joy.

He’s supposed to be a curator of art, but he’s currently a victim of his own exhibit. He isn't just "aesthetically compelled." He’s falling, and the worst part—the absolutely terrifying part—is that he thinks the physicist is the only one who knows the math to catch him.

***

Aesthetically compelling.

You’re staring at the ceiling, your vintage heels kicked off somewhere near your desk, and that one phrase is looping in your brain like a corrupted audio file. You’re a scientist. You deal in empirical evidence, measurable data, and cold, hard logic. But there is absolutely nothing "logical" about the way your face feels like it’s currently undergoing a thermal nuclear reaction.

"He meant the LIDAR," you whisper to your empty room, clutching a pillow to your chest. "He was talking about the spatial distribution. The composition. The balance."

But even as you say it, you can still see the way he looked—the way the cool, untouchable Mr. Park's ears turned that specific shade of pink. You remember the way he tripped over a rug he’s walked on a thousand times. A curator of his caliber doesn’t just trip. Not unless his internal equilibrium has been completely knocked off-axis by something—or someone.

You think I’m aesthetically compelling?! Why did you say that? Why are you like this? You could have just said "Thank you" or "I agree, the mapping is solid." But no, your instincts took the wheel and drove you straight into a high-friction collision.

And the handwriting. You reach into your bag and pull out the crumpled note he left on your equipment case earlier. Those rounded, bubbly letters shouldn't belong to a man who wears suits that cost more than your car. It’s a contradiction. He’s a contradiction. He’s a broody rock fan with the handwriting of a middle-schooler and a gaze that makes you forget the laws of thermodynamics.

"It's just the project," you groan, burying your face in the pillow. "It's just the 'Inside Out' theme. I'm just… immersed in the research. I'm experiencing 'Joy' for the sake of the sensors."

But your heart—the one that was hammering against your ribs when your hand accidentally brushed his neck—isn't interested in the research. It’s interested in why he looked like he wanted to say something else. Why he looked like he was about to ignore the "swerving roads" and just drive straight into the sun.

"I am going to get an F in this Master's," you mutter. "I'm going to fail because I'm too busy calculating the physics of a curator's blush."

“I’m just saying, the project is reaching a critical phase,” you add, waving a spoon around in front of your roommate for emphasis. “The LIDAR integration is sophisticated. It’s compelling. He said it was compelling.”

Your roommate doesn't even look up from her phone. She just sips her drink, eyes narrowed. “He said the diagrams were compelling, or he said you were compelling? Because there’s a biological difference, and I think your blush is currently hitting the ‘Red’ zone of your own exhibit.”

“It was a professional assessment!” you hiss, leaning across the table. “And then he almost tripped over a rug. It was… a very high-friction environment.”

“Bitch, you’ve been talking about his ‘sophisticated airflow’ for twenty minutes,” she deadpans, finally dropping her phone. “You aren’t calibrated for science right now. You’re calibrated for a date. When are you going to stop yapping about sound waves and start yapping about the fact that you want to climb him like a sculpture in his own gallery?”

You choke on your oat milk. “I am a Master's student! I have a thesis! I have—"

“You have a crush,” she interrupts, grinning. “And if you don't do something about it, I’m going to go to that gallery myself and tell Mr. Park that his lead physicist spends her nights staring at his cute handwriting like it’s a love letter from the 1800s.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me. Calibration starts at 9:00 AM tomorrow, right? I’ll bring the coffee. And the truth.”

***

The South Wing was silent, the kind of heavy, pressurized quiet that only happens after the tourists and the cleaning crews have long since vanished. You were hunched under the control console, the sharp metal edge digging into your shoulder as you fumbled with a pair of needle-nose pliers. Your "handy skills" were currently failing you in a spectacular, low-voltage fashion.

“Is it supposed to spark like that?”

The voice is low, echoing off the underside of the desk. You flinch, nearly cracking your skull against the motherboard as Jongseong kneels down in the shadows beside you. He isn't wearing his suit jacket anymore; his sleeves were rolled up, revealing the lean, corded strength of his forearms—arms that were currently reaching into your personal space to take the pliers from your trembling hand.

“It’s not supposed to spark at all,” you whisper, your heart doing a frantic, uncalibrated rhythm against your ribs.

Jongseong doesn't pull back. He shifts closer, his shoulder brushing against yours as he maneuvered his hand into the tangle of wires. The space was too small. It’s a high-friction environment, and the "airflow" he was always yapping about was non-existent. You could smell the cedar of his cologne and the ozone of the half-finished sensors.

“Hold this,” he murmurs, his fingers grazing yours as he hands back a wire.

The contact was a short circuit. You go perfectly still, your pulse jumping in the hollow of your throat as you watch him work. He’s focused, his jaw set in that meticulous, curator-grade intensity, but his breathing is just a little too shallow to be "professional".

“Is it... is it aligned?” you ask, your voice cracking in the dark.

Jongseong stops. He doesn't look at the wires. He turns his head slowly, his face inches from yours in the cramped, shadowy space beneath the console. The polished "Mr. Park" facade was gone, replaced by something raw and "aesthetically compelling" that made your brain blue-screen.

“I’m checking,” he whispers, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second.

The distance between you was less than a centimeter. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the magnetic pull of a month’s worth of pining finally reaching its breaking point. You lean in, your eyes fluttering shut, waiting for the collision—

The snap of the fuse finally sliding into place was the most satisfying sound you’d heard all week. You let out a triumphant, breathless laugh, your face smudged with a bit of graphite from the casing.

“I got it! Jongseong, I actually got it!”

You scramble slightly to get a better view of the console, pointing toward the tiny, flickering LED that was finally pulsing with a steady, warm glow. The light reflects off the polished floor of the South Wing, casting a soft amber hue across the darkened room.

“Look,” you whisper, your eyes wide with the sheer relief of a successful calibration. “Isn't it beautiful?”

You turn to share the victory with him, but the air in your lungs suddenly felt like it had been replaced by lead. Jongseong’s not looking at the console. He wasn't looking at the "Joy" sensor or the perfectly aligned bracket.

He’s looking at you.

His gaze is heavy, unblinking, and entirely too honest for a Tuesday night at the gallery. The amber light catches the sharp line of his jaw and the softened, almost vulnerable expression in his eyes. He looks like he’s seeing something far more "aesthetically compelling" than a motherboard.

“It is,” he murmurs, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. “Beautiful.”

The silence that follows is thick with everything you’d been building for two months. Jongseong shifts, his hand moving as if to reach for you, then hesitating.

“I’m not… I’m not very good at this,” he admits, the words coming out in a rush of uncharacteristic bluntness. The "sophisticated curator" was nowhere to be found. “I usually have the right words, the right descriptions. But when it comes to—to this? I don’t know how to say it the right way.”

“Then say them the wrong way,” you whisper, your heart hammering against the metal of the console.

The silence that follows is different than before. It wasn't pressurized or heavy; it was a challenge. You're giving him permission to be messy, to be uncalibrated, to drop the "Mr. Park" persona and just be the man who writes in bubbly handwriting and listens to rock music in the dark.

For a second, the frustration on his face clears, replaced by a look of such raw, focused intent that you felt the air leave your lungs entirely. He leaned back in, his hand finally finding its home—not on a bracket or a wire, but cupping the side of your face, his thumb grazing your cheekbone.

"If I say them the wrong way," he murmurs, his lips a breath away from yours, "I’m never going to be able to take them back."

"Don't take them back," you breathe.

He leans in, the distance between your faces closing until you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. You’re paralyzed, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against the metal desk behind you. This is it. The "swerving roads" had finally led here.

His eyes drops to your lips, his breath warm against your cheek—

“Jongseong-ah! Are you still in here? The board members are asking about the gala catering!”

Sunghoon’s voice echoes down the long marble hallway, crisp and professional, effectively shattering the atmosphere like a dropped glass sculpture.

Jongseong flinches, pulling back just enough for the cold gallery air to rush between you. “Fuck,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

The spell isn't just broken; it was incinerated. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, a look of pure, unadulterated frustration crossing his face before he straightens his collar and regains his mask.

You feel the sting of disappointment, a sharp ache in your chest that you immediately tried to bury under a practiced, physicist’s composure. You force a small, shaky smile onto your face, even though your hands are still trembling.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, stepping back into the shadows of the console. “Another time.”

You didn’t wait for a second interruption. You scrambled out from under the console, clutching your toolkit like a shield, and practically bolted past Sunghoon without making eye contact. Your face was still a deep, undeniable scarlet, and the words "Say them the wrong way" were still ringing in your ears, making your vision feel a little blurry.

Sunghoon stands in the doorway, holding a clipboard and looking completely unbothered until you brush past him with a muttered, "Goodnight, Sunghoon-ssi," and vanish into the darkness of the corridor.

He watches you go, then slowly turns his gaze back into the South Wing.

Jongseong is still standing by the console. His tie is slightly askew—a crime for a Park—and his breathing was heavy enough that Sunghoon could hear it from ten feet away. He looks less like a curator and more like a man who had just survived a high-speed collision.

Sunghoon shifted his weight, his eyes narrowing as he took in Jongseong’s wrecked composure.

“What the fuck did you do, Jongseong?” he asks, his voice suspiciously level.

Jongseong does answer immediately. He just stares at the empty space where you had been standing, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he could still feel the phantom heat of your skin. The broody art curator mask isn't just cracked; it’s lying in pieces on the floor next to the blown fuse.

“I didn’t do anything,” Jongseong finally snaps, though the bite was missing from his tone.

And among all the stupid things he's done, this probably takes the top spot.

The silence in the South Wing is deafening after the heavy mahogany doors clicked shut behind you. Jongseong remains frozen by the console, his hands still hovering in the space where your skin had been a second ago.

Sunghoon doesn't move. He just watched his friend with the kind of clinical detachment one might use to study a flickering lightbulb before it finally burns out.

“You look bummed,” Sunghoon remarks, his voice echoing off the high-visibility glass.

Jongseong’s jaw tightens. He doesn't look at his friend. He just kept staring at the amber LED you had just fixed, the light reflecting in his dark, unblinking eyes. 

“Am I?” he deadpans, his voice a jagged shadow of his usual professional self. He begins cracking his knuckles, a sharp, rhythmic sound that betrays the “meticulous" calm he was trying to project.

“You also look like you forgot how to blink,” Sunghoon adds, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms.

“I did.”

The honesty of the admission makes Sunghoon pause. He’s seen Jongseong handle high-visibility office scandals and "botanically insignificant" disasters without breaking a sweat, but this is different. This is a total system failure.

Sunghoon raises a brow, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “So. You almost kissed her.”

Jongseong finally blinks, the sudden movement looking painful. He turns his head slowly, his gaze landing on the spot where you had been crouched under the desk. “I almost didn't do anything, Sunghoon. I was investigating a sensor fluctuation.”

“Right. Because investigating sensors usually requires that much airflow between two people,” Sunghoon retorts. “She looked like she was running for her life, and you look like you just lost the most important exhibit in the building. Get your shit together.”

Jongseong doesn't move. He just looks at the dark roast coffee he’d forgotten to drink and then back at the door. “She told me to say it the wrong way.”

Sunghoon’s smirk vanishes, replaced by genuine confusion. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jongseong mutters, finally snapping his mask back into place and marching toward the exit. “The airflow is fine. Everything is fine.”

"You want to talk about it," Sunghoon states, his voice flat and clinical.

"I wanna get hit by a bus," Jongseong replies, the deadpan delivery cutting through the air. He’s not being dramatic—well, he was, but he’s an art bro. It’s a stylistic choice to prefer physical impact over the sheer embarrassment of the almost kiss.

Sunghoon raises a brow. "A bus is a bit extreme for a botched vibe check, don't you think?"

"It wasn't a vibe check," Jongseong mutters, finally blinking as if his eyelids were heavy curtains. He looks down at his hands—the same ones that had almost cupped your face. He’s cracking his knuckles absentmindedly, a sharp, rhythmic sound that betrays his meticulous persona.

"I know it wasn't," Sunghoon says, stepping closer. "You look like you’re trying to calculate the escape velocity of your own dignity.”

"She told me to say it the wrong way, Sunghoon," Jongseong mutters, pacing the floor of his own exhibit. "Who just... gives you permission to be a disaster?"

"Someone who's probably just as much of a disaster as you are," Sunghoon retorts, turning back toward the hallway. "Unless you can find a bus in the next five minutes, you have a gala board meeting to lead. Try not to look 'bummed' while you're presenting the budget."

Sunghoon doesn't even wait for a rebuttal. He just shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching with a mix of pity and amusement as he turned on his heel. The rhythmic click of his dress shoes against the gallery’s polished marble feels like a countdown, marking every second Jongseong spent standing there in his own wreckage.

"Good luck with the bus," Sunghoon calls out over his shoulder, his voice echoing through the high ceilings of the South Wing. "But if you miss it, the board is in Conference Room B. Try to look less like a Victorian ghost."

The heavy doors groaned and then clicked shut, leaving Jongseong in total, pressurized silence.

He’s alone with the sensor—which was still pulsing a steady, mocking amber—and the lingering scent of your perfume that seemed to have permanently bonded with the "airflow" of the room. He looked at the spot under the console where his world had just tilted off its axis. He was a man who prided himself on being a meticulous curator, a master of high-visibility aesthetics, but right now, his internal layout was a disaster.

***

Jongseong didn't sleep.

He woke up two hours before his alarm, made his usual dark roast coffee, just to forget to drink it and watch it go cold. He's been nursing the cup for God knows how long, with last night's moments playing like a broken record in his head.

The way your voice dropped when you told him to ‘say things the wrong way.’ The way your fingers lightly brushes against his. The way his lips parted slightly—waiting for that rush of euphoria to kick in. The way he backed off because of Sunghoon’s timing, but mostly because he was scared—not of you, but how you made him feel.

You're already at the gallery, working on bug fixes. Glasses perched low on your nose and eyebrows too unusually knitted. 

You’re still hunched over the console, your eyebrows knitted so tightly they’re practically touching. You can feel Jongseong’s presence behind you—a steady, radiating heat that makes the "bug fixes" on your screen look like a blur of meaningless syntax.

"The refresh rate is dragging," you mutter, not daring to look up. Your glasses are sliding down your nose again, but you don't push them up because that would mean moving, and moving feels dangerous.

Jongseong finally sets the cold coffee down on a nearby pedestal. The clink of the ceramic against the marble sounds like a gunshot in the quiet gallery. He doesn't stay back. He steps into that narrow gap of "professional" space, leaning over your shoulder to look at the monitor.

"It’s not the refresh rate," he says, his voice a low, jagged vibration right at your ear. "It’s the buffer. You’re trying to process too much at once."

"I have to," you breathe, finally pushing your glasses up with a shaky finger. "If I don't account for every variable, the whole system crashes."

"Some variables aren't meant to be accounted for," he murmurs. He reaches out, his hand hovering just inches from yours on the keyboard. He doesn't touch you—he’s still too "scared" of how you make him feel—but the distance is small enough that you can feel the rush of euphoria he's been chasing all morning.

He stays there, close enough that if you turned your head three inches, you’d be right back where you were before Sunghoon interrupted. He’s waiting to see if you’ll tell him to be "wrong" again, or if you’ll keep pretending that the only thing between you is a Master's thesis and a few lines of broken code.

"Jongseong," you say softly, finally looking him in the eye.

He doesn't blink. He just watches you, his lips parted slightly as if he’s still waiting for that kiss that never quite landed. "Yeah?"

"We're... we're not talking about the code, are we?"

The broody art curator mask finally slips just a fraction, revealing the man who didn't sleep and the curator who is currently lost in his own exhibit.

"No," he whispers. "We definitely aren't."

"The proximity sensors are spiking," you say, your voice a little too high, a little too tight. You keep your eyes locked on the monitor, but you can feel Jongseong’s presence like a physical weight behind you. He’s so close that the "noisy" silence of the gallery feels like it's about to crack.

Jongseong doesn't pull back. Instead, he leans in further, his arm brushing yours as he reaches for the calibration dial. The contact is a short circuit for your brain, but he just keeps his eyes on the screen, his jaw set in that meticulous, curator-grade intensity.

"It's not a hardware failure," he murmurs, his breath warm against your temple. "It’s a conflict in the logic. Two commands trying to occupy the same space at the same time."

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. "And how do we fix a logic conflict, Mr. Park?"

He stops moving. His hand is still resting inches from yours, and for a second, his facade isn't just cracked—it’s gone. He looks at your smudged glasses, then down at your mouth, his lips parting slightly as if he’s finally going to take the advice you gave him under the console.

"We don't," he whispers. "We just wait for one of them to give in."

The speakers in the South Wing crackle to life just as the clock hits 5:50 PM. The familiar, upbeat piano chords of Semisonic’s Closing Time begin to bounce off the marble floors and high-visibility glass. It’s his signature move—a polite, slightly witty way to tell the remaining board members and staff to head for the exits.

But for you, those first few notes are a tripwire.

You freeze, your fingers hovering over the "bug fix". This was the exact song playing the first time you walked into this gallery, back when Jongseong was just "Mr. Park" and you were just the "Miss Physicist" who wouldn't stop yapping about synapses and dendritic responses.

Now, the song is a mockery.

Jongseong is standing across the room, leaning against a pedestal with his cold coffee, trying to look professional for the few stragglers still roaming the wing. But as the lyrics reach the chorus—“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here”—his eyes snap to yours.

The awkwardness is thick enough to trigger a sensor. You both look away instantly. He starts intensely studying a "botanically insignificant" dried flower in a nearby exhibit, while you suddenly find the logic of a basic power cable to be the most fascinating thing in the world.

"That song is remarkably loud tonight," he murmurs, his voice a low, jagged vibration that cuts right through the music.

You finally look up, your heart doing a 120 BPM dance break that would put Offenbach’s Can Can to shame. "It’s just... the acoustics in the South Wing. The airflow is different when it's empty."

The South Wing is silent now, save for the hum of the sensors and the "Closing Time" lyrics still bouncing around in the back of your mind. The lights you programmed—that transition from blue to gold to pink—are reflecting in his eyes, making him look less like a curator and more like a man who has finally stopped fighting the "airflow".

The South Wing is silent now, save for the hum of the sensors and the "Closing Time" lyrics still bouncing around in the back of your mind. The lights you programmed—that transition from blue to gold to pink—are reflecting in his eyes, making him look less like a curator and more like a man who has finally stopped fighting the "airflow".

"All good. Should be responsive now. Want to try it?"

Your voice sounds a little too thin in the vast silence of the South Wing, but you keep your eyes on the control panel, refusing to look at him. Jongseong doesn't answer immediately. He just steps onto the platform, moving under the soft lights you programmed—a gradient that flickers gently from blue to gold to pink, tracking his motion and reacting to his presence like a living thing.

You watch him from the console, your heart doing a 120 BPM dance break that would put the Stealer choreography to shame.

"You're not saying anything," you murmur, finally glancing up.

"It's working," he says, but he isn't looking at the lights. He’s looking at you.

"That's it? 'It's working'?"

"I don't know how to say the other things."

Jongseong turns, walking toward you with a slow, meticulous intent that makes the "airflow" in the room vanish. He stops right in front of you, the amber glow of the sensors casting a sharp shadow over his face.

"Then say them wrong," you whisper, your voice soft and hopeful. "Say them the wrong way."

His breath hitches, the sound jagged in the quiet gallery. "I should've kissed you."

The air in your lungs freezes.

"I was going to. I wanted to," he continues, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly vibration. "And then I didn't, and you smiled like you weren't disappointed, and I hated that."

"Jongseong—"

"I don't do this. I don't... feel things this fast," he mutters, reaching out to grip the edge of the console until his knuckles turn white. "I don't fall for people who talk too much and spin metaphors in art galleries. But you're—"

He steps into your personal space, his eyes fixed on yours with a raw, unblinking intensity.

"You're ruining me."

You let out a soft, shaking breath, your fingers hovering inches from his on the keyboard. "Then maybe we're ruining each other."

Jongseong’s breath hitches, and for a heartbeat, he stays suspended in that final, agonizing hesitation. He’s the meticulous curator who didn't sleep, the man who spent all day nursing cold coffee and pretending to review schematics while his internal data spiked every time you moved.

Then, the hesitation snaps.

He closes the distance, and the moment his lips meet yours, the gallery floor practically hums with the feedback loop. It’s a high-friction collision that sends your glasses askew and forces a jagged, desperate sound from his throat.

Behind you, the installment reacts to the sudden, overwhelming proximity. The sensors don't just flicker; they surge. The soft blue and pink you programmed are swallowed by a blinding, brilliant gold—the "Joy" frequency hitting a peak that the software wasn't even designed to handle. The lights strobe against the high-visibility glass and the mahogany doors, turning the South Wing into a private, pulsing nebula that tracks every frantic beat of your heart.

The data on the monitor goes flatline—not because of a bug, but because the two of you are finally the only motion that matters in the room.

When he finally pulls back an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes are dark and his meticulous suit is beautifully wrecked.

"I don't want to be quiet about you anymore," he says, his voice a raw vibration that cuts through the fading chords of Closing Time.

"Then be loud," you breathe, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him back toward the "wrong way" of doing things. "For once."

He doesn't need a second invitation. He closes the gap again, harder this time, while the speakers hit the final, soaring chords of the night and the sensors flare a brilliant, blinding white—a total system override that neither of you bothers to fix.

***

Life at the gallery settled into a new, "loud" rhythm. You finally traded your smudged glasses and late-night student commutes for a graduation gown, officially completing your project. But even with your degree in hand, the gallery didn't feel like a workplace you were leaving—it felt like the place where your life had finally calibrated.

On the night of your graduation, Jongseong doesn't just give you a bouquet. He hand-delivers a custom-made, gold-plated sensor component shaped like a "Joy" frequency wave, tucked into a box with a note in his bubbly, messy handwriting that says: "For the woman who rewired my entire internal logic."

Every day at 5:50 PM, when the new closing chimes start to play, he stops whatever he’s doing. He finds you in the crowd, or at your console, and gives you that specific, arrogant-yet-devoted smirk. He walks over, ignores the straggling guests, and whispers, "I know exactly who I'm taking home," before kissing you right in front of the high-visibility glass.

The gallery is technically closed to the public, the dim "after-hours" lighting casting long, dramatic shadows across the marble floors. Nishimura Riki is centered in the middle of the wing, surrounded by crates of "unstable" digital equipment for his new residency, looking less like an artist and more like a bored teenager caught in the middle of a romance novel.

"You know, hyung,” Riki calls out, not looking up from his stylus, "the acoustics in here are actually great for hearing whispers. You guys aren't as 'quiet' as you think you are".

Across the room, tucked into the shadow of a massive pedestal, Jongseong doesn't even flinch. He’s standing directly behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist with a possessive, heavy weight that felt like a permanent anchor. He’s not the "relationship-avoidant" man anymore; he’s now the lover whose eyes glow with your every breath and move.

"Focus on your blueprints, Riki," Jongseong mutters, his voice a low, jagged vibration against the shell of your ear. He leans down, his chin resting on your shoulder, his dark eyes unblinking as he watches you scroll through the updated sensor data on your tablet.

"I am focusing," Riki retorts, finally glancing up with a chaotic smirk. "I'm focusing on the fact that the 'Joy' sensors are currently at a ninety percent frequency and neither of you is even touching the equipment. It's distracting".

You let out a soft giggle, tilting your head back to look at Jongseong. "Maybe the airflow is just... optimized?"

Jongseong’s smirk is sharp and arrogant as he tightens his grip, his thumb tracing a slow, charged line along your hip—a touch that screams "I want you" much louder than any professional introduction ever could. "It's perfectly optimized," he agrees, ignoring Riki entirely to press a lingering, broody kiss to your temple.

"I'm calling Sunghoon hyung," Riki sighs, dramatically dropping his stylus.

"Go ahead," Jongseong murmurs, his focus narrowing entirely onto you as he turns you around in his arms, his forehead resting against yours in that familiar, safe resolution. He doesn't even see Riki walking out of the wing until he lifts his head up.

It’s late, and the South Wing is bathed in the kind of pressurized silence that only exists when the rest of the world has gone home. You’re now curled up on the bench, hair a mess, hands hidden in your hoodie sleeves. Jongseong is pacing, his brow furrowed as he talks under his breath about lighting layouts, but he keeps glancing back at you as if to confirm you haven't vanished.

“You look at me a lot,” you say softly.

He pauses, blinks. “You look back.”

You hum, wrap your arms tighter around yourself. Your voice is smaller when you speak again.

"Do you ever think... this is too good to last?" you whisper, your voice small and raw

That gets his full attention. "What do you mean?"

You shrug, your gaze dropping to the marbled floor. "Like... it's too safe. Too warm. Too close. Like it's the kind of thing I'll lose just because I got used to it."

He sits beside you, not saying a word. His eyes are soft, a little tired from all the preparation for the upcoming exhibit, but his stare is laced with love. 

The silence that follows is heavy until you finally say it: "I love you.”

The sculpture room goes so silent you can hear the faint hum of the HVAC system finally catching up to the room’s temperature. Jongseong freezes. The tablet in his hand—the one he was using to obsessively track lighting angles—stays suspended mid-air before he slowly sets it down on the marble bench like it’s made of glass.

He doesn't look at you yet. He just stares at his own hands, his knuckles white against the dark fabric of his trousers. The "meticulous curator" is gone; in his place is a man whose internal layout has just been completely leveled.

When he finally turns to you, the meltdown is visible in the way he forgets to blink.

"I've never said that to anyone before," she whispers. "And if this ends... it's going to wreck me. Because I'll always wonder if I ruined the only good thing I've ever been given."

He doesn't answer, just leans forward and presses his forehead to yours. "Then we won't end."

She exhales, shaky.

He cups her face. "Do you have any idea," he starts, his voice dropping into a jagged, low frequency that vibrates in the small space between you, "how long I’ve been walking around with that stuck in my throat?"

He lets out a breath that sounds like a surrender, a sharp contrast to the scared and nonchalant mask he’s tried to maintain for months. He moves closer, his knees bumping against yours, and for the first time, he isn't checking a layout or an aesthetic. He’s just looking at you with an intensity that is borderline uncalibrated.

"You love me?"

You nod, eyes glassy.

"Good," he says. "Because I love you too. And I don't want this to end, either."

"You scared me," she admits.

"You terrified me," he replies, his hand reaching out to cup your face, his thumb trembling slightly against your cheek. "You still do. Because I’m a man who likes to be in control of every variable, and you are the only thing in this gallery I can’t predict.”

He leans forward until your foreheads touch, closing his eyes as if he’s finally finding his resolution. "I’ve spent every night since that first installation work trying to find a professional way to say it back. But there isn't one.”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his stare dark and broody, stripped of every filter. "I love you. And if that wrecks us, then let’s just be a disaster. I’ll take the fear if it means I get to keep you.”

The exhibit has closed. The lights are low. Soft jazz hums over the speakers. 

You’re lingering in the room, hands behind your back, taking in the beauty of the project you’ve built over the last six months. You don't even hear him move. Jongseong steps in behind you, his sleeves rolled up and his shirt untucked from the chaos of the day, looking less like a curator and more like a man who has reached his limit.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration behind you. "You shouldn't touch the exhibits unsupervised.”

You jump slightly, but he’s already there—standing in a proximity that is definitely no longer "socially acceptable". He gently moves your hand away from the console, but he doesn't let go; instead, he keeps holding it, his thumb beginning to brush against your pulse.

Why?" you tease, trying to maintain the "hihi" energy. "Scared I’ll ruin the art?"

"No," he says, his gaze dark and unblinking. "You're distracting it.”

Your breath stutters. "That doesn't even make sense—".

"Neither do you," he whispers, leaning forward until his lips are brushing subtly against your ear. "but I still want you in every room.”

He doesn't pull back. He leans in even slower, his lips ghosting against your skin, not just to kiss you, but to anchor you in place.

"Stay still.”

You do. He circles behind you in slow, intentional steps. He presses a hand lightly to your waist, fingertips resting just under the hem of your blouse where a sliver of skin is exposed. 

“You walked around here like you don't know this whole gallery listens to you breathe,” his voice drops into a low, almost sultry tone.

Your back arches ever so slightly.

“You forget,” he murmurs. “that this place responds to motion. To tension. To heat.”

He leans in. “And you’ve been triggering every sensor I have since day one.”

Jongseong pulls you by the waist, lips enveloping yours in a sloppy kiss. He doesn’t just kiss you; he claims you with a desperate, high-friction intensity that sends your glasses askew and forces a jagged sound from his throat. It’s a total system override.

His hands, which he once used to "lightly brush" yours, are now grounding you against the console with a possessive, broody weight. His fingertips under the hem of your blouse find the heat he’s been dreaming of since day one.

Behind you, the installment reacts to the raw motion and tension. The sensors don't just flicker; they surge from blue to pink to a blinding, brilliant gold. The "Joy" frequency hits a peak the software wasn't designed to handle, creating a violent, beautiful strobe that paints the mahogany doors in neon.

When he finally pulls back an inch, his breathing is a wrecked, uncalibrated mess. His pupils are blown out, tracking every erratic breath you take.

“I told you," he murmurs, his voice a low, sultry frequency against your lips. "I'm done being quiet about you.”

He doesn't wait for a scientific explanation or a professional reason to stay. He simply grabs his coat and your hand, pulling you toward the exit with a broody focus that says the “airflow” in the gallery is no longer enough.

The drive to his place is a blur of city lights and heavy silence, the unspoken tension between you so strong it’s practically audible. His hand is warm and firm on your thigh while his hand maneuvers the steering wheel with ease. You can feel him holding on to his last ounce of sanity with the way his fingertips are twitching against your skin, his jaw clenching, and the curses leaving his mouth every five minutes.

When you finally reach his apartment—a space far more aesthetically compelling and private than any gallery wing—his front completely shatters. Once that front door clicks shut, his humble abode—the dark wood, the sharp lines, the expensive scent of cedar and rain—don't matter. The only exhibit he's capable of focusing on is you.

He doesn't even make it past the entryway before he’s pinning you against the door, his movements jagged and stripped of that gallery-grade grace. The broody, controlled man who spent months walking around with things in his throat is gone. In his place is someone raw, focused, and completely uncalibrated.

“Jongseong…” you sigh as he pulls your waist flush against the belt of his trousers.

Your plea gets completely drowned out by the rush of adrenaline in his system. His hands find their way to your ass—not squeezing, just feeling. He doesn't just look at you—he devours you with a stare that is dark, unblinking, and entirely uncalibrated. The man who was always uninterested in romance has just realized that the only way to keep it is to stop being so overly curated.

"Stop," you say softly, anchoring yourself with your hands on his wrists.

The word hits him like a physical blow. He’s a man who values meticulous control, and the thought that he’s pushed too far, too fast, makes his eyes widen for a split second. He starts to pull back, his grip loosening, his expression shifting into that terrified look you saw months ago.

"Okay—" he breathes, his voice a jagged, guilty wreck.

"Unless," you continue, your gaze locking onto him with a high-frequency intensity that makes the sensors behind you scream, "you don't plan on claiming me tonight. If that’s the case... just stop."

The silence that follows isn't safe or warm. It’s a total vacuum.

Jongseong doesn't pull away further. Instead, he goes still—deadly, broody still. The smirk that follows isn't smug. It’s dark. It’s the look of a man who has just been given a blank check to be as loud as he’s always wanted to be.

"Claiming you?" he repeats, the words a low, dangerous vibration.

He doesn't wait for an answer. He surges back in, his hand moving from your waist to the back of your neck with a possessive force that says he’s done with the unsupervised exhibit metaphors.

"I’ve been claiming you in every room of that gallery for six months," he mutters against your lips, his voice gravelly and raw. "I’ve been claiming you in my head every night I sat in this apartment alone. You think I’m going to stop now that I finally have you behind a locked door?"

He doesn't wait for a rebuttal. He lifts you, your legs instinctively locking around his waist, and he carries you toward the bedroom with a predatory focus that would make his fifteen-kilometer runs look like a walk in the park, but he’s stopping every three steps because he can’t keep his mouth off yours.

He doesn't just set you down; he practically collapses with you onto the mattress, the weight of him grounding you in a way that makes all those months of socially acceptable proximity feel like a bad joke. He’s looming over you, his tie long gone and his shirt buttons definitely losing the battle. His hair—that perfectly styled hair—is a total wreck where your fingers have been. He’s staring at you with that dark, unblinking focus, but it’s different now. It’s not awkward. It’s starving.

The apartment is quiet, but his breathing is a jagged, high-frequency mess against your skin. "You have no idea," he mutters, his voice dropping into a gravelly register that vibrates right through you. "How many times I had to walk away from you in that gallery just so I wouldn't do this."

The silence of the room is immediately broken—not by a claiming declaration, but by a sudden, breathless wheeze of laughter from you.

"Oh my god," you gasp, your hair fanned out like a chaotic dark nebula against his gray sheets. "That was... remarkably uncoordinated for an art curator."

Jongseong freezes, his face inches from yours. For a second, the broody lover looks ready to be embarrassed, his top button hanging by a thread. But then, his shoulders shake. A low, genuine chuckle breaks out of his chest—the kind of sound he never let Sunghoon or the board members hear.

He collapses his weight just a bit more, burying his face in the crook of your neck as the giggles take over both of you.

You pull his face up so you can look at him—his hair is a disaster, his eyes are crinkled at the corners, and he looks younger, happier, and completely "un-Park Jongseong-like."

"I like the uncoordinated version better," you whisper, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw that is finally, finally relaxed.

The giggles eventually taper off into a comfortable, warm hum. But because it’s him, and because you just challenged him to claim you five minutes ago, the atmosphere recalibrates fast. He stops laughing, his gaze dropping to your lips. The thumb that was just poking your side to make you squirm is now tracing your lower lip with that familiar, high-friction intent.

He doesn't wait for a scientific explanation this time. He dives back in, his mouth finding yours with a desperate, high-friction intensity. It’s a kiss that tastes like every "I love you" he kept in his throat.

His hands are everywhere. They’re sliding under the hem of your top, his palms hot against your skin, grounding you to the bed like you’re the only variable in the world that matters. He’s tracing the silhouette hiding under loud patterns—one he’s been studying from afar, but now the texture is real, and it’s making his internal logic fail completely.

“You’re unreal…” he mutters, his eyes blown out and predatory. “I'm done being quiet. And I'm definitely not stopping until I've ruined every 'safe' thought you ever had about me.”

You pull him down by his collar, your fingers tangling in the expensive fabric of his shirt as you bridge the last of the distance. A guttural hum leaves his mouth as your fingers graze the exposed skin of his chest—firm under soft, tan skin. Your hands graze lower, and as if some divine force is whispering in your ear, you start unbuttoning the rest of his shirt one by one.

“Wait," he whispers, his voice a raw, jagged version of the one he uses for board meetings. He reaches up, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip, which is slightly swollen from his own teeth. "Wait."

You let out a soft, questioning hum, your hands clutching the front of his shirt—the expensive fabric wrinkled beyond repair under your grip. “Jongseong?”

He closes his eyes for a second, a shiver running through him that you feel in your own bones. "Say it again," he breathes, his hands sliding down to cup your face, his touch almost possessive. "Say my name. Right now."

You blink, your brain still a whirlwind of sensory overload. "Jongseong..."

"No," he groans, leaning in until his lips are brushing against yours, teasing the contact without giving it to you yet. "Not the 'Mr. Park' you use in front of everyone. Not the professional tone you use when you're yapping about sound waves. I need to know you're here. I need to know this isn't just another data point in my head."

He nipped at your jawline, his voice dropping to a low, commanding vibration against your skin. "Say it so I know you're real."

"Jongseong," you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him back down to you. "Jongseong. You're real. We're real."

He didn't wait for another word. He crashed his lips back onto yours, the "sophisticated" curator completely lost to the man who finally had his resolution. His shirt is completely off, and his back becomes your anchor.

His hands slide up your thighs, his touch searing through the fabric of your stockings, and you realize that all those weeks of accidental brushes were just a prelude to this. He looks up at you, his eyes dark, blown-out, and finally, terrifyingly honest. You jolt as his fingers curl around the hems, his lips dragging down to kiss every inch of skin he exposes.

“Jongseong, you're something else—what the fuck…”

His mouth replaces his hands, teeth tugging on the mesh while his hands grip your thighs. “Fuck, baby, you're soft. I spent all that time looking at marble and steel in Kukje... I forgot things could actually feel like this.”

In a hazy turn of events, he’s already worked through the buttons of your top with that shaky, "scared-but-starving" precision, but when the fabric finally slips away and he realizes there’s no lace, no padding, no nothing between his palms and your skin—he just stops.

His hands, which were moving with such heat, go absolutely still against your ribs.

He lets out a low, ragged sound—somewhere between a groan and a surrender—and drops his forehead against your collarbone, his skin scorching against yours.

"You're trying to kill me," he mutters, his voice so gravelly it’s barely a whisper. "I've spent months trying to be professional, trying to keep my head on straight while you yap about sound waves... and you were just... like this?"

His hands finally start moving again, but they’re different now. He slides his palms along the plush of your breasts, his touch heavy and possessive, tracing the weight and the softness with a slow, agonizing focus that makes your brain completely short-circuit. Every time you exhale, his fingers lightly brush your already hard nipples, and you can feel his pulse jumping against your own neck.

"Has someone else touched you like this?" he murmurs. His voice is a low, jagged vibration, almost a growl. It’s a test, a question born from a man who needs to know exactly how much of this territory is already mapped.

You look up at him, your voice small but steady. "No. Just you."

Jongseong doesn’t just blink—he practically vibrates with the realization. Good," he whispers, his thumb dragging across your lower lip. "Because I don't plan on letting anyone else even think about catching up."

He’s hovering over you, his hands anchored to your waist with a weight that says you aren't going anywhere. That dark, unblinking stare of his is back, but it’s no longer clinical. It’s predatory.

“I’m your first”, he repeats, the words a low, gravelly vibration that feels like a physical mark already. “First and only.”

He doesn't just want to know you; he wants to make sure the rest of the world knows you’re spoken for, even if they can't see the evidence. He leans down, but he isn't going for your lips this time. He’s aiming for the sensitive column of your neck—the high-visibility zone that your crew-neck collars usually hide.

“Jongseong…” you plead as his teeth graze your skin in sections—slow, deliberate, and agonizingly focused. When his teeth graze your skin, it’s not an accident; it’s a claim. He’s leaving a sensor surge on your skin that no amount of concealer is going to fix before the next board meeting.

"I’m going to make sure," he mutters before leaving another mark on your chest, "that every time you look in the mirror tomorrow, you remember exactly whose hands were on you tonight."

He pulls away, pulling you to stand on the edge of the bed as he sits between your legs, eyes dark, skin glistening with sweat, and hands trembling with need. He leans down and presses a wet kiss on the spot below your belly button, dangerously close to where you're aching for him.

"You’re mine, Y/N," he whispers, the words a final, low-frequency resolution. "First. Last. Only."

“And you're mine, Jongseong,” you sigh, fingers tangling through his hair.

He actually stops breathing for a second. His pupils, already blown out, seem to darken even further. He lets out a low, huffed sound—part laugh, part groan—and buries his face in the soft skin of your abdomen, his shoulders shaking with the sheer weight of it.

He’s on his knees, completely wrecked, hands sliding from her hips to the backs of your thighs, like he's settling into the exact position he's dreamed about for weeks. You’re trembling already.

"Don't move," he murmurs, voice low, warm, a little ruined. "I've been imagining this the whole drive."

He kisses the inside of your thigh—not a peck, not a brush—a slow, open-mouthed drag that leaves his breath hot against you. Your knees wobble. He tightens his grip instantly.

"Keep standing," he says, looking up at you through his lashes. "I want to feel your legs shake."

His fingers stroke the groove where your thigh meets your pelvis—barely touching, barely breathing. He's savoring, scrutinizing the muse of his fantasies with his fingers.

"You wore this," he whispers, glancing at the skimpy fabric he fantasized about the whole ride. "For me."

You nod softly despite your choice of panties being a total coincidence. You didn't expect to be almost naked in your boyfriend’s bedroom, nor for him to stake his claim on you like some feral animal.

“Good girl.”

You brazenly moan at the pet name, knees shaking. He pushes the fabric of your panties aside, just enough so he can see your pussy. And when he does, he exhales like he's been punched.

“Shit, baby, you're dripping… all that for me?” he chuckles, smug.

She whimpers. He looks up again, and the look is devotion, hunger, and that slight obsessive streak she pretends not to love.

"Hold onto my hair,” he commands, soft, but undeniable.

You slide your fingers into his hair, and he shudders. Then he leans in, drags one slow, reverent lick from your folds to your already sensitive clit. Your entire body locks, and he smiles against you.

"There it is," he whispers. "That little jump. I've been craving that."

He kisses again, higher, deeper. His tongue moves like he's memorizing you—long strokes, slow circles, a teasing flick that makes you gasp and tighten your grip in his hair.

He groans into you, voice muffled but desperate. “Harder. Pull harder, baby."

You do, and he loses it. He presses his mouth fully against you—sucking, licking, moaning like you're the only thing on earth that could possibly satisfy him. Your thighs start to tremble.

He looks up—lips wet, pupils blown, cheeks flushed. "Yes," he breathes. "Shaking for me. Don't stop."

“Oh, my God—Jongseong, please,” you whimper, knees buckling. “You're killing me—”

One hand slides between your legs to hold you open, the other wraps around your thigh, keeping you up, steady, exactly where he wants you. He eats you out like the rent is due, the gallery donations are getting scarce, and his entire career depends on making you fall apart standing. You choke out his name.

He pulls back just briefly—mouth glossy, chest rising hard. "Let go," he whispers. "Fall apart for me while you're still on your feet. I'll catch you."

And when you do—when her knees buckle—he grabs your thighs, pulls you against his mouth, and devours your climax like he's starving. Your body goes limp in Jongseong’s arms after that standing orgasm and he catches you instantly, palms firm on your thighs, lips still wet with you.

He breathes against your skin, voice low and wrecked. "God, baby... you taste even better than I imagined.”

And just like that, he destroys you again. You don't even have time to process your very first orgasm, not from your fingers but from a man—mind-blowing, heavenly, euphoric—before he’s kissing your clit again like a madman.

You clings to his shoulders, still shaking. He starts lifting you—not bridal-style, not careful—but with both hands under your thighs, pulling her up so you wrap around his waist.

Your breath hitches. “Fuck, Jongseong…. I'm shaking… W-What have you done to me—”

He smirks. “Hold on to me."

You grip his shoulders, fingers trembling. He walks the two of you to the bed—slow, deliberate, like he wants you to feel every flex of his muscles beneath her thighs. When he lays you down, he doesn't climb on top yet. He just stands over you, breathing hard.

His eyes drag down your body. "You don't know..." he whispers, voice cracking with need. "How insane you make me."

He wipes his mouth with his thumb, tastes your cum on it, and groans. Then he leans down. His hands slide under your thighs again and he pulls her to the very edge of the bed. You gasp. He kisses the inside of your knee first, then up your thigh—higher, closer. But instead of diving back in, he stops and looks up at you.

“Turn around.”

Your whole body reacts, the sound of his belt buckle shuffling making you turn your head around. And there he is—naked in all his glory. His muscles are tense from mustering the remaining patience he has, and his cock is red at the tip, fully hard and leaking with precum. The sight makes you gasp and clench over nothing. How are you supposed to take that without breaking a sweat?

You gulp at the sight, move onto your hands and knees, but he gently presses between your shoulder blades. 

"No, baby," low, calm, commanding. "Down. Chest to the bed."

You inhale sharply and follow, cheek against the sheets, ass lifted, thighs trembling. His breath stutters. He runs his hands over your hips like he's relearning you—thumbs stroking the dip of your waist, palms spreading over the plush curve of your thighs.

"God fucking damn it..." he whispers, almost in disbelief, "you're perfect."

He kneels behind you, slowly, like he's savoring it. He brushes his thumb along your clit in slow circles, and you jerk, whimpering into the pillow that smelled so much like his shampoo. You make sure to make out the scent as much as you possibly can, 

He smiles into your skin. "So sensitive," he murmurs. "I love you so much." His hands grip your hips—firm, possessive—and he pulls you back onto him in one smooth, deep, overwhelming thrust. You gasp.

“Jongseong—oh, fuck!”

He groans loud. “F—fuck... baby…”

He stops, just for a breath, not because he wants to, but because the sight of you—all fours and ass up for him—the feel of you like that almost ruins him too fast.

He leans forward, chest over your back, lips on your shoulder.

"Can I move?" he asks, even though his hands are already shaking with the effort not to.

You nod, and that's all he needs. He pulls almost all the way out-slow, torturously slow, and slams back in. Your breath leaves you. You reach for the sheets-

Jay catches your wrist. “No,” he whispers, guiding your hand backward, placing it flat on your lower back. "Keep them there."

You moan, and he shudders. His thrusts pick up—deep, steady, controlled—but you can hear in his breathing, the strain in his voice, that he's about to lose it.

"Baby... baby, please—don't make those sounds or I'm gonna-"

But you arch for him. “Fuck, that's—y-you feel so big…” you whimper helplessly as he’s balls deep inside you.

Jongseong breaks at the compliment. He grabs your hips, pulls you back hard, meeting every thrust with a low, animal sound in his throat. "Baby, oh, my God. Baby—you're killing me. Talking about how big I am and all that—fuck, gonna let you know what you're missing out on.”

He lands a clean spank on your ass. Your thighs shake. Your voice cracks. You're begging without words. He practically growls. He leans forward again, hand sliding under your stomach to hold you up as he pounds into you deeper, harder, faster.

His lips find the shell of your ear. "Come for me," he whispers, breath shaking, "right now."

And you do—so intensely your whole body collapses. Jongseong catches you, holds you, thrusts through your orgasm until he's buried as deep as your body can take him. Then he cums inside you too—hard, loud. Right against your shoulder, he bites down to muffle the groan. He trembles through it, arms wrapped around you from behind, chest pressed to your back like he never wants to let you go.

Your thighs are already trembling from the second round, but Jongseong doesn't even give you time to look away from him. He sits back against the headboard, breath uneven, chest flushed and shining. Then he pats his thigh once.

"Come here," he murmurs. Not a command—a plea.

You crawl into his lap and he steadies you with warm hands at your waist, guiding you down, achingly slow, until you sink onto him. Your breath shatters, and his does too. But he doesn't thrust. He just holds your hips and keeps you right there. His forehead touches your collarbone. A shaky exhale warms your skin.

“Jongseong…” you murmur, holding onto his shoulders with the remaining strength you have.

“I got you, baby,” he whispers, hands firm on your wrist. “I’m right here.”

His hands slide up your back, fingers splayed, pulling you closer until your chests press together. He kisses the base of your throat, then your shoulder, then the corner of your jaw—each one soft, lingering, almost desperate. You shift your hips just a little, and he groans—deep, painful, relieved.

"Slow, he breathes, hands tightening. "I want this one slow."

You nod, and you start to move in gentle, rolling motions that make him suck in a sharp breath. His hands slide to your hips, guiding you, not controlling you, following your rhythm like he's memorizing the shape of you all over again. Every time you take him deeper, he lets out a sound—not loud, but soft, reverent, ruined.

You whisper against his lips, broken. “You feel like home.”

His lips brush your ear. “I kept dreaming about you. How your kisses would feel. How it'd be hard to pull away from your hugs because you’re so warm—fuck—just the whole art of you.”

You grip his hair. His mouth opens against your pulse. He's slow, but he's possessive. Every drag of his hips says, mine, mine, mine. Your breaths sync. Your bodies rock together. And then he wraps his arms fully around you and pulls you down to his chest, burying his face in your neck as he thrusts up once, deeper than before.

You gasp louder, and he whispers, voice cracking, "Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay."

And you do. You fall apart in his arms again. He follows, holding you so tightly your heartbeat vibrates against him.

“Jongseong… I love you,” you pant, as if he's punched all the air out of your lungs. “I-I’m staying. Not going anywhere.”

And afterward, he doesn't let you move. Not even a centimeter. He kisses your temple, shoulder, jaw, chest, and whispers, "That... that was the one I needed."

You're too exhausted, too floaty, too boneless—but also too in awe of his beauty. In the low light, he looks different. Without the sharp suits and the gallery-grade posture, he looks raw. You see the way his pulse is still visible at the base of his throat, the way his lips are slightly parted as he takes you in.

He’s propped up on one elbow, looking down at you. The curator in him is usually obsessed with every detail being perfect, but right now, your hair is a disaster across his pillows, your skin is flushed, and your eyes are hazy with the sheer weight of the night.

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the distant city lights of Seoul filtering through the sheer curtains, but for Jongseong, the only thing aesthetically compelling in the world is right here.

To him, you aren't just a physicist he works with; you’re the masterpiece he finally got to see up close.

"You're doing it again," you whisper, your voice barely a breath.

"Doing what?" he murmurs, his thumb catching on your lower lip.

"Looking at me like I'm the only thing in the room."

Jongseong lets out a soft, huffed laugh, a beautiful, genuine sound that you rarely heard in the South Wing. "In this room? You're the only thing in the world. I told you... you're ruining my focus. I don't think I'll ever be able to look at a piece of art again without comparing it to this."

He leans down, not for a passionate kiss this time, but just to press his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as if he's finally found the perfect calibration.

"You're beautiful," he says, the words simple and stripped of any clean-cut curator-ness. "And you're mine. I still can't believe I get to keep you."

You pull him closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck—the scent of cedarwood and him finally yours to keep. “I love you.”

The first tear slips out before you can calculate the trajectory. Then another. Jongseong freezes. The man who can manage a multi-million dollar installation is suddenly hit with a total system panic.

"Hey... no, no," he whispers, his voice fracturing. He pulls you closer, his hand cupping your face with a desperation that proves he’s still a goner. He wipes the tears away with his thumb, his gaze searching yours. "Did I... did I do something? Did I kiss you wrong? Tell me what to fix."

You let out a shaky, jagged breath, more tears spilling over as you bury your face in the crook of his neck.

"I love you too," you sob into his skin, your fingers clutching at his shoulders. "I just... I really thought I was going to lose you. I thought I was just an exhibit you were tired of looking at."

Jongseong’s grip tightens until there’s no space left between you. He’s shaking his head, his lips pressing a frantic, reverent kiss to your temple.

"Lose me?" he breathes, a rough, watery laugh escaping him. "You’re the only thing that’s ever made sense in this entire building. I told you—you’re mine. And I’m yours. I’m never going back to how it was before you."

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his own eyes glassy as he watches you cry. He doesn't try to be "Mr. Park” anymore. He’s just a man who is completely, utterly ruined by the woman in his arms.

***

The South Wing has been handed over to Nishimura Riki for his residency, but the rest of the museum still moves to the beat of Park Jongseong’s drum. He hasn't gone anywhere; if anything, he’s more entrenched in his power than ever.

Jongseong is standing on the balcony overlooking the main hall, looking every bit the head curator in a tailored charcoal suit that screams "art bro on a mission.” He’s watching the museum staff prep for the evening gala, his eyes sharp, calculating every detail.

The mahogany doors to the wing creak open, and Riki saunters out, covered in what looks like neon spray paint and wearing a smirk that could light up the whole district.

He doesn't even turn around. "You have a lot of nerve coming back here with your insufferable ass and your loud art," he calls out, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.

Riki leans against the railing next to him, laughing. "And you have a lot of nerve acting like the broody art curator when we all know you’re just a goner for the girl yapping about synapses."

As Riki wanders off, still laughing, Jongseong’s gaze drifts down to the lobby. He sees you standing there, checking the acoustics of the grand hall for the gala tonight. You look up, sensing his unblinking stare, and give him a small wave.

He doesn't just wave back. He lingers there, watching you with a look of absolute, high-frequency devotion. He spent years looking for the perfect "exclusive" premiere, but he found it in a physicist who wasn't afraid to break his logic.

As he reaches the bottom of the stairs and pulls you into his side, he leans down to plant a small kiss on your forehead, one he still makes sure to refresh every now and then.

"Ready to go?" he murmurs, his voice a gravelly vibration.

"Is Mr. Park finished with his 'meticulous' rounds?" you tease. “Our reservation is at 7. Don't go full-on boss on me.”

Jongseong shakes his head and pulls you closer, his eyes dark and full of a love that is finally, truly curated. 

NSFW TAGLIST [OPEN]: @jaylaxies @jaeminvore @ajayke-reads @rikismists @fancypeacepersona @jong-caprio @soulliliez @jaysguitars @et3rn4lmo0nl1ght @soullesslien [send ask or dm to be added]

© criceofpain on tumblr, 2026

[fireproofs]

happy mother’s day to that mom who sold y/n to one direction

[criceofpain]

CURATED — PARK JONGSEONG

[ captured : part one ] [ part two of the love in art series ] | [ painted: part three ]

pairing: art gallery curator!jongseong x physics major!reader

featuring: enhypen's jay, ni-ki, and sunghoon, le sserafim's chaewon

summary: jongseong has built his life around art—curating, refining, and knowing exactly what belongs within the walls of his gallery. but when he meets a woman grounded in logic, her perspective begins to challenge everything he thought he understood. somewhere between structure and spontaneity, he is forced to confront what can’t be curated: the way he’s slowly falling for her.

genre: smut, fluff, angst

word count: 21,462

warnings: porn with plot, unprotected sex (p in v) (wrap it b4 u tap it!), oral sex (f receiving), multiple orgasms, ass spanking, too much art and science sexual innuendos, jay has a big dick, sunghoon is kinda a jerk, riki's an enabler, mentions of misogyny and antifeminism that will send girls like me flying out the window

notes: THIS FIC IS CONNECTED TO "CAPTURED" BUT CAN ALSO BE A STANDALONE STORY. HEY Y'ALLLLL another long form that took me almost 2 months to finish (rip) this was supposed to be a birthday special for jay but i haven't finished it on time :( happy to have finally written smth proper for him after a long time!!! i had a ball writing this for the most part (except for the writers block hmph) HERE'S PART TWO YAY for all my jay hoes and non-jay hoes who're nosey 😝

“Thank you, Mr. Park. I look forward to working with you and the team soon.”

Sitting in front of Jongseong’s desk was the former young trailblazer of The Herald, Korea’s most prestigious news and media outlet. The very woman who braved navigating the vulnerability of Korea’s young artists and turning them into meaningful stories. The woman whose talent was wasted by greed and corruption, now back on her feet to thrive in the art industry.

The woman also happens to be two-time Hasselblad winner—and his best friend—Park Sunghoon's girlfriend.

What a small world. Jongseong peers at his peripheral vision to see Sunghoon with that familiar smug grin on his face, and he rolls his eyes. Sunghoon had been adamant about his girlfriend's reporting and communicating abilities—admirable, but a little annoying on Jongseong’s end. 

But as it turns out, Sunghoon did not disappoint with the sudden referral, because now, Jongseong has a reliable co-art curator he certainly cannot wait to work with. With her impressive resume, journalism accolades, and a whopping 4.0 masters GPA, Kukje Gallery has secured a gem in its hands. 

“It's Jongseong to you,” Jongseong affirms. “Your boyfriend would kill me if I let you call me that.”

The woman chuckles awkwardly. “Oh, I don't think he's that—”

“Oh, trust me,” he cuts her off. “He is. Not to scare you, but Park Sunghoon is one of the most sensitive people I’ve ever met.”

She squints, but lets the remark slide. “Okay… I’ll see you on Monday, Jongseong.”

“Welcome to Kukje, co-art curator.”

The two of them shake hands for the last time before Jongseong sees her off. From the main hall of the gallery, he watches as she and Sunghoon have a little kisses and hugs of celebration before walking off to a shiny white sedan parked nearby. 

“Huh,” his voice echoes through the wide gallery halls as he sees the couple slowly disappear from his view.

Something tugs at Jongseong’s chest—neither jealousy, nor longing. He's been supportive of his best friend finally finding love after seven years of avoiding it, but there's a strange feeling lingering in him—one he can't quite pinpoint.

The sight elicits curiosity in his mind. He notices how natural she reaches for Sunghoon. How he listens to her like it matters. How she looks at him like he's the first person she wanted to tell the good news. How he celebrates her victories as if they were his own.

Jongseong sighs, arms crossed over his chest as he leans leisurely against the wall. “What's it like…”

He's always declared not being boyfriend material—at least that's what he tells himself. In his twenty-five years of existence, he's never centered his life around the world of romantic relationships. Ironically enough, he has the face women his age would describe as “sculpted by the gods”—a phase definitely not up his alley but more Sunghoon’s, the “handsome” Park of the art world. 

Jongseong’s life has always been focused on Kukje from the moment he got promoted to head art curator. Tucked in a peaceful corner of Hongdae, away from the bustling nightlife, he has made the gallery his second home. He dedicated his time to keeping the art community alive, inviting local artists and featuring them in special exhibitions. 

It was his way of sharing the beauty of art—his found family—to the world.

It's a slow Tuesday afternoon. The sun begins to set, and the gallery sculptures start to cast shadows over the marbled floors—just like how nature intended. Jongseong meant for the gallery to be a manifestation of the natural world, with the pieces and installations working with the environment and not against it. 

He peels his back off of the wall after how many minutes then saunters along the halls for a quick routine check: walking past exhibits, straightening a placard, making mental notes on what needs to be reprinted, who forgot to dust the sculpture base, and why the track lighting on the mezzanine is still uneven.

He peeks at the gigantic clock that doubled as an art piece. 5:40 PM. Twenty minutes left before the gallery closes. He could grab himself a coffee or take a nap in the back room where he keeps his softest duvet in case he needed to crash—but not before the very last step of his daily routine checks.

He grabs his phone and connects it to the gallery's Sonos speakers, originally meant for soft, classical music to be played in the background. Instead, he plays the very song he dreads to hear when he's clubbing on a Saturday night—Closing Time by Semisonic.

He continues his routine check anyway, humming along to the song without any care for whatever happens within ten minutes. His footsteps follow the rhythm of the song, albeit more gently. He didn't want to be too aggressive in a place where every item has a fragile warning sign in it.

“I know who I want to take me home—”

“Wait… is this supposed to look like a neuron firing?”

Jongseong freezes. He peers at the clock again. It's 5:55. The gallery is supposed to be clear of people except for staff members. He turns his head slightly to see a woman, presumably of his age, standing in front of the newly installed mixed media chaos piece—a burst of tangled wires, light nodes and splattered pigment to represent internal unrest. But you're crouched. Squinting. Leaning forward like you're trying to decode it.

You never thought an aimless walk would lead you to this hidden gem in the town. All you wanted was to get some steps in and hopefully burn some of the calories from your frustrated Buldak mukbang last night, thanks to your petty professor who decided he was going to give you a challenging time for the remainder of the semester.

It hit a nerve—for someone in her senior year, it did. But mourning for a part of your whole year was a waste of time and a grave misuse of your precious tear ducts. So you set your half-done term paper aside and walked along Hongdae like it's free real estate.

And you were glad to be lost in this part of town.

Kukje Gallery was a diamond among greenery, with the golden sunlight reflecting off of its glass panels. You couldn't help but wonder how the architecture and engineering was executed with physical laws in mind—the thermodynamic aspects of construction would have been very complicated with this unusual building design.

You didn't seem to mind that the gallery would be closing in ten minutes—the security guard wasn't too hesitant to let you in, either. But that was when you realized your first mistake of the day—your outfit's aesthetic mismatch with the serene nature of the gallery.

You wore your usual quirky combination of a lime green top, a colorful tiered skirt, and a vintage pair of Dior Chelsea boots that the thrift gods led you to. The bag over your shoulders didn't help your case, either: a white laptop bag with the most eccentric combination of keychains, badge pins, and trinkets known to man that made a jingling sound with every step you took. It was your way of sticking out like a sore thumb in a male-dominated major.

Even the interior of the gallery did not disappoint. Every corner and wall of art left a lot to the imagination, even that of a relatively left-brained person. It drove curiosity. Disturbance. Exploration. Everything that would awaken one's subconscious if they were spiritual enough.

So you find yourself in a more secluded spot of the gallery, eyes hovering over the wires and lights… well, until a broody-looking man in rimless glasses and a soft brown cardigan appears from a corner. He looked like what you and your friend group would call a “stereotypical finance bro”—always dressed to the nines and looked like they had a lot of things to say—except he surely wasn't one. What would a finance bro be doing in an art gallery, anyway?

He had the aura of a scholar, for sure. From his relaxed yet authoritative stance to his clean-cut features, you were sure he's got an impressive résumé hiding behind that strong, masculine face. Not one you could easily mess with. You stiffen slightly. Surely he wasn't going to scold you or something… right?

Jongseong facepalms. How couldn't he have heard the sound of shuffling footsteps and the loud jingling of keychains from the very center of the gallery’s first floor?

He clears his throat and puffs up his shoulders in an attempt to assert dominance. “Excuse me, we’re—”

"It's kind of like a dendritic response, no?" you mutter to yourself. "Like... if synapses were made of broken copper and LED strips—oh my god. That's kind of brilliant."

He stares, dumbfounded, the unfamiliar terminology sending a strange buzz in his ears. Dendritic response? Synapses? In what way was internal unrest related to science? He tilts his head, scrutinizing your crouched figure and the faces you make as you go

Now you turn and smile at the gallery guy as if he’ll eventually get the gist of your scientific observation. Jongseong shifts awkwardly, subtle enough for it to completely fly over your head. Too bright. Too sudden. Too unfiltered.

You stand up hurriedly, and the clink of your keychain fills his ears once more. “Hi! Sorry for barging in. Didn't know anyone was around. Uh… do you work here?”

“Yes,” Jongseong replies curtly. “Park Jongseong. Art gallery curator.”

You stutter despite yourself. "Cool! Uh—sorry for the monologue. I’m Y/N. Woman in STEM. Masters student in physics but I love, love neuroscience. I was just trying to make sense of the exhibit. Not that it's nonsense, I just mean—uh. You know what? l'Il shut up."

You definitely do not shut up. Jongseong opens his mouth to remind you of the closing time, but the enthusiasm in your voice completely drowns him out. "Do people usually get this one? Or do they just pretend to?"

Jongseong blinks, then says, dryly, "Some people think it's about climate change."

Climate change? You laugh—full-body, unrestrained, like you’ve been caught mid-sneeze. The sound bounces off the walls and the almost empty halls, filling the whole floor with a sound Jongseong wouldn't usually hear in a relatively quiet place. This is when he'd press play on a pre-recorded silence reminder from his office, but alas, he gets sidetracked by a quirky physics student five minutes before closing time.

So much for keeping a strict routine.

"That's... okay, I love that,” you say sheepishly, staring at the top of his head rather than his face—why is his facial makeup so unique? You figured if you met his eyes, you’d lose your train of thought. 

He turns slightly, intrigued despite himself. "And you think it's about neurons?"

"Synapses, more specifically. Like a transmission overload."

"That's not in the artist's statement."

"I haven't read it yet."

That stuns Jongseong completely. How does one even—never mind. I need to close. He swallows, determined to keep his composure. Usually, people would peer at the teeny little gold panels below the pieces to get a brief introduction of the minds behind the art, often at the risk of tampering with them. 

But first-time occurrences in this gallery are just as usual.

“You interpreted all that… without context?” he says rather hesitantly.

You straighten up, finally mustering up the courage to meet the art curator's eyes. "I like seeing what I feel first, then checking if I was 'right.’ Not that there's a right answer, obviously. That'd be depressing."

Jongseong’s lips part slightly, stunned by the choice of words and the fact that your eyes didn't avoid his as you spoke. Speechless was an understatement as your pursed lips curled into a sheepish smile. A big portion of the gallery's visitors would only care for what photos would look good on their Instagram feed, or call art boring as if they've studied it for years, but never to appreciate the art, do some research on the artists, or discover the meaning behind it.

And with the way Jongseong’s expression changed from uninterested to suddenly intrigued, you realize you’ve been word vomiting for the past five minutes.

“I’m sorry,” you fidget, shove your hands in your pockets. “I talk too much.”

“No,” he says quietly. “It's… an interesting interpretation. Never thought of the artwork that way before.”

“Hmm,” you shrug, assuming he didn't mind your brainy banter. “Then I guess I’ll keep talking—oh, shit!”

You jump in your spot as the Westminster chime sound blasts through the speakers, your trinkets rattling as you do. Jongseong, however, is unfazed. Hearing the pitchy chimes five days a week for the past two years was a cross he unfortunately had to bear. It reminded him too much of high school—a pretty embarrassing phase of his life.

“Sorry, Y/N, we're closing,” he breaks his silence, motioning to the main exit of the gallery. He's supposed to be exasperated because this woman has been in his hair for minutes and disrupting his gallery closing routine, but somehow he's cool-headed. “If you could just—”

“Oh, right!” you scramble out of the hallway and to the exit. “Bye, Jongseong! See you around.”

He watches you skip giddily out of the gallery, the clinking of your trinkets getting fainter and fainter in his ear. Somehow the incessant chimes become nonexistent as the question dances in his head: what's going on in that little head of yours? His mind has never been this shaken, this suddenly interested in the world of physics. Synapses? Dendritic response? How would physics elements play into installation art just like you said? 

But when he snaps back into reality, the steel shutter doors are already drawn, and it’s officially time for him to go.

For the first time in a long time, his mind is disturbed—awakened by a perspective he's never thought possible.

***

“Park Jongseong?”

One hour after you’ve been escorted out of the gallery by its handsome art curator, you’re hunched over your dorm desk, furiously typing “Park Jongseong Kukje Gallery” in the Google search bar. There has to be a mistake in the employee distribution system—why would someone handsome like him be managing a secluded art gallery instead of walking the Prada S/S runway in Milan this year?

You scroll up to the 25th page of the search results just to find usual promotional articles from art forums and news sites, some gala appearances here and there, but no scandals or gossip involving him—nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the fact that he's best friends with famous photographer Park Sunghoon, and that they're called the “Art Parks”—both good-looking, both artistic advocates.

Maybe he's really just an avid art enthusiast just like what the journalists say he is? You sigh, closing your laptop with a soft thud and crawling to your bunk, cocooning yourself in the blanket you’ve forced yourself to get used to the scent.

You missed home. You missed bantering with your siblings about the most nonsensical things. You missed your bedroom—the one you've gotten used to for more than half of your life—and listening to the pitter-patter of the rain while the petrichor gently tickles your nose. You missed peeking into the kitchen to see what your mom made for dinner, or what your dad's complaint of the day was. 

A few more months. You only have less than a year left before graduation, and the wait seemed longer and longer the more you thought about it. Being a physicist was something you’ve wanted for yourself ever since childhood, and unlike the women from your city who were discouraged to pursue the scientific field, you wanted to make a name for yourself. 

But it's never been an easy journey. Especially when you're alone and moving to a new city to study.

Coming to Kukje Gallery was a breath of fresh air—a semblance of peace, even. Finally getting to look at something other than graphs and numbers was a reset your brain needed, and you were pretty annoyed with yourself. Where was this greatness all your life? Where was the space to look at things outside of a scientific, objective point of view?

But what was it about the head art curator, Park Jongseong, that kept you up at night?

You grumble in your pillow then open your laptop again, hands frozen but mind running at a hundred kilometers per hour.

***

It's a Thursday this time. The gallery is a little busier—an elementary field trip with kids in one wing, quiet murmurs echoing through the marble halls. On another wing is a small group of scholars from Yonsei University who dropped by for casual surveying, dressed in flowy linen and chunky loafers. The traditional Korean art wing is filled with middle to old-aged folks humming along to “Arirang” softly playing in the wing speakers. 

This was one aspect of art Jongseong admired so much—inclusivity. The gallery viewing has always been free of charge, free for all. It was interesting to see people from different backgrounds come together in a place of free expression. He’d compare it to bibimbap—a mixture of ingredients that are bland on their own but taste scrumptious together. His stomach growls softly. He could use some bibimbap in a stone pot to get him through the second half of his day.

Jongseong sits at the front desk instead of Chaewon, the receptionist, thanks to the air conditioning malfunction in his office. His face is slightly scrunched, glasses perched low on his nose, typing up artist bios and checking the gallery inventory for updates. He has no track of time from the very moment he sat on the receptionist's chair, except for the number of songs on the janitor's 80s playlist.

Finally. He types down the last artist bio of the lineup then slouches on the chair. “Ugh, that was a handful to type—” 

“Hey.”

His eyes shot open at the sudden voice in front of the counter. You're back. With an iced coffee and your phone in one hand and a rolled-up notebook stuffed with sticky notes and a sandwich on the other. Hair tied messily and glasses unwiped as if you didn't expect to be perceived. How are you holding that much stuff with just two hands?! He straightens up, fixes his shirt and glasses, clearing his throat in an attempt to alleviate the awkwardness on his part.

You grin at him like it's totally normal to come up to Kukje Gallery’s head art curator without an appointment.

“Y/N… right?” Jongseong hesitantly says, closing his laptop. “Did I get your name right—”

“Sorry, I didn’t know if walk-ins were okay—well, they obviously are, I’m here—but I wasn’t sure if you needed an appointment to just nerd out about abstract installations.”

He blinks once, silent a moment too long. Abstract installations weren't Jongseong’s best area of expertise—he's always been an impressionism and Fauvism type of guy—and abstract installations weren't a thing in Kukje until last month, when a partnership with a science institute proposed that the gallery integrate scientific aspects into the collection “to appease the left-brained.”

Safe to say, the partnership worked—just not in the ways he was expecting it to.

“You came back,” he eventually says. Not a question, just surprise. He kind of expected you to, considering all of the yapping you've done the other day about a single installation—you couldn't possibly be done yet.

You shrug. “It's your fault. I can’t stop thinking about that neuron piece. Do you know how annoying it is to be haunted by art? My entire lecture got derailed yesterday. My professor asked a simple question about algorithmic bias, and I ended up drawing tangled wire patterns on the whiteboard.”

He blinks, leaning forward. “...and what did they say?”

“He told me to get some sleep,” you deadpan.

You say it so seriously, Jongseong huffs a laugh despite himself. He didn't plan to crack a laugh—not today of all days when he's swamped with work—but the unrehearsed humor wasn't something he can shrug off. Being funny is an asset, but a good sense of humor takes guts to master.

You blink rapidly at him. How dare Park Jongseong make fun of your disappointment? You feign offense, turning your back on him aggressively enough that the ice in your coffee jingles in his ears. “I was serious, you know…”

And that's when Park Sunghoon enters, carrying two takeaway bags—one for him, and one for his girlfriend. Jongseong's eyes roll again. “I’m sick of your ass, Hoon.”

“Ah, yes,” Sunghoon cackles mockingly. “If it isn't the ’aesthetic‘ Park of the arts, and… oh, who's this?”

You gasp, finally getting to see the most famous photographer up close. No wonder Sunghoon was called the ‘handsome’ Park of the art world. You bow slightly. “Oh, my God—hello, Mr. Park.”

Sunghoon freezes, glances at Jongseong with a knowing smirk, then  at you, then back at his best friend again. “Ohhhh. Oh…”

Jongseong grumbles. “What is it this time? I swear to God, if this is one of your ahjussi antics again—”

“So this is the synapse girl,” Sunghoon quips, then nods once. “Hmm. Okay. I see what you're working with.”

You could feel Jongseong’s death glare at Sunghoon burning through your back, and you could see it from your peripheral vision, too. Sunghoon’s smirk grows into a cheeky grin, jabbing a finger at his best friend. 

“‘Synapse girl?’” you scowl, turning back to Jongseong as you sipped your coffee. Usually you would get called a ‘nerd’, or ‘one of the boys’ for being in a traditionally male-dominated field. “You gave me a nickname?”

“No,” Jongseong mutters too quickly. Guilty. “Sunghoon was eavesdropping.”

“Let's not lie in my face right now, shall we, Jjongsaeng?” Sunghoon steps closer to the counter with a wicked cackle. He turns back to you. “He called you ‘the one with the LED neuron theory.’”

Jongseong facepalms, ears red with embarrassment and veins popping out of his hand. Having known Sunghoon for years, he's supposed to have gotten used to the latter’s teasing at this point. But with Sunghoon’s way with words and quick wit, Jongseong has always been at the receiving end of what kids these days would call ‘ragebaiting.’

And you, equally embarrassed, gasp. “Wow, you remembered that?!”

“Unfortunately,” Jongseong replies, the blush of his cheeks intensifying. “Just eat your lunch and go, Sunghoon.”

“Damn…” Sunghoon trails off teasingly. “You're something else, Jjongsaeng.”

Jongseong, exasperated, finally raises his head up from his hand. “Can you please stop calling me that—”

“Anyway, I’m gonna have lunch with my girlfriend and mind my business as always.” Sunghoon walks off slowly, smirking at his best friend the whole time. 

Jongseong lets out a sigh he doesn't know he was holding, scrubbing his hand down his face. You smile at him again, bright and too genuine for his liking. He still couldn't put a finger on why this situation was smileworthy, so he avoids your gaze, not wanting to offend you with his scowl. Of course he was scowling again when five minutes ago, he was letting out a full-bodied laugh. Mood swings.

“He's fun,” you comment, matter-of-factly. Then grin at him. “You're fun, too, you know. Just in a broody, existential way.”

“I’m not fun,” he mutters, cringing at himself after. What a blatant lie. Of course he was fun. He went to art galas and international exhibitions, indulged himself in the finest food known to man, conversed with the big bosses of the art world, watched Formula One races and got invited into paddocks—how was he not fun? Maybe him lying was just his way of deflecting himself from your naturally bright persona.

“You keep saying things like that, Mr. Park,” you say lightly, sipping your drink. “but I think you're trying to convince yourself.”

He finally stares back at you, dumbfounded and surprised out of his wits.

And for the first time, Jongseong doesn't have a comeback.

“Anyway, as I was saying…”

***

“I think I drained his social battery pretty quick,” you mutter, fidgeting with your fingernails. “I yap a lot, don't I?”

“As long as you weren't womansplaining neuroscience to that gallery man,” your seatmate shrugs. “I think you're good.”

“I did talk about neuron firings in front of a painting there, though…” you trail off, your mind immediately recalling last Thursday’s events. “Does that count?”

Park Jongseong looked cool—too cool to even hang out with your rather quirky self. He had the stature of a chaebol and the face of a K-Pop idol. Finding out he’s just less than a year younger than you didn’t help your case, either. He’s already a head art curator at 25, meanwhile, you’re still finishing the last stretch of your student loans. 

You know well he’s worlds different from you just from where he works. Kukje Gallery was no charity case; it’s been rich in resources from its groundbreaking day. Sure enough, only the wealthy people could work in such wealthy places. He’s rich, rich, and you were nowhere near his tax bracket.

But he somehow took interest in whatever was on your mind the day you met—you could see him lock in. Like when a cat’s pupils dilate when it’s going for the kill. Or whenever a dog hears the word “walk.” Millions of synapses firing in his head, a bottomless black hole, or the whiplash of getting catapulted a million light years into space. A sudden switch turned on. 

Of course a man that good-looking would still have some whimsy on him. You shake your head to yourself.

“Can you turn that damn phone off?” a seatmate on your right grumbles. “That number’s been calling you thrice. You’re lucky we’re on break.”

Of course. You were so deep in your thoughts again that somehow your annoying ringtone wasn’t able to pull you out of your trance. What’s special about a gallery art curator named Park Jongseong, anyway? You jab your finger into the power button aggressively, shifting your attention back to your daily physics journal—

“Oh, no.”

—which was nowhere to be found in its usual spot in your bag.

“No, no, no, no—” you frantically fish inside your bag, keychains clinking and pens smacking each other aggressively. “Fuck, where did I leave that thing?”

You couldn't have misplaced your very beloved, weathered leather notebook that your mother gifted you for your sixteenth birthday. Of course you understood the concept of sentimental value—though it's always been psychological in nature. It had years worth of knowledge you would never get in instructional materials because to you, discovery always goes beyond the four corners of the classroom.

“Ugh, women and their sentimental items,” the male seatmate grumbles, followed by a haughty scoff. “It's just a notebook, man. Let it go.”

Just a notebook. You stop in your tracks, hearing a sharp buzzing noise in your ear getting louder and higher by the second. Just a notebook. How dare he belittle your prized possession and scoff over it. You exhale breathlessly, knuckles turning white with rage, jaw tightly clenched, 

Just before you could open your mouth to retaliate, your friend steps in. “You would've cried if that happened to your gaming laptop. Just saying.”

“Tch. Leave me out of that cringey nonsense,” the guy snatches his bag and storms off, not remorseful whatsoever.

You sigh. It's always been men against you—your quirks, your fashion, the way you talk, and the mere fact that you're one of ten percent of women running for graduation in a male-centric physics class. You find it difficult to see the tie-in between your self-expression and the field of study you're pursuing—well, except that men are greedy and would do everything to look down on women who don't fit the male gaze.

“You okay?”

Of course you weren't. But you nod at your best friend anyway, then look down at your open back in total dejection.

“I’ll help find the journal, alright? Maybe look into our usual spots and ask around.”

Somehow that puts a small smile on your face.

***

“Oh, so you're planning to turn this gallery into a… what, a minimalist science museum? Kinda interesting.”

Jongseong chuckles sarcastically at the tall, lanky guy sitting leisurely on one of the gallery benches. It hasn't been two hours since Nishimura Riki—his former exchange intern, Sunghoon’s prodigy—has landed in Seoul for another temporary residency, but he's already back into his element—teasing Jongseong until the latter hisses at him.

“You're way off the grid with that wording, Riki,” Jongseong shakes his head, then sighs. “Not a science museum. I’ll talk about it more on another day cause my head is a total mess right now.”

He's been thinking, but not like how he usually does. He's been thinking harder—specifically about incorporating scientific concepts into the art-centric atmosphere of Kukje Gallery. The rambling you did last week about neuroscience hasn't left his head quite easily, which probably meant it carried some significance to him—except he's always dreaded science since high school.

What was it about you—your thoughts—that has him all worked up?

“Aww, is harabeoji already sleepy at 5 PM?” Riki coos, and Jongseong is already scowling aggressively at him. “Nah, nah, I’m playing with you, hyung.”

“Can you quit talking to me like I’m some fossil or something? I’m just three years older, for God's sake.”

“Then quit acting like an old bachelor when you're clearly giving ‘single and ready to mingle’ vibes,” Riki nudges his hyung’s shoulder. “You should get a girlfriend, maybe you’d be less broody. I mean, look at Sunghoon hyung and his new girlfriend. It was the first time I’ve seen his teeth in a while—all 32 of ‘em!”

“If you think a girlfriend's gonna solve all my life's problems,” Jongseong raises a brow at Riki. "Where's yours, then?”

Riki shrugs. “I don't know, maybe she's coming in sooner than I think… Faster than yours.”

“Aren't you supposed to be out of here, kid?” Jongseong swats Riki away. “Don't you have a painting to finish?”

“Oh, shit, I actually do,” Riki's eyes widen slightly, walking backwards to the gallery's fire exit while waving Jongseong goodbye. “I do have to go, hyung. I’ll see you around—” He opens the heavy steel door, “You better have a girlfriend by the time I get here or I’ll get your ass!”

The steel door echoes in the hall. Jongseong shakes his head as he takes out a small leather notebook from his pocket that clearly didn't belong to the gallery, or to him. He scrutinizes the exterior of it—an old, weathered vegan leatherback with an engraving of your initials on the lower right side, bound by elastic thread. The stickers on it were discolored, too, but surprisingly not peeling off.

Seeing you leave that notebook on the receptionist's counter where he was temporarily seated the other day, it intrigued him even more—you intrigued him. Maybe it was the way your train of thought came with no brakes, or the fact that you were just rambling about your niche interest with no regard for external judgement.

Even your fashion stood out in the muted, minimalist colors of the gallery. Your presence would be the most noticeable in a room full of people, and your absence would be the most evident. He wouldn't know it, but he could tell so. 

Maybe you haven't acknowledged it yourself, but to him, you were unapologetically, authentically yourself. Totally different from the women he’s always encountered in his field of interest—overly condescending and hiding their lack of substance behind designer clothing and tacky jewelry.

You were a fresh face. On top of that, he believes you could challenge his knowledge—which you've done—and win every single time.

He peers at the notebook again, his gaze quivering with curiosity. He never opened it, nor bothered to guess what the contents were out of pure respect. Seeing the sheets discolored and uneven from the side, he assumes it holds sentimental value—something he's understood perfectly as a person working in the art and archival industry.

I should probably propose a lost and found section next time. He sighs, jams the notebook back into his pocket and stands up for his daily routine check—this time, looking forward to when you’ll come back just so he can experience a semblance of adventure.

Or probably potential romance. But he wouldn't admit that to himself.

***

“You're back.”

Jongseong's tone wasn't matter-of-factly like the first time you met him, but rather relieved. You couldn't give him the same energy, though, considering you still haven't found your beloved physics journal after almost a week of thinking about where it could be. Seven. Sleepless. Nights. And the little guy still isn't back in your bag.

He wore his usual cardigan-slacks tandem, but his glasses were out of the picture. His expression is unusually bright—a little hopeful, even. It's as if the broody art curator went for a vacation overnight and got replaced by whoever’s standing in the abstract art hall.

You're different from his end, too—just not the ‘different’ he was expecting to see. Your keychains were out of the picture, and you had a brown monochrome combo that you hastily put together for the sake of ‘fitting in.’ He could tell you haven't gotten proper sleep; the sparkle in your eyes was dull—almost nonexistent. It was because of the notebook.

His smile drops slightly, feeling guilty for not putting in more effort to reach you. He could've resorted to writing to your university e-mail after you've constantly ignored his phone call, but he got swamped with exhibition duties himself. He just put trust in you coming back to the gallery and called it a day.

“You're not supposed to be here yet, though,” he continues, checking his watch. “It's still 9:30. Kukje opens at 10.”

You sigh. “Neither are you, Mr. Park—” 

“Please, call me Jongseong,” he cuts you off with an awkward chuckle. “People call me ‘Mr. Park’ too often that I forget I’m still 25.”

“Jongseong,” you echo hesitantly, the name rolling off your tongue smoother than you thought. “Hmm. Sounds fine to me.”

Jongseong was adamant to completely eliminate the awkwardness of talking to you, and he started by dropping the honorifics. What did you do to even get to this point? You shrug it off anyway.

“I don't know what led me here,” you blurt out in the dark hall. “Of course, I know the gallery isn't open yet, I just—” You suck in a breath, “I just felt like I needed to be here as soon as I woke up.”

That explained the lack of thought in your whole get-up. You were in a rush to get to Kukje as soon as breakfast was finished, your feet leading you to the building like it was the will-o’-the-wisp or the Pied Piper. You knew that something about the gallery would ease your frustration with your missing notebook—not lost, you haven't quite given up on your search yet.

The gallery was still dark—even the dim lights hadn't been switched on yet. There’s only the soft hum of HVAC and the faint rustling of the blinds. 

Jongseong doesn't reply, rather, he starts switching the lights of the whole floor, one by one, until they're fully lit. He then stops by a corner of the exhibit hall, standing still in front of a single piece. 

It’s not one of the popular works. It’s smaller, less flashy. A muted, abstract canvas—a blend of dull colors, almost stormy, with faint gold veining across the middle. You’ve never paid much attention to it, but he’s staring at it like it’s a secret.

His hands are in his pockets, shoulders relaxed and expression soft. Something about the painting the way Jongseong stills in front of the painting draws you closer, taking careful strides to the spot beside him until you're just a few feet apart.

He doesn't notice you at first. He doesn't know you're standing as still as he is, scrutinizing the painting and getting an up-close look at every stroke, every streak, every line.

“What is it about this one?” you mutter softly.  

“Nothing. It’s…” he pauses, then exhales. “It’s not about anything. The artist said it’s ‘unresolved emotional tension.’”

“So… it’s you, in a frame.”

He stares at her. You just shrug at him with a proud smile. You didn't have a lick of idea what his state of mind was, but for someone dealing with thought-evoking material for six days a week, you're pretty sure there's something tense brewing in that broody mind of his.

“That’s not flattering,” he says, but there’s a ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

You look back at the painting. “I kind of get it, though. It’s like… it’s heavy, but you’re still searching for the gold in it. That’s what those cracks look like to me.”

He’s silent. And she feels the air shift—just a little. The silence wasn't deafening anymore, but comforting. Like an intermission between two acts of a theater play. A silence so necessary that no one bothers to speak.

After what felt like forever, he speaks softly now. “It’s based on kintsugi. The Japanese philosophy of repairing broken things with gold.” 

“Oh…” you murmur. “Like… honoring the breakage.”

He nods. “The flaws become part of the history.”

You look at him. The stillness in his eyes is still there—more intense, even. There's a lot of thought in his stare that disturbs you despite the nonchalance in his stance. 

He’s not looking at the painting anymore. He’s looking at the space between them. Like he’s afraid you'll look too closely.

And you just say, “It’s a good piece. Makes you feel things.”

“That’s what you said the first day.”

“Yeah. Guess I was right,” you shrug again. “Did you know pure gold is non-magnetic? Pretty ironic for an eye candy metal, don't you think?”

He hums. “Where are you going with this, Y/N?”

“Well, it's not ‘attractive’ for something widely considered physically attractive, you know?” you giggle, and the lilted sound bounces off the halls.

Jongseong doesn't react immediately, just looks at you in surprise.

It was a sound he's always heard before—people giggling amongst themselves in the gallery halls all the time—but never one that echoed in the whole floor as clear as day. Crisp. Sharp. Real. Beautiful. It was a different experience hearing it from one single person, rather than in a tangled cacophony.

“So does that mean some of the ‘less precious’ metals are more attractive, then?”

“There's more than meets the eye, Jongseong,” you mutter softly, eyes still on the painting. “A lot of undiscovered things are waiting for us out there.”

Us. The corner of his lip tugs upward instinctively. It was a collective pronoun he seldom used unless he's with his parents or friends. He's always done things alone—working, traveling, clubbing—so it's always been ‘I,’ ‘me,’ or ‘my.’ Never ‘we’ or ‘us.’ He's never shown enthusiasm in changing that whole narrative, so far.

But with your way of words breaking his walls, he figures it might change.

“I appreciate you being inclusive Y/N,” he nods. “You left your notebook here, by the way.”

“Of course, I’m gonna be inclusive—wait, what?!”

“I said,” he fishes out your physics journal from his pocket. “You left this here.”

Your eyes light up at the sight of your physics journal—unscathed, intact, and very much not missing. In a rush of excitement, you grab the notebook from his hands. The fact that your fingers momentarily brushed with his completely flew over your head—but not his.

The warmth of your fingers momentarily pulls him away from the cold air he’s gotten used to. He realizes something. His hand has never been touched by something—someone—warm in a long, long time.

“Where have you been all my life?!” you exclaim, giving the leatherback a quick peck. You turn to Jongseong, whose smile has gotten a little wider in amusement. “Where did I even—how—you kept it?”

“You left it in the reception area,” he chuckles sheepishly. “Don't worry, I didn't open it. I promise.”

“I wasn't even worried about that…” you murmur, finally calming down from the rush of dopamine. “But thank you, Jongseong.”

“No big deal,” he coolly replies, hiding the psychological warfare in his head behind his voice. “You're lucky I was the one who found it.”

“Oh, I’m lucky, alright,” you nod proudly, chucking the notebook in its usual compartment in your bag. “I might invite you to my graduation if you keep being this nice to me.”

“Oh, right, you're graduating,” he replies. “When's that again?”

“In a few months. Maybe six. It’ll pass me by before I know it.”

“Well, congratulations in advance,” Jongseong offers his hand to shake. “Your master's degree is waving at you.”

Your lips curl up in a shy smile, take his hand and briefly shake it. An art gallery curator congratulating you on possibly one of the scariest moments of your life wasn't on your bingo card, but it's better than the fear of not having your physics journal back.

“You know, Jongseong,” you clasp your hands together. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

***

“‘Friendship?’” Sunghoon throws his head back, full-bodied laughs coming out of his mouth as he echoes the word. “Did Miss Synapse just friendzone you, Jjongsaeng?!”

“You come here after a week-long honeymoon with your girlfriend to what, torture the fuck out of me again?” Jongseong scratches his head exasperately. “That's childish, man.”

Sunghoon flails his arms, still consumed by laughter. “No, I meant—did she just tell you it was ‘the beginning of a beautiful friendship?’ Has she always been poetic like that?”

“Fuck you,” Jongseong rolls his eyes. “I make one friend and suddenly you're overanalyzing shit. Go back to taking your photos, Hoon.”

Jongseong thinks Sunghoon (or Riki) teasing the living daylights out of him was the worst thing he could ever experience, but today, it was the fact that Sunghoon could always read his mind. 

Neither Jongseong even had friendzoning on the radar when he opened the topic of new friendships, nor did the word 'friendship’ leave a sting on his chest. The conversation was supposed to be lighthearted, but here came Sunghoon with a remark that's going to have him rethink his life choices every single time.

“You're boring,” Sunghoon huffs. “You didn't even bother to stalk her on LinkedIn or something. You really waited for her to come back here while you held onto that damn notebook for a week.”

“Says the one who got drunk in the bar when he got ghosted,” Jongseong retaliates.

“Fair,” Sunghoon shrugs. “Anyway, break’s almost over. I’m off.” 

Jongseong nods and shoos Sunghoon away, eyes glued to his phone as soon as it chimes. He scrolls through his notification center to see a bunch of messages from your number—he eventually got it after yesterday's encounter.

y/n:

sooooo

there's something i need to tell you

there's this final project i have

i need your help 😁

maybe you can work on an installation art piece with me? they say it has to be based on a physics concept 

🥺🥺🥺

they said we needed to collaborate with artists but i don't know anyone personally in the art industry except you

so i come in peace mr. park 👉🏻👈🏻

Jongseong’s eyes light up instinctively, because this couldn't be a plain coincidence. Just last week, he's been on the planning stage for a science-aligned exhibition in the gallery—maybe a permanent section if the conditions permit—and now you're hitting him up for the exact same thing.

jongseong:

Sure

Just send me all the details

Like when's it due and all the stuff

Looking forward to working with you :)

Jongseong sighs, reclines leisurely in his seat as if he has solved the Goldbach conjecture overnight. The subconscious voice in the back of his hand is screaming at him to stand up and do a somersault, but his body remains relaxed despite the chaos in his head.

Five kilometers away from Kukje, though, you’re tossing and turning in the bottom bunk of your dorm room, trying your hardest not to squeal because your roommate sleeps lighter than a cat on high alert. It was the first time someone hadn’t made you wait unusually long—maybe Jongseong has felt the urgency in your messages that he agreed so easily.

“Oh, my God…” you cup your mouth in delayed realization. “I’m working with Hongdae’s most famous art gallery…”

“Girl, go to sleep…” your roommate groans from the top bunk.

You giddily kick your feet in the air. For now, his true reasons for saying yes were an afterthought. At the moment, you couldn’t wait to be in the halls of Kukje’s first floor and let your voice swallow the building whole.

And Park Jongseong, for the first time in his life, couldn’t wait to be in the corner of the gallery he dreaded the most—the south wing.

***

“So,” Jongseong clasps his hands together. “Where do we start, Miss Physicist?”

“Welcome to my mind, Mr. Park,” you quip proudly, crossing your arms over your chest. “Slow down. Accident-prone area. You’re dealing with swerving roads here.”

“Huh. I’ve been told I’m a good driver,” he rolls his sleeves gingerly. “A very reliable one, might I add.”

“We’ll see about that,” you lightly shove a notepad and a pencil in his chest. He chuckles. “Whenever you’re ready, Jjongsaeng.”

“Hey, drop the nickname!”

Jongseong couldn’t even be annoyed at you right now. You’re smiling appropriately bright, and the odd color combinations in your clothes are back. Even your shoes commanded presence, too—vintage stiletto boots that made a satisfying clacking sound with every step. You ran in them as if they were flip-flops, which slightly concerns him. He would have to do first-aid the moment you twist an ankle (as long as it’s not CPR, he’s good).

“How are you running in those…”

“It's simple pressure distribution, Mr. Park. P = F/A*. I’m just... very precise with my A."

"You're going to distribute your F all over my floor if you trip," he replies, earning him a soft ‘tch’. “Follow me to the study. We’ll lay out everything there.”

Jongseong doesn’t frequent the gallery’s study room as he’s always either roaming around the main halls or stuck in his office. It's always been a hanging out spot for students and employees who can work from everywhere, but never for the person on top of the gallery’s command chain. It's like a rediscovery, somewhat, not only for the head art curator—

“You clean up well, don't you?” you mutter as he's scribbling his ideas down on the notepad.

—but for you, too. You’ve never seen the man this close, only from a socially acceptable distance. His face was a balance of delicate and strong—soft, cat-like eyes and small lips, but countered by a prominent jawline and thick eyebrows that framed his face perfectly. 

Interesting how two opposite aspects of physical appearance can complement one another and make them into whatever Park Jongseong was.

He’s basically a walking contradiction. His fashion is fifty percent tailored coats and fifty percent slacks, but his voice sounds like a grounding piece—soft, deep, full, a little pouty if you listen hard enough. His handwriting gave off the vibe of a high school boy, too—rounded, a bit bubbly, and cute. You stifle a giggle as he double-strokes a letter he wrote by mistake.

“But, hey,” you tilt your head slightly to decipher his writing. “Those aren't too bad… An interactive installation sounds good!”

“Depends on how interactive we're talking,” he props his elbows up on the table. “What do you think?”

“An exhibition that brings out people's inner emotions,” you reply, putting your pencil down. “Think telepathy, but through colors or sound. Ultrasonic sensors and LIDAR to body movement.”

“And every color would have emotional resonance…” he continues instinctively, jotting it down. “Like yellow for happiness, blue for sadness, and red for anger—”

“Exactly!”

“That's kinda like Inside Out, if you ask me,” he chuckles in amusement. “And when those sensors sense multiple emotions in that room—”

“The room would be a colorful rainbow,” you gasp belatedly. “We can play music, too. Do you like classical? Maybe we can do EDM. Or hip-hop—wait, that's kinda over the top.”

You stop talking. The silence isn't awkward, exactly, but it’s different. It’s the kind of silence that usually precedes a major breakthrough in a lab. You tilt your head, mirroring his stance, and for a second, the 'Miss Physicist’ persona slips. You catch his gaze and your heart does a frantic little skip-step, like a poorly calibrated motor. Instead of stopping, you start talking twice as fast, your voice rising an octave.

“Because if we go with the bass-heavy track, the vibrations might interfere with the sensors, and then we’d have a feedback loop, and—are you even listening? You’re just looking at me. That’s cheating! I’m doing all the heavy lifting here and you’re just... being a curator.”

He really should be looking at the LIDAR schematics. Honestly. He’s a professional—he has a reputation for being the most meticulous art gallery  curator in the city, but here he is, propped up on his elbows like a teenager, watching a girl in vintage stiletto boots explain the physics of Inside Out.

God, she’s still yapping. But the way your hands move through the air? Mapping out sound waves like you're literally carving the atmosphere into something he can finally breathe? It’s technically reckless. It’s chaotic. It’s the exact opposite of everything he’s spent years "curating" into a clean, broody silence.

I’m a good driver, he tells himself, watching the way your eyes light up. I can handle a few swerving roads. Except he’s not driving. He’s just... parked. Completely stalled out because you’re talking about LIDAR in a room that usually only hears the echo of his own expensive shoes. And the heels—those ridiculous clacking heels—he’s genuinely worried about your ankles, but mostly he’s worried about the fact that he doesn't want you to stop talking. He wants to see how far these roads go.

“Sorry,” you mumble, suddenly finding the rubber end of your pencil more interesting than his face. You reach for your notebook, fingers fumbling with the spine. “I’m doing it again. I just—I get into it and then I realize I haven't let you breathe for ten minutes. You probably have actually important gallery stuff to handle.”

You wait for him to agree, or to offer a polite out, or even to make a joke to ease the awkwardness.

Instead, Jongseong just shifts his weight, the sound of his sleeves brushing against the table loud in the sudden silence.

“I’m not bored,” he says. No "Mr. Park" polish, no curator-mask. Just a quiet, blunt fact. “I was actually listening to the part about the bass frequencies. Don't stop because you think I’m just being polite.”

You look up, caught by the sincerity in his voice. He isn't smiling, but his eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“Really?” you ask, your voice sounding smaller than you intended.

“Really.” He tilts his head, watching you with that same unwavering focus that made your heart skip earlier. “It’s... it’s a lot of noise in my head usually. Keeping this place running, the exhibitions, the artists. But listening to you talk about this? It’s the first time it’s actually felt quiet in here for a while.”

He gestures vaguely to the empty gallery around them, but his gaze never leaves yours.

His work days have always been noisy—but awfully silent. While he’s used to hearing the faint sounds of conversation among pairs or groups of people, or even among themselves, he only ever gets to totally talk to people outside the gallery—with potential donors, with Sunghoon or Riki, with his parents, and today, with you.

“So, please. Keep going. I want to hear the rest.”

“You sure?” you lean forward slightly, pushing your glasses against your nose bridge.

“Never been surer,” he nods, picking up his pencil again. “Continue.”

***

One month later, and Jongseong’s silent mind has now been a whirlwind.

You’ve been having meetings with him twice a week, conceptualizing and brainstorming to make sure the creation process was seamless to the T. Every meeting has been an exchange of sensory science and art movements, and passively, a discovery of each other’s personalities. He still calls you Miss Physicist, and you still call him Mr. Park, but the space between the labels is starting to feel... crowded.

When you push through the gallery doors today, you find two coffees already sitting on the edge of the drafting table. They aren't fancy or personalized; they're just two standard cups from the shop around the corner.

“I didn't know your preference,” Jongseong says, not looking up from his tablet. He’s wearing a sweater today instead of a blazer, a small crack in the curator-armor that makes him look annoyingly approachable. “I just got a black coffee and a latte with the milk on the side. I figured scientists liked to control their own variables.”

You pause, reaching for the latte. It’s a simple gesture—common courtesy for a colleague—but the fact that he went out of his way to get anything before you arrived makes the "whirlwind" in your chest pick up speed.

“Thanks,” you mutter, pulling the cup toward you. “Black coffee for you? That’s very... on brand.”

“It’s efficient,” he replies, finally looking up. He doesn't smile, but there’s a flicker of that amusement you’ve come to recognize. “And I needed the caffeine. I spent three hours last night looking at the LIDAR data you sent over. You weren’t joking about the swerving roads.”

He gestures to the blueprints, his fingers lingering near where yours usually rest.

“Your ideas are compelling,” he says, sauntering slowly to your direction.

You look up at him, push your glasses towards your nose out of habit. “Compelling?”

“Yes.”

“Like courtroom testimony compelling,” you raise a brow at him, “or like I’ll consider funding this art installation completely compelling?”

He blinks, silently panics at the sudden cornering. “Aesthetically compelling.”

You grin. “You think I’m aesthetically compelling?!”

He clarifies almost too quickly. “Your diagrams. Your diagrams are compelling.”

Jongseong’s whole brain blue-screens. He opens his mouth to defend himself—probably to say something about 'minimalism' or 'tonal balance'—but his brain fails to provide a coherent sentence. He just stands there, the man who manages million-dollar art deals, completely leveled by a single grin and a pair of pushed-up glasses.

He clears his throat, the sound tight and awkward. “I’m going to... I need to check the inventory in the back. For the sensors. The sensors that are... compellingly sophisticated—”

“That’s not what you meant, though, wasn’t it?” you eye him up and down.

He stays silent for five seconds, then turns away and clears his throat. “Please don’t quote me out of context.”

You giggle anyway, catching the art curator even more off-guard.

He turns on his heel a little too fast, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug he’s walked over a thousand times.

“Jongseong?” you call out as he retreats.

He stops, but doesn't turn around. “Yes?”

“The back room is that way,” you point in the complete opposite direction.

He freezes, shoulders tensed, then slowly pivots 180 degrees. He doesn't look at you. He just walks past, staring straight ahead like he’s marching into battle. “I knew that. I was just... checking the airflow in this corner. It’s vital for the installation.”

The next meeting, the gallery doesn’t smell like expensive floor wax and silence anymore. It smells like soldering iron and lukewarm coffee. Rock music blasts through the south wing’s speakers and Jongseong is politely headbanging on top of a ladder.

He’s currently holding an LED panel against the wall, his biceps straining against the rolled-up sleeves of a shirt that cost more than your tuition. He looked less like the broody art curator from the first day you saw him and more like a high-end construction worker, and it was doing terrible things to your concentration.

"Just a bit," you murmured, stepping in to adjust the sensor bracket. You were so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. "Wait—don't move. If the angle is off by even a millimeter, the LIDAR won't track the 'Yellow' zone correctly."

He goes perfectly still. You could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, and for a second, you forget to look at the bracket. You’re looking at the way his pulse was jumping in the hollow of his throat.

"Is it... is it aligned?" he asks, his voice a little rougher than usual.

"I'm checking," you whisper, though the only thing you were actually checking was how much longer you could stay this close before one of you went up in flames.

The soldering iron hums somewhere in the background, but the sound was drowned out by the thrumming in your own ears. You were close enough to see the fine texture of his shirt, close enough to realize that the "roughness" in his voice wasn't from exhaustion—it was the sound of a man holding his breath.

"You're shaking," Jongseong murmured. He didn't pull away. If anything, he leaned into the bracket just a fraction more, his shoulder brushing against yours. The contact sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the electrical wiring.

"I’m not," you lie, your voice barely a breath. You force your eyes back to the LIDAR sensor, trying to focus on the tiny green LED light that was supposed to indicate a perfect fix. "The... the calibration is just sensitive. It picks up everything. Even a heartbeat if you’re close enough."

"Is that right?"

He turned his head then. He was so close that if you moved even a centimeter, your nose would brush his cheek. You could see the way his dark eyes were darting across your face, scanning you with that same terrifyingly focused "curator" intensity. Except he wasn't looking for balance or composition. He was looking at you.

"Then it must be picking up a lot of noise right now," he whispered.

The silence that follows is heavy, weighted with the month of twice-a-week meetings, the shared coffees, and the secret rock playlists. The "Miss Physicist" persona was gone. The "Mr. Park" mask was cracked wide open. You were just two people standing in a half-finished gallery, surrounded by sensors that were designed to track human emotion but were currently failing to capture the sheer scale of whatever was happening between you.

Your hand, still hovering near the bracket, accidentally brushes the side of his neck.

Jongseong’s eyes flutter shut for a split second, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips. "The light," he prompts, his voice now a low, gravelly shadow of its former self. "Is it... is it green yet?"

You glance at the monitor. The sensor had finally locked on. The screen was bathed in a steady, unwavering yellow.

"Yes," you whisper, your heart hammering against your ribs. "It’s joy."

***

Jongseong's on his usual art curator duty, updating artist bios and inventory, when Riki literally corners him in the south wing, where your collaborative art installation stands—unfinished and full of potential. He blinks rapidly without a lick of idea why his best friend-slash-protégé has  a shit-eating grin on his face, palm heels mercilessly digging into his shoulders.

“What the fuck?!” Jongseong blurts out, hands in the air in half dumbfoundedness, half anger. “What's this supposed to mean—”

“You like her,” Riki says, his grin widening as he waits for the explosion.

Jongseong adjusts his cufflink, his movements slow and agonizingly deliberate. He looks like the picture of curator-grade composure. “Who?”

Riki’s laugh is short and sharp. “Who? Hyung, don’t do this. Don’t do the ‘I’m so busy and important I don’t know which woman you’re referring to’ bit. It’s pathetic.”

“I’m currently managing three separate artist residencies and an upcoming gala, Riki,” Jongseong says, his voice as flat as a desert horizon. He turns back to his tablet, scrolling through a list of names he isn’t actually reading. “If you’re referring to one of the technicians from the lighting firm, or perhaps the coordinator from the foundation—”

“I’m talking about the cute nerd,” Riki interrupts, leaning over the tablet to block Jongseong’s view. “The one who makes you writhe in your seat while she's explaining all this scientific shit.”

Jongseong’s thumb hitches on the screen.

“Oh,” he says, as if the realization just struck him. “The Master's student. I suppose she’s a competent collaborator. But to suggest that I have feelings for a consultant who spends half our meetings debating the merits of EDM is—”

“A lie,” Riki finishes for him. “It’s a big, sophisticated, aesthetically compelling lie.”

Jongseong finally looks up, and the 'Who?' defense crumbles instantly. His ears are betraying him, turning a bright, unmistakable pink against his dark hair. “Go away, Riki. I have an inventory to finish.”

“You’re looking at the inventory for the sculpture garden, hyung,” Riki points out, cackling as he dances away toward the exit. “We aren’t even working on the sculpture garden today!”

“Shut your annoying ass up, Riki. Seriously. Just—shut it and get out.”

Jongseong doesn't even wait for the younger boy to finish his cackling exit. He practically shoves Riki toward the hallway, slamming the heavy south wing doors with a bit more force than necessary. The echo rings through the hollow gallery, leaving him in a sudden, ringing silence.

He’s alone. Finally.

He leans his back against the cool surface of the door and slides down just an inch, exhaling a breath he feels like he’s been holding since the "aesthetically compelling" debacle.

Who? He closes his eyes, and the lie feels bitter. He knows exactly who. He knows the exact sound her vintage heels make when she’s frustrated (staccato, sharp) versus when she’s excited (fast, light). He knows that she pushes her glasses up her nose with her middle finger when she’s deep in thought. He knows that his "silent" gallery now feels unfinished whenever she isn't in it yapping about sound waves.

He looks down at his tablet. Riki was right—he is looking at the inventory for the sculpture garden. A project that isn't due for six months.

“Dammit,” he whispers to the empty room.

He walks back over to the installation—your shared territory. He looks at the bracket you were just both leaning over. He can still feel the ghost of your pulse in the air, the way the temperature in the room seemed to spike the second your shoulder brushed his.

He reaches out, his fingers tracing the edge of the sensor you just calibrated.

Joy.

He’s supposed to be a curator of art, but he’s currently a victim of his own exhibit. He isn't just "aesthetically compelled." He’s falling, and the worst part—the absolutely terrifying part—is that he thinks the physicist is the only one who knows the math to catch him.

***

Aesthetically compelling.

You’re staring at the ceiling, your vintage heels kicked off somewhere near your desk, and that one phrase is looping in your brain like a corrupted audio file. You’re a scientist. You deal in empirical evidence, measurable data, and cold, hard logic. But there is absolutely nothing "logical" about the way your face feels like it’s currently undergoing a thermal nuclear reaction.

"He meant the LIDAR," you whisper to your empty room, clutching a pillow to your chest. "He was talking about the spatial distribution. The composition. The balance."

But even as you say it, you can still see the way he looked—the way the cool, untouchable Mr. Park's ears turned that specific shade of pink. You remember the way he tripped over a rug he’s walked on a thousand times. A curator of his caliber doesn’t just trip. Not unless his internal equilibrium has been completely knocked off-axis by something—or someone.

You think I’m aesthetically compelling?! Why did you say that? Why are you like this? You could have just said "Thank you" or "I agree, the mapping is solid." But no, your instincts took the wheel and drove you straight into a high-friction collision.

And the handwriting. You reach into your bag and pull out the crumpled note he left on your equipment case earlier. Those rounded, bubbly letters shouldn't belong to a man who wears suits that cost more than your car. It’s a contradiction. He’s a contradiction. He’s a broody rock fan with the handwriting of a middle-schooler and a gaze that makes you forget the laws of thermodynamics.

"It's just the project," you groan, burying your face in the pillow. "It's just the 'Inside Out' theme. I'm just… immersed in the research. I'm experiencing 'Joy' for the sake of the sensors."

But your heart—the one that was hammering against your ribs when your hand accidentally brushed his neck—isn't interested in the research. It’s interested in why he looked like he wanted to say something else. Why he looked like he was about to ignore the "swerving roads" and just drive straight into the sun.

"I am going to get an F in this Master's," you mutter. "I'm going to fail because I'm too busy calculating the physics of a curator's blush."

“I’m just saying, the project is reaching a critical phase,” you add, waving a spoon around in front of your roommate for emphasis. “The LIDAR integration is sophisticated. It’s compelling. He said it was compelling.”

Your roommate doesn't even look up from her phone. She just sips her drink, eyes narrowed. “He said the diagrams were compelling, or he said you were compelling? Because there’s a biological difference, and I think your blush is currently hitting the ‘Red’ zone of your own exhibit.”

“It was a professional assessment!” you hiss, leaning across the table. “And then he almost tripped over a rug. It was… a very high-friction environment.”

“Bitch, you’ve been talking about his ‘sophisticated airflow’ for twenty minutes,” she deadpans, finally dropping her phone. “You aren’t calibrated for science right now. You’re calibrated for a date. When are you going to stop yapping about sound waves and start yapping about the fact that you want to climb him like a sculpture in his own gallery?”

You choke on your oat milk. “I am a Master's student! I have a thesis! I have—"

“You have a crush,” she interrupts, grinning. “And if you don't do something about it, I’m going to go to that gallery myself and tell Mr. Park that his lead physicist spends her nights staring at his cute handwriting like it’s a love letter from the 1800s.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me. Calibration starts at 9:00 AM tomorrow, right? I’ll bring the coffee. And the truth.”

***

The South Wing was silent, the kind of heavy, pressurized quiet that only happens after the tourists and the cleaning crews have long since vanished. You were hunched under the control console, the sharp metal edge digging into your shoulder as you fumbled with a pair of needle-nose pliers. Your "handy skills" were currently failing you in a spectacular, low-voltage fashion.

“Is it supposed to spark like that?”

The voice is low, echoing off the underside of the desk. You flinch, nearly cracking your skull against the motherboard as Jongseong kneels down in the shadows beside you. He isn't wearing his suit jacket anymore; his sleeves were rolled up, revealing the lean, corded strength of his forearms—arms that were currently reaching into your personal space to take the pliers from your trembling hand.

“It’s not supposed to spark at all,” you whisper, your heart doing a frantic, uncalibrated rhythm against your ribs.

Jongseong doesn't pull back. He shifts closer, his shoulder brushing against yours as he maneuvered his hand into the tangle of wires. The space was too small. It’s a high-friction environment, and the "airflow" he was always yapping about was non-existent. You could smell the cedar of his cologne and the ozone of the half-finished sensors.

“Hold this,” he murmurs, his fingers grazing yours as he hands back a wire.

The contact was a short circuit. You go perfectly still, your pulse jumping in the hollow of your throat as you watch him work. He’s focused, his jaw set in that meticulous, curator-grade intensity, but his breathing is just a little too shallow to be "professional".

“Is it... is it aligned?” you ask, your voice cracking in the dark.

Jongseong stops. He doesn't look at the wires. He turns his head slowly, his face inches from yours in the cramped, shadowy space beneath the console. The polished "Mr. Park" facade was gone, replaced by something raw and "aesthetically compelling" that made your brain blue-screen.

“I’m checking,” he whispers, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second.

The distance between you was less than a centimeter. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the magnetic pull of a month’s worth of pining finally reaching its breaking point. You lean in, your eyes fluttering shut, waiting for the collision—

The snap of the fuse finally sliding into place was the most satisfying sound you’d heard all week. You let out a triumphant, breathless laugh, your face smudged with a bit of graphite from the casing.

“I got it! Jongseong, I actually got it!”

You scramble slightly to get a better view of the console, pointing toward the tiny, flickering LED that was finally pulsing with a steady, warm glow. The light reflects off the polished floor of the South Wing, casting a soft amber hue across the darkened room.

“Look,” you whisper, your eyes wide with the sheer relief of a successful calibration. “Isn't it beautiful?”

You turn to share the victory with him, but the air in your lungs suddenly felt like it had been replaced by lead. Jongseong’s not looking at the console. He wasn't looking at the "Joy" sensor or the perfectly aligned bracket.

He’s looking at you.

His gaze is heavy, unblinking, and entirely too honest for a Tuesday night at the gallery. The amber light catches the sharp line of his jaw and the softened, almost vulnerable expression in his eyes. He looks like he’s seeing something far more "aesthetically compelling" than a motherboard.

“It is,” he murmurs, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. “Beautiful.”

The silence that follows is thick with everything you’d been building for two months. Jongseong shifts, his hand moving as if to reach for you, then hesitating.

“I’m not… I’m not very good at this,” he admits, the words coming out in a rush of uncharacteristic bluntness. The "sophisticated curator" was nowhere to be found. “I usually have the right words, the right descriptions. But when it comes to—to this? I don’t know how to say it the right way.”

“Then say them the wrong way,” you whisper, your heart hammering against the metal of the console.

The silence that follows is different than before. It wasn't pressurized or heavy; it was a challenge. You're giving him permission to be messy, to be uncalibrated, to drop the "Mr. Park" persona and just be the man who writes in bubbly handwriting and listens to rock music in the dark.

For a second, the frustration on his face clears, replaced by a look of such raw, focused intent that you felt the air leave your lungs entirely. He leaned back in, his hand finally finding its home—not on a bracket or a wire, but cupping the side of your face, his thumb grazing your cheekbone.

"If I say them the wrong way," he murmurs, his lips a breath away from yours, "I’m never going to be able to take them back."

"Don't take them back," you breathe.

He leans in, the distance between your faces closing until you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. You’re paralyzed, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against the metal desk behind you. This is it. The "swerving roads" had finally led here.

His eyes drops to your lips, his breath warm against your cheek—

“Jongseong-ah! Are you still in here? The board members are asking about the gala catering!”

Sunghoon’s voice echoes down the long marble hallway, crisp and professional, effectively shattering the atmosphere like a dropped glass sculpture.

Jongseong flinches, pulling back just enough for the cold gallery air to rush between you. “Fuck,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

The spell isn't just broken; it was incinerated. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, a look of pure, unadulterated frustration crossing his face before he straightens his collar and regains his mask.

You feel the sting of disappointment, a sharp ache in your chest that you immediately tried to bury under a practiced, physicist’s composure. You force a small, shaky smile onto your face, even though your hands are still trembling.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, stepping back into the shadows of the console. “Another time.”

You didn’t wait for a second interruption. You scrambled out from under the console, clutching your toolkit like a shield, and practically bolted past Sunghoon without making eye contact. Your face was still a deep, undeniable scarlet, and the words "Say them the wrong way" were still ringing in your ears, making your vision feel a little blurry.

Sunghoon stands in the doorway, holding a clipboard and looking completely unbothered until you brush past him with a muttered, "Goodnight, Sunghoon-ssi," and vanish into the darkness of the corridor.

He watches you go, then slowly turns his gaze back into the South Wing.

Jongseong is still standing by the console. His tie is slightly askew—a crime for a Park—and his breathing was heavy enough that Sunghoon could hear it from ten feet away. He looks less like a curator and more like a man who had just survived a high-speed collision.

Sunghoon shifted his weight, his eyes narrowing as he took in Jongseong’s wrecked composure.

“What the fuck did you do, Jongseong?” he asks, his voice suspiciously level.

Jongseong does answer immediately. He just stares at the empty space where you had been standing, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he could still feel the phantom heat of your skin. The broody art curator mask isn't just cracked; it’s lying in pieces on the floor next to the blown fuse.

“I didn’t do anything,” Jongseong finally snaps, though the bite was missing from his tone.

And among all the stupid things he's done, this probably takes the top spot.

The silence in the South Wing is deafening after the heavy mahogany doors clicked shut behind you. Jongseong remains frozen by the console, his hands still hovering in the space where your skin had been a second ago.

Sunghoon doesn't move. He just watched his friend with the kind of clinical detachment one might use to study a flickering lightbulb before it finally burns out.

“You look bummed,” Sunghoon remarks, his voice echoing off the high-visibility glass.

Jongseong’s jaw tightens. He doesn't look at his friend. He just kept staring at the amber LED you had just fixed, the light reflecting in his dark, unblinking eyes. 

“Am I?” he deadpans, his voice a jagged shadow of his usual professional self. He begins cracking his knuckles, a sharp, rhythmic sound that betrays the “meticulous" calm he was trying to project.

“You also look like you forgot how to blink,” Sunghoon adds, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms.

“I did.”

The honesty of the admission makes Sunghoon pause. He’s seen Jongseong handle high-visibility office scandals and "botanically insignificant" disasters without breaking a sweat, but this is different. This is a total system failure.

Sunghoon raises a brow, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “So. You almost kissed her.”

Jongseong finally blinks, the sudden movement looking painful. He turns his head slowly, his gaze landing on the spot where you had been crouched under the desk. “I almost didn't do anything, Sunghoon. I was investigating a sensor fluctuation.”

“Right. Because investigating sensors usually requires that much airflow between two people,” Sunghoon retorts. “She looked like she was running for her life, and you look like you just lost the most important exhibit in the building. Get your shit together.”

Jongseong doesn't move. He just looks at the dark roast coffee he’d forgotten to drink and then back at the door. “She told me to say it the wrong way.”

Sunghoon’s smirk vanishes, replaced by genuine confusion. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jongseong mutters, finally snapping his mask back into place and marching toward the exit. “The airflow is fine. Everything is fine.”

"You want to talk about it," Sunghoon states, his voice flat and clinical.

"I wanna get hit by a bus," Jongseong replies, the deadpan delivery cutting through the air. He’s not being dramatic—well, he was, but he’s an art bro. It’s a stylistic choice to prefer physical impact over the sheer embarrassment of the almost kiss.

Sunghoon raises a brow. "A bus is a bit extreme for a botched vibe check, don't you think?"

"It wasn't a vibe check," Jongseong mutters, finally blinking as if his eyelids were heavy curtains. He looks down at his hands—the same ones that had almost cupped your face. He’s cracking his knuckles absentmindedly, a sharp, rhythmic sound that betrays his meticulous persona.

"I know it wasn't," Sunghoon says, stepping closer. "You look like you’re trying to calculate the escape velocity of your own dignity.”

"She told me to say it the wrong way, Sunghoon," Jongseong mutters, pacing the floor of his own exhibit. "Who just... gives you permission to be a disaster?"

"Someone who's probably just as much of a disaster as you are," Sunghoon retorts, turning back toward the hallway. "Unless you can find a bus in the next five minutes, you have a gala board meeting to lead. Try not to look 'bummed' while you're presenting the budget."

Sunghoon doesn't even wait for a rebuttal. He just shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching with a mix of pity and amusement as he turned on his heel. The rhythmic click of his dress shoes against the gallery’s polished marble feels like a countdown, marking every second Jongseong spent standing there in his own wreckage.

"Good luck with the bus," Sunghoon calls out over his shoulder, his voice echoing through the high ceilings of the South Wing. "But if you miss it, the board is in Conference Room B. Try to look less like a Victorian ghost."

The heavy doors groaned and then clicked shut, leaving Jongseong in total, pressurized silence.

He’s alone with the sensor—which was still pulsing a steady, mocking amber—and the lingering scent of your perfume that seemed to have permanently bonded with the "airflow" of the room. He looked at the spot under the console where his world had just tilted off its axis. He was a man who prided himself on being a meticulous curator, a master of high-visibility aesthetics, but right now, his internal layout was a disaster.

***

Jongseong didn't sleep.

He woke up two hours before his alarm, made his usual dark roast coffee, just to forget to drink it and watch it go cold. He's been nursing the cup for God knows how long, with last night's moments playing like a broken record in his head.

The way your voice dropped when you told him to ‘say things the wrong way.’ The way your fingers lightly brushes against his. The way his lips parted slightly—waiting for that rush of euphoria to kick in. The way he backed off because of Sunghoon’s timing, but mostly because he was scared—not of you, but how you made him feel.

You're already at the gallery, working on bug fixes. Glasses perched low on your nose and eyebrows too unusually knitted. 

You’re still hunched over the console, your eyebrows knitted so tightly they’re practically touching. You can feel Jongseong’s presence behind you—a steady, radiating heat that makes the "bug fixes" on your screen look like a blur of meaningless syntax.

"The refresh rate is dragging," you mutter, not daring to look up. Your glasses are sliding down your nose again, but you don't push them up because that would mean moving, and moving feels dangerous.

Jongseong finally sets the cold coffee down on a nearby pedestal. The clink of the ceramic against the marble sounds like a gunshot in the quiet gallery. He doesn't stay back. He steps into that narrow gap of "professional" space, leaning over your shoulder to look at the monitor.

"It’s not the refresh rate," he says, his voice a low, jagged vibration right at your ear. "It’s the buffer. You’re trying to process too much at once."

"I have to," you breathe, finally pushing your glasses up with a shaky finger. "If I don't account for every variable, the whole system crashes."

"Some variables aren't meant to be accounted for," he murmurs. He reaches out, his hand hovering just inches from yours on the keyboard. He doesn't touch you—he’s still too "scared" of how you make him feel—but the distance is small enough that you can feel the rush of euphoria he's been chasing all morning.

He stays there, close enough that if you turned your head three inches, you’d be right back where you were before Sunghoon interrupted. He’s waiting to see if you’ll tell him to be "wrong" again, or if you’ll keep pretending that the only thing between you is a Master's thesis and a few lines of broken code.

"Jongseong," you say softly, finally looking him in the eye.

He doesn't blink. He just watches you, his lips parted slightly as if he’s still waiting for that kiss that never quite landed. "Yeah?"

"We're... we're not talking about the code, are we?"

The broody art curator mask finally slips just a fraction, revealing the man who didn't sleep and the curator who is currently lost in his own exhibit.

"No," he whispers. "We definitely aren't."

"The proximity sensors are spiking," you say, your voice a little too high, a little too tight. You keep your eyes locked on the monitor, but you can feel Jongseong’s presence like a physical weight behind you. He’s so close that the "noisy" silence of the gallery feels like it's about to crack.

Jongseong doesn't pull back. Instead, he leans in further, his arm brushing yours as he reaches for the calibration dial. The contact is a short circuit for your brain, but he just keeps his eyes on the screen, his jaw set in that meticulous, curator-grade intensity.

"It's not a hardware failure," he murmurs, his breath warm against your temple. "It’s a conflict in the logic. Two commands trying to occupy the same space at the same time."

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. "And how do we fix a logic conflict, Mr. Park?"

He stops moving. His hand is still resting inches from yours, and for a second, his facade isn't just cracked—it’s gone. He looks at your smudged glasses, then down at your mouth, his lips parting slightly as if he’s finally going to take the advice you gave him under the console.

"We don't," he whispers. "We just wait for one of them to give in."

The speakers in the South Wing crackle to life just as the clock hits 5:50 PM. The familiar, upbeat piano chords of Semisonic’s Closing Time begin to bounce off the marble floors and high-visibility glass. It’s his signature move—a polite, slightly witty way to tell the remaining board members and staff to head for the exits.

But for you, those first few notes are a tripwire.

You freeze, your fingers hovering over the "bug fix". This was the exact song playing the first time you walked into this gallery, back when Jongseong was just "Mr. Park" and you were just the "Miss Physicist" who wouldn't stop yapping about synapses and dendritic responses.

Now, the song is a mockery.

Jongseong is standing across the room, leaning against a pedestal with his cold coffee, trying to look professional for the few stragglers still roaming the wing. But as the lyrics reach the chorus—“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here”—his eyes snap to yours.

The awkwardness is thick enough to trigger a sensor. You both look away instantly. He starts intensely studying a "botanically insignificant" dried flower in a nearby exhibit, while you suddenly find the logic of a basic power cable to be the most fascinating thing in the world.

"That song is remarkably loud tonight," he murmurs, his voice a low, jagged vibration that cuts right through the music.

You finally look up, your heart doing a 120 BPM dance break that would put Offenbach’s Can Can to shame. "It’s just... the acoustics in the South Wing. The airflow is different when it's empty."

The South Wing is silent now, save for the hum of the sensors and the "Closing Time" lyrics still bouncing around in the back of your mind. The lights you programmed—that transition from blue to gold to pink—are reflecting in his eyes, making him look less like a curator and more like a man who has finally stopped fighting the "airflow".

The South Wing is silent now, save for the hum of the sensors and the "Closing Time" lyrics still bouncing around in the back of your mind. The lights you programmed—that transition from blue to gold to pink—are reflecting in his eyes, making him look less like a curator and more like a man who has finally stopped fighting the "airflow".

"All good. Should be responsive now. Want to try it?"

Your voice sounds a little too thin in the vast silence of the South Wing, but you keep your eyes on the control panel, refusing to look at him. Jongseong doesn't answer immediately. He just steps onto the platform, moving under the soft lights you programmed—a gradient that flickers gently from blue to gold to pink, tracking his motion and reacting to his presence like a living thing.

You watch him from the console, your heart doing a 120 BPM dance break that would put the Stealer choreography to shame.

"You're not saying anything," you murmur, finally glancing up.

"It's working," he says, but he isn't looking at the lights. He’s looking at you.

"That's it? 'It's working'?"

"I don't know how to say the other things."

Jongseong turns, walking toward you with a slow, meticulous intent that makes the "airflow" in the room vanish. He stops right in front of you, the amber glow of the sensors casting a sharp shadow over his face.

"Then say them wrong," you whisper, your voice soft and hopeful. "Say them the wrong way."

His breath hitches, the sound jagged in the quiet gallery. "I should've kissed you."

The air in your lungs freezes.

"I was going to. I wanted to," he continues, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly vibration. "And then I didn't, and you smiled like you weren't disappointed, and I hated that."

"Jongseong—"

"I don't do this. I don't... feel things this fast," he mutters, reaching out to grip the edge of the console until his knuckles turn white. "I don't fall for people who talk too much and spin metaphors in art galleries. But you're—"

He steps into your personal space, his eyes fixed on yours with a raw, unblinking intensity.

"You're ruining me."

You let out a soft, shaking breath, your fingers hovering inches from his on the keyboard. "Then maybe we're ruining each other."

Jongseong’s breath hitches, and for a heartbeat, he stays suspended in that final, agonizing hesitation. He’s the meticulous curator who didn't sleep, the man who spent all day nursing cold coffee and pretending to review schematics while his internal data spiked every time you moved.

Then, the hesitation snaps.

He closes the distance, and the moment his lips meet yours, the gallery floor practically hums with the feedback loop. It’s a high-friction collision that sends your glasses askew and forces a jagged, desperate sound from his throat.

Behind you, the installment reacts to the sudden, overwhelming proximity. The sensors don't just flicker; they surge. The soft blue and pink you programmed are swallowed by a blinding, brilliant gold—the "Joy" frequency hitting a peak that the software wasn't even designed to handle. The lights strobe against the high-visibility glass and the mahogany doors, turning the South Wing into a private, pulsing nebula that tracks every frantic beat of your heart.

The data on the monitor goes flatline—not because of a bug, but because the two of you are finally the only motion that matters in the room.

When he finally pulls back an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes are dark and his meticulous suit is beautifully wrecked.

"I don't want to be quiet about you anymore," he says, his voice a raw vibration that cuts through the fading chords of Closing Time.

"Then be loud," you breathe, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him back toward the "wrong way" of doing things. "For once."

He doesn't need a second invitation. He closes the gap again, harder this time, while the speakers hit the final, soaring chords of the night and the sensors flare a brilliant, blinding white—a total system override that neither of you bothers to fix.

***

Life at the gallery settled into a new, "loud" rhythm. You finally traded your smudged glasses and late-night student commutes for a graduation gown, officially completing your project. But even with your degree in hand, the gallery didn't feel like a workplace you were leaving—it felt like the place where your life had finally calibrated.

On the night of your graduation, Jongseong doesn't just give you a bouquet. He hand-delivers a custom-made, gold-plated sensor component shaped like a "Joy" frequency wave, tucked into a box with a note in his bubbly, messy handwriting that says: "For the woman who rewired my entire internal logic."

Every day at 5:50 PM, when the new closing chimes start to play, he stops whatever he’s doing. He finds you in the crowd, or at your console, and gives you that specific, arrogant-yet-devoted smirk. He walks over, ignores the straggling guests, and whispers, "I know exactly who I'm taking home," before kissing you right in front of the high-visibility glass.

The gallery is technically closed to the public, the dim "after-hours" lighting casting long, dramatic shadows across the marble floors. Nishimura Riki is centered in the middle of the wing, surrounded by crates of "unstable" digital equipment for his new residency, looking less like an artist and more like a bored teenager caught in the middle of a romance novel.

"You know, hyung,” Riki calls out, not looking up from his stylus, "the acoustics in here are actually great for hearing whispers. You guys aren't as 'quiet' as you think you are".

Across the room, tucked into the shadow of a massive pedestal, Jongseong doesn't even flinch. He’s standing directly behind you, his arms wrapped around your waist with a possessive, heavy weight that felt like a permanent anchor. He’s not the "relationship-avoidant" man anymore; he’s now the lover whose eyes glow with your every breath and move.

"Focus on your blueprints, Riki," Jongseong mutters, his voice a low, jagged vibration against the shell of your ear. He leans down, his chin resting on your shoulder, his dark eyes unblinking as he watches you scroll through the updated sensor data on your tablet.

"I am focusing," Riki retorts, finally glancing up with a chaotic smirk. "I'm focusing on the fact that the 'Joy' sensors are currently at a ninety percent frequency and neither of you is even touching the equipment. It's distracting".

You let out a soft giggle, tilting your head back to look at Jongseong. "Maybe the airflow is just... optimized?"

Jongseong’s smirk is sharp and arrogant as he tightens his grip, his thumb tracing a slow, charged line along your hip—a touch that screams "I want you" much louder than any professional introduction ever could. "It's perfectly optimized," he agrees, ignoring Riki entirely to press a lingering, broody kiss to your temple.

"I'm calling Sunghoon hyung," Riki sighs, dramatically dropping his stylus.

"Go ahead," Jongseong murmurs, his focus narrowing entirely onto you as he turns you around in his arms, his forehead resting against yours in that familiar, safe resolution. He doesn't even see Riki walking out of the wing until he lifts his head up.

It’s late, and the South Wing is bathed in the kind of pressurized silence that only exists when the rest of the world has gone home. You’re now curled up on the bench, hair a mess, hands hidden in your hoodie sleeves. Jongseong is pacing, his brow furrowed as he talks under his breath about lighting layouts, but he keeps glancing back at you as if to confirm you haven't vanished.

“You look at me a lot,” you say softly.

He pauses, blinks. “You look back.”

You hum, wrap your arms tighter around yourself. Your voice is smaller when you speak again.

"Do you ever think... this is too good to last?" you whisper, your voice small and raw

That gets his full attention. "What do you mean?"

You shrug, your gaze dropping to the marbled floor. "Like... it's too safe. Too warm. Too close. Like it's the kind of thing I'll lose just because I got used to it."

He sits beside you, not saying a word. His eyes are soft, a little tired from all the preparation for the upcoming exhibit, but his stare is laced with love. 

The silence that follows is heavy until you finally say it: "I love you.”

The sculpture room goes so silent you can hear the faint hum of the HVAC system finally catching up to the room’s temperature. Jongseong freezes. The tablet in his hand—the one he was using to obsessively track lighting angles—stays suspended mid-air before he slowly sets it down on the marble bench like it’s made of glass.

He doesn't look at you yet. He just stares at his own hands, his knuckles white against the dark fabric of his trousers. The "meticulous curator" is gone; in his place is a man whose internal layout has just been completely leveled.

When he finally turns to you, the meltdown is visible in the way he forgets to blink.

"I've never said that to anyone before," she whispers. "And if this ends... it's going to wreck me. Because I'll always wonder if I ruined the only good thing I've ever been given."

He doesn't answer, just leans forward and presses his forehead to yours. "Then we won't end."

She exhales, shaky.

He cups her face. "Do you have any idea," he starts, his voice dropping into a jagged, low frequency that vibrates in the small space between you, "how long I’ve been walking around with that stuck in my throat?"

He lets out a breath that sounds like a surrender, a sharp contrast to the scared and nonchalant mask he’s tried to maintain for months. He moves closer, his knees bumping against yours, and for the first time, he isn't checking a layout or an aesthetic. He’s just looking at you with an intensity that is borderline uncalibrated.

"You love me?"

You nod, eyes glassy.

"Good," he says. "Because I love you too. And I don't want this to end, either."

"You scared me," she admits.

"You terrified me," he replies, his hand reaching out to cup your face, his thumb trembling slightly against your cheek. "You still do. Because I’m a man who likes to be in control of every variable, and you are the only thing in this gallery I can’t predict.”

He leans forward until your foreheads touch, closing his eyes as if he’s finally finding his resolution. "I’ve spent every night since that first installation work trying to find a professional way to say it back. But there isn't one.”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his stare dark and broody, stripped of every filter. "I love you. And if that wrecks us, then let’s just be a disaster. I’ll take the fear if it means I get to keep you.”

The exhibit has closed. The lights are low. Soft jazz hums over the speakers. 

You’re lingering in the room, hands behind your back, taking in the beauty of the project you’ve built over the last six months. You don't even hear him move. Jongseong steps in behind you, his sleeves rolled up and his shirt untucked from the chaos of the day, looking less like a curator and more like a man who has reached his limit.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration behind you. "You shouldn't touch the exhibits unsupervised.”

You jump slightly, but he’s already there—standing in a proximity that is definitely no longer "socially acceptable". He gently moves your hand away from the console, but he doesn't let go; instead, he keeps holding it, his thumb beginning to brush against your pulse.

Why?" you tease, trying to maintain the "hihi" energy. "Scared I’ll ruin the art?"

"No," he says, his gaze dark and unblinking. "You're distracting it.”

Your breath stutters. "That doesn't even make sense—".

"Neither do you," he whispers, leaning forward until his lips are brushing subtly against your ear. "but I still want you in every room.”

He doesn't pull back. He leans in even slower, his lips ghosting against your skin, not just to kiss you, but to anchor you in place.

"Stay still.”

You do. He circles behind you in slow, intentional steps. He presses a hand lightly to your waist, fingertips resting just under the hem of your blouse where a sliver of skin is exposed. 

“You walked around here like you don't know this whole gallery listens to you breathe,” his voice drops into a low, almost sultry tone.

Your back arches ever so slightly.

“You forget,” he murmurs. “that this place responds to motion. To tension. To heat.”

He leans in. “And you’ve been triggering every sensor I have since day one.”

Jongseong pulls you by the waist, lips enveloping yours in a sloppy kiss. He doesn’t just kiss you; he claims you with a desperate, high-friction intensity that sends your glasses askew and forces a jagged sound from his throat. It’s a total system override.

His hands, which he once used to "lightly brush" yours, are now grounding you against the console with a possessive, broody weight. His fingertips under the hem of your blouse find the heat he’s been dreaming of since day one.

Behind you, the installment reacts to the raw motion and tension. The sensors don't just flicker; they surge from blue to pink to a blinding, brilliant gold. The "Joy" frequency hits a peak the software wasn't designed to handle, creating a violent, beautiful strobe that paints the mahogany doors in neon.

When he finally pulls back an inch, his breathing is a wrecked, uncalibrated mess. His pupils are blown out, tracking every erratic breath you take.

“I told you," he murmurs, his voice a low, sultry frequency against your lips. "I'm done being quiet about you.”

He doesn't wait for a scientific explanation or a professional reason to stay. He simply grabs his coat and your hand, pulling you toward the exit with a broody focus that says the “airflow” in the gallery is no longer enough.

The drive to his place is a blur of city lights and heavy silence, the unspoken tension between you so strong it’s practically audible. His hand is warm and firm on your thigh while his hand maneuvers the steering wheel with ease. You can feel him holding on to his last ounce of sanity with the way his fingertips are twitching against your skin, his jaw clenching, and the curses leaving his mouth every five minutes.

When you finally reach his apartment—a space far more aesthetically compelling and private than any gallery wing—his front completely shatters. Once that front door clicks shut, his humble abode—the dark wood, the sharp lines, the expensive scent of cedar and rain—don't matter. The only exhibit he's capable of focusing on is you.

He doesn't even make it past the entryway before he’s pinning you against the door, his movements jagged and stripped of that gallery-grade grace. The broody, controlled man who spent months walking around with things in his throat is gone. In his place is someone raw, focused, and completely uncalibrated.

“Jongseong…” you sigh as he pulls your waist flush against the belt of his trousers.

Your plea gets completely drowned out by the rush of adrenaline in his system. His hands find their way to your ass—not squeezing, just feeling. He doesn't just look at you—he devours you with a stare that is dark, unblinking, and entirely uncalibrated. The man who was always uninterested in romance has just realized that the only way to keep it is to stop being so overly curated.

"Stop," you say softly, anchoring yourself with your hands on his wrists.

The word hits him like a physical blow. He’s a man who values meticulous control, and the thought that he’s pushed too far, too fast, makes his eyes widen for a split second. He starts to pull back, his grip loosening, his expression shifting into that terrified look you saw months ago.

"Okay—" he breathes, his voice a jagged, guilty wreck.

"Unless," you continue, your gaze locking onto him with a high-frequency intensity that makes the sensors behind you scream, "you don't plan on claiming me tonight. If that’s the case... just stop."

The silence that follows isn't safe or warm. It’s a total vacuum.

Jongseong doesn't pull away further. Instead, he goes still—deadly, broody still. The smirk that follows isn't smug. It’s dark. It’s the look of a man who has just been given a blank check to be as loud as he’s always wanted to be.

"Claiming you?" he repeats, the words a low, dangerous vibration.

He doesn't wait for an answer. He surges back in, his hand moving from your waist to the back of your neck with a possessive force that says he’s done with the unsupervised exhibit metaphors.

"I’ve been claiming you in every room of that gallery for six months," he mutters against your lips, his voice gravelly and raw. "I’ve been claiming you in my head every night I sat in this apartment alone. You think I’m going to stop now that I finally have you behind a locked door?"

He doesn't wait for a rebuttal. He lifts you, your legs instinctively locking around his waist, and he carries you toward the bedroom with a predatory focus that would make his fifteen-kilometer runs look like a walk in the park, but he’s stopping every three steps because he can’t keep his mouth off yours.

He doesn't just set you down; he practically collapses with you onto the mattress, the weight of him grounding you in a way that makes all those months of socially acceptable proximity feel like a bad joke. He’s looming over you, his tie long gone and his shirt buttons definitely losing the battle. His hair—that perfectly styled hair—is a total wreck where your fingers have been. He’s staring at you with that dark, unblinking focus, but it’s different now. It’s not awkward. It’s starving.

The apartment is quiet, but his breathing is a jagged, high-frequency mess against your skin. "You have no idea," he mutters, his voice dropping into a gravelly register that vibrates right through you. "How many times I had to walk away from you in that gallery just so I wouldn't do this."

The silence of the room is immediately broken—not by a claiming declaration, but by a sudden, breathless wheeze of laughter from you.

"Oh my god," you gasp, your hair fanned out like a chaotic dark nebula against his gray sheets. "That was... remarkably uncoordinated for an art curator."

Jongseong freezes, his face inches from yours. For a second, the broody lover looks ready to be embarrassed, his top button hanging by a thread. But then, his shoulders shake. A low, genuine chuckle breaks out of his chest—the kind of sound he never let Sunghoon or the board members hear.

He collapses his weight just a bit more, burying his face in the crook of your neck as the giggles take over both of you.

You pull his face up so you can look at him—his hair is a disaster, his eyes are crinkled at the corners, and he looks younger, happier, and completely "un-Park Jongseong-like."

"I like the uncoordinated version better," you whisper, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw that is finally, finally relaxed.

The giggles eventually taper off into a comfortable, warm hum. But because it’s him, and because you just challenged him to claim you five minutes ago, the atmosphere recalibrates fast. He stops laughing, his gaze dropping to your lips. The thumb that was just poking your side to make you squirm is now tracing your lower lip with that familiar, high-friction intent.

He doesn't wait for a scientific explanation this time. He dives back in, his mouth finding yours with a desperate, high-friction intensity. It’s a kiss that tastes like every "I love you" he kept in his throat.

His hands are everywhere. They’re sliding under the hem of your top, his palms hot against your skin, grounding you to the bed like you’re the only variable in the world that matters. He’s tracing the silhouette hiding under loud patterns—one he’s been studying from afar, but now the texture is real, and it’s making his internal logic fail completely.

“You’re unreal…” he mutters, his eyes blown out and predatory. “I'm done being quiet. And I'm definitely not stopping until I've ruined every 'safe' thought you ever had about me.”

You pull him down by his collar, your fingers tangling in the expensive fabric of his shirt as you bridge the last of the distance. A guttural hum leaves his mouth as your fingers graze the exposed skin of his chest—firm under soft, tan skin. Your hands graze lower, and as if some divine force is whispering in your ear, you start unbuttoning the rest of his shirt one by one.

“Wait," he whispers, his voice a raw, jagged version of the one he uses for board meetings. He reaches up, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip, which is slightly swollen from his own teeth. "Wait."

You let out a soft, questioning hum, your hands clutching the front of his shirt—the expensive fabric wrinkled beyond repair under your grip. “Jongseong?”

He closes his eyes for a second, a shiver running through him that you feel in your own bones. "Say it again," he breathes, his hands sliding down to cup your face, his touch almost possessive. "Say my name. Right now."

You blink, your brain still a whirlwind of sensory overload. "Jongseong..."

"No," he groans, leaning in until his lips are brushing against yours, teasing the contact without giving it to you yet. "Not the 'Mr. Park' you use in front of everyone. Not the professional tone you use when you're yapping about sound waves. I need to know you're here. I need to know this isn't just another data point in my head."

He nipped at your jawline, his voice dropping to a low, commanding vibration against your skin. "Say it so I know you're real."

"Jongseong," you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him back down to you. "Jongseong. You're real. We're real."

He didn't wait for another word. He crashed his lips back onto yours, the "sophisticated" curator completely lost to the man who finally had his resolution. His shirt is completely off, and his back becomes your anchor.

His hands slide up your thighs, his touch searing through the fabric of your stockings, and you realize that all those weeks of accidental brushes were just a prelude to this. He looks up at you, his eyes dark, blown-out, and finally, terrifyingly honest. You jolt as his fingers curl around the hems, his lips dragging down to kiss every inch of skin he exposes.

“Jongseong, you're something else—what the fuck…”

His mouth replaces his hands, teeth tugging on the mesh while his hands grip your thighs. “Fuck, baby, you're soft. I spent all that time looking at marble and steel in Kukje... I forgot things could actually feel like this.”

In a hazy turn of events, he’s already worked through the buttons of your top with that shaky, "scared-but-starving" precision, but when the fabric finally slips away and he realizes there’s no lace, no padding, no nothing between his palms and your skin—he just stops.

His hands, which were moving with such heat, go absolutely still against your ribs.

He lets out a low, ragged sound—somewhere between a groan and a surrender—and drops his forehead against your collarbone, his skin scorching against yours.

"You're trying to kill me," he mutters, his voice so gravelly it’s barely a whisper. "I've spent months trying to be professional, trying to keep my head on straight while you yap about sound waves... and you were just... like this?"

His hands finally start moving again, but they’re different now. He slides his palms along the plush of your breasts, his touch heavy and possessive, tracing the weight and the softness with a slow, agonizing focus that makes your brain completely short-circuit. Every time you exhale, his fingers lightly brush your already hard nipples, and you can feel his pulse jumping against your own neck.

"Has someone else touched you like this?" he murmurs. His voice is a low, jagged vibration, almost a growl. It’s a test, a question born from a man who needs to know exactly how much of this territory is already mapped.

You look up at him, your voice small but steady. "No. Just you."

Jongseong doesn’t just blink—he practically vibrates with the realization. Good," he whispers, his thumb dragging across your lower lip. "Because I don't plan on letting anyone else even think about catching up."

He’s hovering over you, his hands anchored to your waist with a weight that says you aren't going anywhere. That dark, unblinking stare of his is back, but it’s no longer clinical. It’s predatory.

“I’m your first”, he repeats, the words a low, gravelly vibration that feels like a physical mark already. “First and only.”

He doesn't just want to know you; he wants to make sure the rest of the world knows you’re spoken for, even if they can't see the evidence. He leans down, but he isn't going for your lips this time. He’s aiming for the sensitive column of your neck—the high-visibility zone that your crew-neck collars usually hide.

“Jongseong…” you plead as his teeth graze your skin in sections—slow, deliberate, and agonizingly focused. When his teeth graze your skin, it’s not an accident; it’s a claim. He’s leaving a sensor surge on your skin that no amount of concealer is going to fix before the next board meeting.

"I’m going to make sure," he mutters before leaving another mark on your chest, "that every time you look in the mirror tomorrow, you remember exactly whose hands were on you tonight."

He pulls away, pulling you to stand on the edge of the bed as he sits between your legs, eyes dark, skin glistening with sweat, and hands trembling with need. He leans down and presses a wet kiss on the spot below your belly button, dangerously close to where you're aching for him.

"You’re mine, Y/N," he whispers, the words a final, low-frequency resolution. "First. Last. Only."

“And you're mine, Jongseong,” you sigh, fingers tangling through his hair.

He actually stops breathing for a second. His pupils, already blown out, seem to darken even further. He lets out a low, huffed sound—part laugh, part groan—and buries his face in the soft skin of your abdomen, his shoulders shaking with the sheer weight of it.

He’s on his knees, completely wrecked, hands sliding from her hips to the backs of your thighs, like he's settling into the exact position he's dreamed about for weeks. You’re trembling already.

"Don't move," he murmurs, voice low, warm, a little ruined. "I've been imagining this the whole drive."

He kisses the inside of your thigh—not a peck, not a brush—a slow, open-mouthed drag that leaves his breath hot against you. Your knees wobble. He tightens his grip instantly.

"Keep standing," he says, looking up at you through his lashes. "I want to feel your legs shake."

His fingers stroke the groove where your thigh meets your pelvis—barely touching, barely breathing. He's savoring, scrutinizing the muse of his fantasies with his fingers.

"You wore this," he whispers, glancing at the skimpy fabric he fantasized about the whole ride. "For me."

You nod softly despite your choice of panties being a total coincidence. You didn't expect to be almost naked in your boyfriend’s bedroom, nor for him to stake his claim on you like some feral animal.

“Good girl.”

You brazenly moan at the pet name, knees shaking. He pushes the fabric of your panties aside, just enough so he can see your pussy. And when he does, he exhales like he's been punched.

“Shit, baby, you're dripping… all that for me?” he chuckles, smug.

She whimpers. He looks up again, and the look is devotion, hunger, and that slight obsessive streak she pretends not to love.

"Hold onto my hair,” he commands, soft, but undeniable.

You slide your fingers into his hair, and he shudders. Then he leans in, drags one slow, reverent lick from your folds to your already sensitive clit. Your entire body locks, and he smiles against you.

"There it is," he whispers. "That little jump. I've been craving that."

He kisses again, higher, deeper. His tongue moves like he's memorizing you—long strokes, slow circles, a teasing flick that makes you gasp and tighten your grip in his hair.

He groans into you, voice muffled but desperate. “Harder. Pull harder, baby."

You do, and he loses it. He presses his mouth fully against you—sucking, licking, moaning like you're the only thing on earth that could possibly satisfy him. Your thighs start to tremble.

He looks up—lips wet, pupils blown, cheeks flushed. "Yes," he breathes. "Shaking for me. Don't stop."

“Oh, my God—Jongseong, please,” you whimper, knees buckling. “You're killing me—”

One hand slides between your legs to hold you open, the other wraps around your thigh, keeping you up, steady, exactly where he wants you. He eats you out like the rent is due, the gallery donations are getting scarce, and his entire career depends on making you fall apart standing. You choke out his name.

He pulls back just briefly—mouth glossy, chest rising hard. "Let go," he whispers. "Fall apart for me while you're still on your feet. I'll catch you."

And when you do—when her knees buckle—he grabs your thighs, pulls you against his mouth, and devours your climax like he's starving. Your body goes limp in Jongseong’s arms after that standing orgasm and he catches you instantly, palms firm on your thighs, lips still wet with you.

He breathes against your skin, voice low and wrecked. "God, baby... you taste even better than I imagined.”

And just like that, he destroys you again. You don't even have time to process your very first orgasm, not from your fingers but from a man—mind-blowing, heavenly, euphoric—before he’s kissing your clit again like a madman.

You clings to his shoulders, still shaking. He starts lifting you—not bridal-style, not careful—but with both hands under your thighs, pulling her up so you wrap around his waist.

Your breath hitches. “Fuck, Jongseong…. I'm shaking… W-What have you done to me—”

He smirks. “Hold on to me."

You grip his shoulders, fingers trembling. He walks the two of you to the bed—slow, deliberate, like he wants you to feel every flex of his muscles beneath her thighs. When he lays you down, he doesn't climb on top yet. He just stands over you, breathing hard.

His eyes drag down your body. "You don't know..." he whispers, voice cracking with need. "How insane you make me."

He wipes his mouth with his thumb, tastes your cum on it, and groans. Then he leans down. His hands slide under your thighs again and he pulls her to the very edge of the bed. You gasp. He kisses the inside of your knee first, then up your thigh—higher, closer. But instead of diving back in, he stops and looks up at you.

“Turn around.”

Your whole body reacts, the sound of his belt buckle shuffling making you turn your head around. And there he is—naked in all his glory. His muscles are tense from mustering the remaining patience he has, and his cock is red at the tip, fully hard and leaking with precum. The sight makes you gasp and clench over nothing. How are you supposed to take that without breaking a sweat?

You gulp at the sight, move onto your hands and knees, but he gently presses between your shoulder blades. 

"No, baby," low, calm, commanding. "Down. Chest to the bed."

You inhale sharply and follow, cheek against the sheets, ass lifted, thighs trembling. His breath stutters. He runs his hands over your hips like he's relearning you—thumbs stroking the dip of your waist, palms spreading over the plush curve of your thighs.

"God fucking damn it..." he whispers, almost in disbelief, "you're perfect."

He kneels behind you, slowly, like he's savoring it. He brushes his thumb along your clit in slow circles, and you jerk, whimpering into the pillow that smelled so much like his shampoo. You make sure to make out the scent as much as you possibly can, 

He smiles into your skin. "So sensitive," he murmurs. "I love you so much." His hands grip your hips—firm, possessive—and he pulls you back onto him in one smooth, deep, overwhelming thrust. You gasp.

“Jongseong—oh, fuck!”

He groans loud. “F—fuck... baby…”

He stops, just for a breath, not because he wants to, but because the sight of you—all fours and ass up for him—the feel of you like that almost ruins him too fast.

He leans forward, chest over your back, lips on your shoulder.

"Can I move?" he asks, even though his hands are already shaking with the effort not to.

You nod, and that's all he needs. He pulls almost all the way out-slow, torturously slow, and slams back in. Your breath leaves you. You reach for the sheets-

Jay catches your wrist. “No,” he whispers, guiding your hand backward, placing it flat on your lower back. "Keep them there."

You moan, and he shudders. His thrusts pick up—deep, steady, controlled—but you can hear in his breathing, the strain in his voice, that he's about to lose it.

"Baby... baby, please—don't make those sounds or I'm gonna-"

But you arch for him. “Fuck, that's—y-you feel so big…” you whimper helplessly as he’s balls deep inside you.

Jongseong breaks at the compliment. He grabs your hips, pulls you back hard, meeting every thrust with a low, animal sound in his throat. "Baby, oh, my God. Baby—you're killing me. Talking about how big I am and all that—fuck, gonna let you know what you're missing out on.”

He lands a clean spank on your ass. Your thighs shake. Your voice cracks. You're begging without words. He practically growls. He leans forward again, hand sliding under your stomach to hold you up as he pounds into you deeper, harder, faster.

His lips find the shell of your ear. "Come for me," he whispers, breath shaking, "right now."

And you do—so intensely your whole body collapses. Jongseong catches you, holds you, thrusts through your orgasm until he's buried as deep as your body can take him. Then he cums inside you too—hard, loud. Right against your shoulder, he bites down to muffle the groan. He trembles through it, arms wrapped around you from behind, chest pressed to your back like he never wants to let you go.

Your thighs are already trembling from the second round, but Jongseong doesn't even give you time to look away from him. He sits back against the headboard, breath uneven, chest flushed and shining. Then he pats his thigh once.

"Come here," he murmurs. Not a command—a plea.

You crawl into his lap and he steadies you with warm hands at your waist, guiding you down, achingly slow, until you sink onto him. Your breath shatters, and his does too. But he doesn't thrust. He just holds your hips and keeps you right there. His forehead touches your collarbone. A shaky exhale warms your skin.

“Jongseong…” you murmur, holding onto his shoulders with the remaining strength you have.

“I got you, baby,” he whispers, hands firm on your wrist. “I’m right here.”

His hands slide up your back, fingers splayed, pulling you closer until your chests press together. He kisses the base of your throat, then your shoulder, then the corner of your jaw—each one soft, lingering, almost desperate. You shift your hips just a little, and he groans—deep, painful, relieved.

"Slow, he breathes, hands tightening. "I want this one slow."

You nod, and you start to move in gentle, rolling motions that make him suck in a sharp breath. His hands slide to your hips, guiding you, not controlling you, following your rhythm like he's memorizing the shape of you all over again. Every time you take him deeper, he lets out a sound—not loud, but soft, reverent, ruined.

You whisper against his lips, broken. “You feel like home.”

His lips brush your ear. “I kept dreaming about you. How your kisses would feel. How it'd be hard to pull away from your hugs because you’re so warm—fuck—just the whole art of you.”

You grip his hair. His mouth opens against your pulse. He's slow, but he's possessive. Every drag of his hips says, mine, mine, mine. Your breaths sync. Your bodies rock together. And then he wraps his arms fully around you and pulls you down to his chest, burying his face in your neck as he thrusts up once, deeper than before.

You gasp louder, and he whispers, voice cracking, "Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay."

And you do. You fall apart in his arms again. He follows, holding you so tightly your heartbeat vibrates against him.

“Jongseong… I love you,” you pant, as if he's punched all the air out of your lungs. “I-I’m staying. Not going anywhere.”

And afterward, he doesn't let you move. Not even a centimeter. He kisses your temple, shoulder, jaw, chest, and whispers, "That... that was the one I needed."

You're too exhausted, too floaty, too boneless—but also too in awe of his beauty. In the low light, he looks different. Without the sharp suits and the gallery-grade posture, he looks raw. You see the way his pulse is still visible at the base of his throat, the way his lips are slightly parted as he takes you in.

He’s propped up on one elbow, looking down at you. The curator in him is usually obsessed with every detail being perfect, but right now, your hair is a disaster across his pillows, your skin is flushed, and your eyes are hazy with the sheer weight of the night.

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the distant city lights of Seoul filtering through the sheer curtains, but for Jongseong, the only thing aesthetically compelling in the world is right here.

To him, you aren't just a physicist he works with; you’re the masterpiece he finally got to see up close.

"You're doing it again," you whisper, your voice barely a breath.

"Doing what?" he murmurs, his thumb catching on your lower lip.

"Looking at me like I'm the only thing in the room."

Jongseong lets out a soft, huffed laugh, a beautiful, genuine sound that you rarely heard in the South Wing. "In this room? You're the only thing in the world. I told you... you're ruining my focus. I don't think I'll ever be able to look at a piece of art again without comparing it to this."

He leans down, not for a passionate kiss this time, but just to press his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as if he's finally found the perfect calibration.

"You're beautiful," he says, the words simple and stripped of any clean-cut curator-ness. "And you're mine. I still can't believe I get to keep you."

You pull him closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck—the scent of cedarwood and him finally yours to keep. “I love you.”

The first tear slips out before you can calculate the trajectory. Then another. Jongseong freezes. The man who can manage a multi-million dollar installation is suddenly hit with a total system panic.

"Hey... no, no," he whispers, his voice fracturing. He pulls you closer, his hand cupping your face with a desperation that proves he’s still a goner. He wipes the tears away with his thumb, his gaze searching yours. "Did I... did I do something? Did I kiss you wrong? Tell me what to fix."

You let out a shaky, jagged breath, more tears spilling over as you bury your face in the crook of his neck.

"I love you too," you sob into his skin, your fingers clutching at his shoulders. "I just... I really thought I was going to lose you. I thought I was just an exhibit you were tired of looking at."

Jongseong’s grip tightens until there’s no space left between you. He’s shaking his head, his lips pressing a frantic, reverent kiss to your temple.

"Lose me?" he breathes, a rough, watery laugh escaping him. "You’re the only thing that’s ever made sense in this entire building. I told you—you’re mine. And I’m yours. I’m never going back to how it was before you."

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his own eyes glassy as he watches you cry. He doesn't try to be "Mr. Park” anymore. He’s just a man who is completely, utterly ruined by the woman in his arms.

***

The South Wing has been handed over to Nishimura Riki for his residency, but the rest of the museum still moves to the beat of Park Jongseong’s drum. He hasn't gone anywhere; if anything, he’s more entrenched in his power than ever.

Jongseong is standing on the balcony overlooking the main hall, looking every bit the head curator in a tailored charcoal suit that screams "art bro on a mission.” He’s watching the museum staff prep for the evening gala, his eyes sharp, calculating every detail.

The mahogany doors to the wing creak open, and Riki saunters out, covered in what looks like neon spray paint and wearing a smirk that could light up the whole district.

He doesn't even turn around. "You have a lot of nerve coming back here with your insufferable ass and your loud art," he calls out, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.

Riki leans against the railing next to him, laughing. "And you have a lot of nerve acting like the broody art curator when we all know you’re just a goner for the girl yapping about synapses."

As Riki wanders off, still laughing, Jongseong’s gaze drifts down to the lobby. He sees you standing there, checking the acoustics of the grand hall for the gala tonight. You look up, sensing his unblinking stare, and give him a small wave.

He doesn't just wave back. He lingers there, watching you with a look of absolute, high-frequency devotion. He spent years looking for the perfect "exclusive" premiere, but he found it in a physicist who wasn't afraid to break his logic.

As he reaches the bottom of the stairs and pulls you into his side, he leans down to plant a small kiss on your forehead, one he still makes sure to refresh every now and then.

"Ready to go?" he murmurs, his voice a gravelly vibration.

"Is Mr. Park finished with his 'meticulous' rounds?" you tease. “Our reservation is at 7. Don't go full-on boss on me.”

Jongseong shakes his head and pulls you closer, his eyes dark and full of a love that is finally, truly curated. 

NSFW TAGLIST [OPEN]: @jaylaxies @jaeminvore @ajayke-reads @rikismists @fancypeacepersona @jong-caprio @soulliliez @jaysguitars @et3rn4lmo0nl1ght @soullesslien [send ask or dm to be added]

© criceofpain on tumblr, 2026

[criceofpain]

helllooo

could i be added to the love is art series taglist?

thank uuu٩(◜ᴗ◝ )۶

yessssss! 🤩 thanks for the support!

[hjjsrot]

HALILI ✶

"baby, panalo. mvp." tinaas ni jake ang trophy na bitbit niya at binigyan ka ng malaking ngiti.

hindi mo napansin na nakapasok na pala siya sa apartment mo dahil sa lakas ng movie sa tv mo ngayon. napatingin ka lang sa kanya at nagkunyaring nakasimangot, dahilan ng mababang halakhak niya.

"wala bang congrats baby diyan?" ibinaba niya ang gym bag at trophy niya sa lapag at naglakad papunta sa kabilang gilid ng double bed para makatabi ka. sinalubong ka niya ng isang halik sa sentido at isa sa pisngi bago nahiga sa tabi mo nang nakatukod ang siko upang titigan ka.

"bakit ka nandito?" tanong mo agad sa kanya at umiwas sa nakakailang niyang tingin. kulang nalang tunawin ka neto e. alam niya namang hindi mo gusto na nadalaw siya tuwing weekends, lalo na kapag gabi dahil kakatapos mo lang ng part-time job mo bilang waitress at working student ka pa.

alam ni jake kung gaano ka kaabala, ngunit hindi niya mapigilang hindi ka mayakap ngayon dahil miss na miss ka na niya. ang tagal rin niyang hindi nakapunta sayo dahil pokus siya sa basketball training niya.

"palambing lang naman... inaantok na nga ako, parang gusto ko na matulog agad." totoo ang sinasabi niya, walang halong malisya ang pagpunta niya dito. umiling ka nalang dahil lagi naman siyang hayok makasama ka kapag nagkikita kayo.

nang hindi ka sumagot ay itinaas niya nalang ang comforter upang makatulog na sa tabi mo. laking gulat niya nalang na wala ka palang ibang suot. t-shirt lang talaga. napatigil naman siya at napatingin sayo na nakatuon pa rin ang atensyon sa tv. kung hindi niya lang alam na ayaw mo ng bisita tuwing linggo, baka akalain niya pang inaakit mo siya.

ngumisi lang siya na para bang may binabalak. hindi naman siguro makakabagabag sa pahinga mo ang iniisip niya, diba?

imbes na mahiga na lang at ituloy ang tulog niya, ginaya ka nalang niya at nagkumot habang nakaupo, nagpapanggap na hindi niya napansin na wala kang kahit anong pambaba. hindi niya kinalimutang umakbay sayo na hindi mo pa rin pinapansin, dahil titig ka rin sa pinapanood mo ngayon. alam ni jake na ganito ka tuwing inaantok ka na, wala nang pokus sa mga bagay sa paligid mo hanggang sa makatulog ka nalang. pero papayag ba talaga siyang itulog nalang ang libog niya sayo ngayon?

nang hindi ka parin umimik, ibinaba niya ang kamay niya mula sa balikat mo para isingit sa bewang mo. ang mga daliri niya ay marahang naglalaro sa tagiliran mo, tila ba hindi na makahintay na hindi ka mahawakan.

wala pa ring imik. kailan ka ba mamamansin?

ang hindi alam ni jake, pansin na pansin mo siya. kanina mo pa iniiwas ang tingin mo sa kanya dahil baka hindi mo rin mapigilan sarili mo. ilang buwan ba naman ang tinagal ng preparasyon nila para sa sunod-sunod na laro at championship ngayong season, literal na hindi mo na siya nakita ng ilang linggo.

hindi mo napigilang hindi mapasinghap ng higpitan niya ang hawak sa bewang mo para mapalapit sa kanya at mahalikan ang panga mo. gamit ang kabilang kamay niya ay hinigit niya pababa ang kwelyo ng oversized t-shirt mo para bigyan ng sunod-sunod na halik ang bahagi sa gitna ng iyong leeg at balikat.

"a-akala ko ba matutulog ka na?" mahinang tanong mo habang ninanamnam mo ang malambot niyang labi sa leeg mo.

"sinong hindi magigising sa suot mo ngayon?" sagot niya naman sa gitna ng mga halik niya.

sinadya mo ba na wala kang pang-ibaba at panloob? hindi. pinagsisisihan mo ba na ayaw tumigil sa pagiging mahawak sayo ni jake dahil diyan? mas lalong hindi. nagpapasalamat ka dahil sa sobrang katamaran mo pagkatapos ng shift mo, naligo ka nalang at tinamad na magsuot ng maayos na damit. kung hindi pa siguro maginaw, baka wala ka ring t-shirt ngayon.

nagulat ka ng bigla kang hinigit ni jake para kandungin ka, at napahawak ka nalang sa batok niya para hindi mawalan ng balanse.

"jake naman!" bahagya mo siyang hinampas sa dibdib niya habang nakangiti, at siya naman ay titig na titig sa mukha mo na para bang sinusuri ang bawat detalye nito. napadila nalang siya sa kanyang ibabang labi sa pananabik sayo. sobrang tagal na nga. sobrang tagal na nang huling pagkikita niyo.

wala ka nang ibang magawa kung hindi tumitig pabalik sa kanya. diyan siya magaling e, yung kuhanin yung loob mo palagi sa isang titig, sa isang haplos.

ni isang salita ay walang lumabas sa bibig niyong dalawa. tanging ang mga dalawang kamay niya na hinihimas ang magkabilang-gilid ng tagiliran mo ang nagbibigay senyales sayo kung anong gusto niya. mvp naman siya, bakit hindi mo bigyan ng premyo?

wala nang sabi-sabi at ikaw na ang sumunggab ng halik sa kanya. ramdam mo ang ngiti sa labi niya nang itagilid mo ang ulo mo at hawakan ang magkabilang pisngi niya para laliman pa ang halik sa kanya. mula sa tagiliran mo, hindi niya na napigilan at dire-diretsong nilamas ang hinaharap mo gamit ang magaspang niyang kamay, dahilan ng pag-ungol mo at paghiwalay mo sa halik.

"jake naman..." munting ungol mo, at napaliyad ka nalang sa sarap. partida, kamay niya palang. hinubad niya na ang tanging suot mo, at ramdam mo ang unti-unting paglaki ng tite niya habang nakakandong ka sa kanya.

titig na titig siya sa dede mong nasa harap niya ngayon. tangina, ang tagal niya nang hindi nakita to. habang hindi ka nakatingin ay sinipsip niya na ang utong mo. dagdag pa ito sa sensasyong nararamdaman mo habang nilalamas niya ang kabila, kaya napasabunot ka nalang sa kanya at napahalinghing muli.

"parang kanina lang ayaw mo ako dito ah," banggit niya at tinaas ang ulo niya para ngitian ka ng mapanuksko. imbes na magsalita ay tinulak mo nalang uli ang ulo niya sa dibdib mo para ituloy ang pagdila niya sa kabila.

"jake..." hindi mo na mapigilan ang sunod-sunod na ungol mo ng pangalan niya ng paglaruan niya ang kabilang utong mo habang sinisipsip ang kabila. bago siya humiwalay ay inalog niya ang ulo niya habang nakadila sa utong mo.

sa sobrang likot mo sa ibabaw niya ay mabilis niyang pinagpalit ang pwesto niya upang ilagay ka sa ilalim niya at pahigain ka naman sa kama. inalis niya na rin ang pangtaas niya dahil init na init siya dahil sa ginagawa niyong dalawa.

"gustong-gusto na akong umalis kanina pero ngayon naman halos di na ako makahinga kakasubsob mo sakin sa dede mo," napatawa siya ng konti sa sarili niyang sinabi bago ibinalik ang atensyon sa paghalik sa mga labi mo. isinabay niya rin ang paggiling niya sa taas mo. ramdam na ramdam mo ang tigas ng tite niya dahil wala kang saplot at siya naman ay naka-basketball shorts lang.

"fuck. jake. miss na kita."

dahil sa pananabik niya'y hindi na niya pinatagal at inalis na rin ang pang-itaas niya. hinalikan niya ang espasyo sa pagitan ng suso mo habang hawak ang bewang mo, pababa sa iyong tiyan, at pababa sa kung saan kailangan mo ang mga labi niya ngayon.

isang mahabang hininga ang inilabas mo nang maramdaman mo ang dahan-dahan niyang pagdila sa hiwa mo. napatingin ka sa kanya dahil ito ang paborito mo kapag ginagawa niyo ito ni jake: yung labi at dila niya na nakadikit sa puke mo.

taas-baba ang pagdila niya sa iyo, bago niya pinatigas ang dila para ipasok sa loob ng butas mo. hindi mo mapigilan ang sarap kaya napapasabunot ka nalang kay jake para lalo pa siyang ilapit. inikot-ikot niya ang dila sa pwerta mo, bago niya sipsipin ang clit. sobrang galaw mo kaya hinawakan niya ang balakang mo upang idiin ka pababa sa higaan at pinagpatuloy na kainin ka. hindi mo na alam kung saan mo ba ibabaling ang ulo mo sa sobrang sarap nang sensasyong binibigay niya sayo ngayon.

napatigil siya ng saglit upang titigan lang ang butas mo, at napatingin ka naman sa kanya dahil sa biglang pagkawala ng dila niya sayo.

"jake, tuloy mo lang plea— fuck." hindi mo na natapos ang sasabihin mo dahil nang magkatitigan kayo ay ibinalik niya ang pagdila sayo. libog na libog siyang makita ang ekspresyon mo ngayon habang kinakain ka niya.

"sarap ba?" nakangisi niyang tinanong nang tanggalin niya ang labi niya sa baba mo, at pinalitan niya ito ng mga daliri niya. napahugong ka lang bilang pahiwatig na sarap na sarap ka talaga.

hindi niya na napigilan at hinugot niya mula sa shorts niya ang tite niya. habang patuloy ang mabilis na labas-pasok ng daliri niya sa loob mo ay nagjakol rin siya ng kasabay ng ritmo ng daliri niyang nakapasok sayo. pansamantala siyang huminto upang alisin na ang pambaba niya, bago ipasok muli ang daliri niyang nakakurba na ngayon upang ianggulo kung saan alam niyang pinakamasasarapan ka.

"basang-basa na oh. pwede nang ipasok, baby?" tanong niya na hindi na kailangan ng sagot.

"please. please. please." hinigit mo ang mukha niya upang ibaba sayo at mahalikan mo uli siya. sabik na sabik ka sa labi niyang kakagaling lang sa pagkain sayo.

habang patuloy ang paghalik niya sayo ay pinasok niya na ng buo ang tite niya ng walang sabi-sabi. napatigil ka sa paghalik dahil sa sarap upang mapakapit sa balikat niya.

"tangina, baby," ungol ni jake habang bumabayo sa itaas mo. parehas kayong nasasarapan dahil sobrang tagal niyo nang hindi nagkikita.

patuloy lang siya sa paggalaw sa taas mo bago mo naalala na hindi pala naka-condom si jake. kaya pala sarap na sarap kayong dalawa.

"t-teka. condom."

"titigil ko pa ba? fuck." tanong niya at rinig mo ang dismaya sa boses niya. pinabagal niya rin ang pagbayo niya habang nakatingin sayong halos papikit na. sa totoo lang, ayaw mo na siya patigilin. sa tagal niyong hindi nagkita, sa isip mo ay mas maganda sigurong namnamin niyo muna ang sandaling 'to.

"labas. nalang." putol-putol mong sagot sa bawat bayo niya. binalik niya ang bilis ng pagbayo niya dahil ramdam niyang lalabasan na siya. sa ganyang mukha mo ba, mapipigilan niya pa?

"talikod ka muna." pinosisyon ka niya para tumuwad sa harap niya. nakagat-labi niyang binigyan ng palo ang pwet mo bago ito hinablot ng mga kamay niya upang paghiwalayin ang magkabilang pisngi at maipasok niya ng mas madali ang tite niya.

isang mahabang ungol ang narinig mo mula sa kanya nang maipasok niya na mula sa likod. kung sa tingin mo ay mabilis na ang pagbayo niya kanina, mas mabilis na ngayon dahil ito ang paboritong posisyon niya.

"labasan na ako," banggit niya bago ibaon ang mukha niya sa leeg mo. ramdam mo ang pagbagal ng mga bayo niya sa likod mo, hanggang sa naramdaman mo na hinugot niya na. hindi mo gustong nadudumihan ang kama mo ng nilabas niya kaya mabilis kang humarap sa kanya at ngumanga.

"tangina talaga," napailing nalang siya at ipinasok nalang sa bibig mo ang tite niya. hindi pa niya napapasok ng buo ay nilabasan na siya agad dahil sa lambot ng labi mo.

pagtapos niyang labasan ay pinahiga ka niya ulit para tapusin ka. nakaupo na siya ngayon habang nilalabas-pasok ang mga daliri niya. kung kanina ay ang gitnang daliri niya lang ang ginagamit niya, ngayon ay tatlong daliri niya na ang ipinasok niya sayo.

"j-jake!" ungol mo nang labasan ka na rin.

ngayon mo lang nalaman na pwede palang halili ang pasarap sa tulog kapag pagod ka. baka mas madalang mo na ngayong kakamustahin si jake para bisitahin ka. malay mo sa susunod, hindi mo na siya kailangan kamustahin kapag naging kayo na?

napailing ka nalang ng bumalik ka na sa wisyo. sa lalim ng iniisip mo kung dapat ba ay sagutin mo na ng oo si jake, hindi mo na napansin na napunasan ka na niya at may dala siyang tubig para sayo.

"akala ko pagod ka na kasi galing ka ng game niyo?" panimula mo pagtapos mo inumin ang tubig na binigay niya sayo.

"ganyan stamina ng mvp. ano, isa pa?"

[jaylaxies]

Hii I was wondering if you could help me find a Heeseung fic that I read a while ago, since your blog seems to be mainly focused around Enhypen. I don't remember what it's called, but I remember Heeseung was a sexologist and the MC cheated on her bf with him because her bf was bad at sex. Thank you in advance!

hihi <33 was this fic old? cause i do remember reading something like this anonnie!

if anyone knows then please help <33

[criceofpain]

anyone want a summer fling jake drabble 👀 (can't commit to a long-form atm bc writer's block) 👙☀️

yay 😃

nay 🥲

Voting ended onApr 27

[criceofpain]

uhm

it's out 😀

[criceofpain]

EUROSUMMER — sim jaeyun

pairing: jake x fem!reader

summary: what started as a sweet little summer getaway in europe turns into something heated as you approach the most attractive man in the club.

warnings: semi-public sex, strangers to ???, dubcon, alcohol consumption, unprotected sex (zon't zo it) (p in v), oral sex (m and f receiving), y/n is too stressed with work but also horny, drunk sex, jake has a big dick, they're fucking ppl they just met oh lord

word count: 3009

note: with the SEA heatwave killing me i was inspired to write this ficlet 🫠 i'm gonna die but y'all didn't hear it from me SUMMER ISN'T OVER YET YES QUEEN ZARA ☀️ and what better way to beat the heat by writing jake as your summer fling 😏 hehe hehe hehe can't wait to go to the beach soon

“A chaos-free vacation” — three words double-stroke at the very bottom of your bucket list.

You’ve held off every opportunity for a break—you couldn’t afford one, especially not when you’re up for promotion and trying to get on your boss’ good side. He’s been pulling on your leg, telling you to work harder so you can “impress the stakeholders.”

So the moment you received the new job offer in your email, your bags were packed with items from the very bottom of your closet. The tiniest bikinis and the flowiest dresses were let out of the dungeon, and you could imagine the hot sun, white sand, and the salt in your hair as you dive in the clearest waters known to man.

However, the chaos-free aspect flies out of the window when you meet a man at a bustling bar in Mykonos.

Sure, you could brush it off and call him “one of those things” like you always do to men, but this was no ordinary man. He had the face of a Greek sex god—though you can tell he's not from here either—and an oozing sex appeal.

From the moment you laid eyes on him from the dance floor, you were hooked. While the bass blasts through the speakers, your mind is somewhere else, devising a way to get the guy to be all over you. Dating (or in this case, hooking up) became an afterthought while you established your career, leaving you no room to socialize.

So you do the impossible and squeeze through the ocean of people on the dance floor, marching up to the guy with a drink in your hand. To your pleasant surprise, his head literally whips to your direction as the jingle of your keychain belt jingles in his ears.

“Oh—hey there, sweet cheeks,” his lips tug into an amused grin. “Cool belt. Ya need help with anything?”

“Sorry, what?” you bellow, scooting closer under the guise of not hearing him well over the loud vibrations of the bass.

He leans in closer, the scent of his perfume and the warmth of his breath hitting you. “You okay? Want some company?”

You chuckle heartily, finally sparing him a glance up close. “You're a cute face, huh?”

He raises an eyebrow, suddenly smug, then takes a sip of his drink. “Not what I was asking about, but I fuck with that.”

Of course he does. You giggle, your hand briefly grazing against his arm as you lean against the spot of the bar counter beside him. Looking at him up close, his features are sharper, more defined, and deadly.

He's got puppy eyes framed by thick, luscious black hair, and the lips of a cherub—plump and kissable. It's always been rare meeting a man at the club who hit the gene lottery jackpot.

He wore a white linen shirt with the buttons open, giving you a peek at the build he's hiding underneath—lean and moderately muscular. Just the right amount of hot.

“I’m Jake, by the way,” he nudges your shoulder as if you've known each other for forever.

“Jake,” you echo, letting the name wander around your tongue. You bat your lashes instinctively, “you do look like a Jake. A fine-looking one.”

“Damn, I like my girls straightforward,” he quips, a raspy giggle leaving his mouth after. “Fine-looking, huh? So I’ve been told.”

“Let's not get too ahead of ourselves now, shall we?” you joke, sultry eyes not leaving his as you scoot even closer. “I’m Y/N.”

“Alright, Y/N,” he nods, his grin not faltering as he looks you up and down. “Let's have a good time.”

The words echo in your head like a broken record as he pulls you back in the dance floor, leaving your drinks behind. The warmth of his hand around your wrists guides you even closer to him—you’ve never had a guy nice enough to guide you in the crowd, it was always men for themselves.

“So what brings you here, Jake?” you ask, hips politely swaying to the beat of the song. “Vacay? Work? Women?”

He shrugs. “Don't have a clear reason in mind. It's a soul-searching thing.”

Jake has always been fond of exploring the unknown. Food, scenery, countries—just experiences in general. He's fully aware of his charm and uses it to his maximum advantage, making the immigration officer question him less about why he's bound to his thirteenth country early in the year.

However, he's not been actively seeking women—until now, when you're shaking your hips sultrily in front of him without a care in the world.

“You alone, pretty girl?” he asks in your ear again. This time, his soft lower lip brushes against your earlobe, sending a rush of shiver down your spine. “You got friends around?”

You shake your head anyway. “If I hear them talking about their relationships one more time, I’m gonna fucking lose it.”

“Sounds like someone's looking for a getaway,” he mutters, hands hovering over either side of your waist. “This okay?”

You nod, and for the first time in a long time, a man's hands have found their way on your body.

His hands are firm and warm against your bare waist as every sway of your hips were accompanied by the jingling sounds of your belt and bangles. A small laugh leaves his mouth as you lock eyes with him again, lower lip bitten and eyes half-lidded. Like a siren reeling him in the deep sea.

Testing the waters, his hands start traveling a little bit downward, right to where your hips are, and his body instinctively follows the movement of your hips as he reels you in even closer.

Criminal. You tilt your head up to meet eyes with him again, just to see a man with eyes darkening with need. He licks his lips, and that seals the deal.

The beat changes—nastier, more upbeat, but still a little sultry. You roar in delight. “That's my fucking song!”

“Oh, yeah?” Jake chuckles, anticipating your next move. “Let me see you dance to it, baby.”

You barely have time to register the pet name before he echoes it—literally whispers it in your ear. “Wanna see you shake that ass for me, baby.”

You let out a shaky exhale, frozen in your spot as your brain struggles to make out what you just heard. You open your mouth to retaliate, but to no avail. Jake’s hands are already on your ass—just touching with every single ounce of restraint in his body, but not squeezing yet.

And that's when it hits you—your plan to lure this man just worked, and he's not backing down any time.

So you shake the hesitation off and start moving your body to the beat just like you’d always do in your bedroom, much to Jake's amusement. His hands start feeling up your ass as you roll your hips, sending you in a trance as the beat gets louder.

“Fuck, you're a good dancer, huh?” he spins you around so that your back is facing him.

He looks down, smirk growing wider as he sees your white lace thong peeking from underneath your shirt, with a flower tramp stamp just above it. He gives your ass a little squeeze again, gradually letting his freak loose. You giggle, loud enough for his ears to pick up in the sea of people screaming their hearts out to the song’s lyrics.

Without another word, you back into him, grinding your ass against his hand. Predictably so, he moves his hand away, pulling your ass flush against his already growing hard-on. He hisses, hands digging into your hips and pulling you closer, the friction heightening the tension between you two.

You look at him over your shoulder, lips parted and eyebrows furrowed at the new sensation against your ass. “Shit, keep doing that.”

And he does, hands brazenly going upward to cup your clothed breasts. The cutout sundress you picked left nothing to the imagination, and Jake's living for it. He gently kneads the plush mounds of your chest—too gentle for how heated the situation is.

You reach behind his neck and pull him closer to your face, lips crashing into each other instinctively. You could faintly taste the sangria on his tongue, and a hint of tobacco from the cigarettes he’s smoked.

He's French kissing you in the middle of the crowd, not a care in the world. His tongue clashes with yours, and his hands pull you against him even more, leaving no room for air to escape between your bodies. You gasp for air, only for him to dive back in, completely in a trance.

And just as you’ve expected it, he's already pulling you out of the club and into his hotel room.

Jake starts you off with a bottle of red wine, not bothering to get two glasses and just going straight to tugging at the strings of your sundress. As you bottom up the wine, your sundress is out of the picture and your skimpy thong remains.

He gawks, finally getting to take in the sight of your body after all the chaos in the club. His eyes rake over the curves of your breast and ass, practically fucking you with his eyes as you follow his gaze. Your cheeks flush more furiously as he slowly drags your thong down with his teeth.

“God fucking damn it,” you whine, voice laced with urgency as he lets your thong drop to the floor. “What are you doing to me, Jake?”

“Showing you what you're missing out on,” he steals the wine bottle from you and takes a gulp himself. “Tell me to stop.”

Ironically, he's leaning down and planting drunk, wet kisses along your abdomen after, sending another round of shivers along your body. You anchor yourself with a hand in his shoulder, keeping your knees from buckling with every kiss and touch.

“Fuck…” you sigh, nails digging into his shoulder as his lips travel lower, closer to where you're aching for him.

“I got you, baby,” he mumbles against your stomach, fingers splaying out against your waist. “Gonna make this a fun night, yeah?”

You nod, and the heat starts to build up. He runs a finger along your folds experimentally, not yet touching your clit just so he can hear you beg for it.

“Jake… fuck, please…” you whimper, trying to lead his hand, but his finger keeps exploring—not prodding, letting your arousal coat him.

“Wet already?” he chuckles smugly, still avoiding your clit despite your pleas. “Damn, baby, you're easy to please, huh? I like that.”

You run a hand through his hair, whimpering for his touch despite yourself. His lips continue kissing spots dangerously near your pussy, still not touching you where you want him. What a tease.

You finally let out an exasperated cry. “I swear to God, Jake, if you don't fucking touch me there, I will—oh, fuck—ah!”

He cuts you off, running his warm, wet tongue along your clit, drawing slow circles that have your knees slowly giving out. You could tell he's experienced at this (with that face, why are you even surprised?), doing the push-pull thing to drag foreplay on and have you shaking for longer.

“Yeah?” he mumbles against your clit, humming low to send vibrations.

And just like that, his mouth is completely on you—hot, filthy, and unrelenting. His fingers make their way inside you, too, pushing slowly inside you as his tongue drives you to complete insanity.

“Fuck—yes, right there—just like that,” you babble, brain completely scrambled as his mouth and fingers work you. “God, that feels so good…”

Jake lets out another hum of approval, sending another round of vibrations along your pussy and making you clench around his fingers. His free hand pulls you in closer, his tongue works you faster, and there was only one word to describe you as of the moment—cooked.

When his fingers hit your G-spot, your back arches and your arms flail, knocking over the red wine bottle and spilling it on his hotel bedsheets. “Oh, shit—”

But he doesn't let you off, pulling his fingers out and letting his tongue do all the work. Your whimpers get louder and higher as you feel your first orgasm approaching.

“Jake, please, I’m about to—oh, fuck, yes!”

After a stroke of his tongue, you cum all over him, fist tight on his hair as he keeps on eating you out, knees finally giving out.

Still shaking from your first orgasm, you feel Jake leading you to his bed, no account for the spilt red wine on the duvet whatsoever. He leans back against the headboard, and your hand instinctively travels down his abs, then to the tent already formed under his swim shorts.

His hips twitch. “Fucking hell—baby, you're going for the kill, huh?”

You chuckle despite yourself, palming his clothed hard-on. “Gotta see what I’m missing out on… am I right?”

“Oh, you're a minx, aren't you?” he chuckles, cupping your cheek with a single hand. “I won’t let you down, baby.”

With hasty hands, you pull down his shorts and briefs in one go, and you see his cock spring back against his stomach.

“Damn, you're hung,” you blurt out, eyes raking at the length and girth of him. “Shit…”

Without another word, your lips drag painfully slowly along his length, lips pursing in a messy kiss when you get to his tip. A dirty groan leaves his lips as you throw your hand in the mix, stroking his shaft with your free hand.

“You're a naughty girl,” he quips despite himself, letting out another groan as you squeeze your hand around him tighter. “Can't wait to taste me, huh? Already sucking the fuck out of me like a—fuck!”

You cut Jake off with your mouth sliding down to his base, tip hitting the back of your throat. He's quick to catch on, too—thrusting his hips upward just to hear you gag.

“Little mouth can't take it, hmm?” he teases, slowly guiding your head up and down on him.

He is too big for your mouth and way too deep against your throat. You've given blowjobs to guys before him, but Jake is a different experience. Even pursing your lips around his cock poses a challenge. You groan, taking all you can't fit in your hand and jerking it off.

“Fuck, fuck, baby—argh, you're a fucking dream…” he whimpers, “Can't wait to be in that fucking pussy. Gonna be inside you, yeah?”

You groan, desperately breathing through your nose as he proceeds to thrust against your throat, completely robbing you of control over your head.

“Fuck, gonna cum in that pretty mouth…”

Growing desperate to cum, he yanks your hair aggressively while thrusting his hips at an uneven pace, your nails digging into his thighs as you try your best not to throw up all over him—you can't possibly drive this man away!

“So close, baby—gonna fucking paint that mouth white—”

His hips still, spurting his release inside your mouth as he moans—untasteful. You groan again, swallowing his cum as he goes. You pull off of him, licking your lips while you stare at him in pure hunger and lust.

“Good girl,” he pats your cheek, gives your lips a quick peck before he guides you to lay on your back. “I’ll be good, baby. Gonna fuck you like I mean it.”

The past two days with Jake have been heaven.

One minute, he's undressing you with his eyes as you walk around in a skimpy two-piece, only to bend you over on a beach towel and have you begging for him after, tipsy under a palm tree and mind in a frenzy as his cock mercilessly rams inside you.

“Fuck, right there!” you whimper as Jake lands a harsh palm on your ass cheek. “Baby, you're so big…”

He chuckles, smug, thrusting balls deep inside you as if there was no risk of being spotted from the beach. “God, this pussy’s so tight… made just for me, yeah?”

“Ngh, just for you—” you gasp, breath getting caught in your throat as he reaches down to rub your clit. “Ah—y-you’re evil for that—”

He lands another spank on your ass. “But you let me hit… so what does that make you, hmm?”

You say nothing, whimpering as his finger rubs your clit. You couldn't seem to mind the harsh sun rays almost toasting your skin as Jake thrusts even deeper and harder inside you, almost as if he's got something to prove.

“God, you feel amazing, baby…” he leans forward to whisper in your ear. “Better not ghost me when you fly back home.”

“I won't…” you moan out, pulling him in a messy kiss. “Gotta have you all for myself. Can't let another girl get a piece of this.”

With your answer stroking Jake’s ego, his pace gets even harsher, and you're practically screaming against his mouth. He muffles those with his kisses, but with your orgasm approaching, the sounds you make overpower him, and he gloats even more.

“You're mine, baby, get it?” he whispers as he fucks his cum inside you, thrusting faster to make you cum with him.

“Y-yours—ah, fuck, Jake!” you squeal, your second orgasm of the day finally dawning on you. “God, keep fucking me…”

He rides out your high, gasping desperately for air as his hand runs along your waist—just like he did when you first met. You giggle despite yourselves, feeling dazed and in awe of the bliss that just befell you. He pulls you in a peck—more chaste, more honest than the aggressive ones he's given you so far.

He smiles, and a rush of warmth runs along your spine.

And with the rustle of the palm leaves and the gush of salty air hitting your skin, your bucket list was officially complete.

“A chaos-free vacation Getting the best sex of my life in Mykonos” — you scribble the latter part in your diary as Jake dozes off on your FaceTime screen.

NSFW TAGLIST [OPEN]: @jaylaxies @jaeminvore @ajayke-reads @rikismists @fancypeacepersona @jong-caprio @soulliliez @jaysguitars @et3rn4lmo0nl1ght [send ask or dm to be added]

© criceofpain on tumblr, 2026

[criceofpain]

anyone want a summer fling jake drabble 👀 (can't commit to a long-form atm bc writer's block) 👙☀️

yay 😃

nay 🥲

Voting ended onApr 27

[criceofpain]

drunk in love | park jongseong

featuring: enhypen's hyung line + sunoo

synopsis: you always thought those drinking game cards were bullshit, until your crush gets too drunk and his secret eventually gets to you.

pairing: jay x female reader

genre: smut, a tinge of fluff

word count: 2005

warnings: alcohol consumption, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), fingering, slight voyeurism at the end (?)

“Take a shot if…”

Sunghoon slowly pulls out the card from the stack with his fingers, painfully slow that it builds up a strange tension in the atmosphere. Jake has his hand out, getting ready to take a shot glass full of gin if ever the description in the card would fit him. Heeseung begins to create a drumroll sound with his hands on the floor, making Sunoo slightly jump in surprise beside him. Jay, meanwhile, gives Sunghoon an anticipating look as his hand instinctively squeezes your thigh.

Anyone from afar can tell that all of you were being edged.

All of you have had a couple of shots, Jake the most. The house is a mess and so are your spinning heads. Jay, being the little devil that he is, chose to play a drinking game despite all of you being already tipsy. Cards Against Humanity would’ve been better, you thought.

Sunghoon finally lifts up the card and proceeds to read it. “Take a shot if you want to get railed or rail someone…?”

“Oh, fuck it.”

“What the fuck?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“Boo! Pick another one!”

A string of boos and profanities fill the whole living room as Sunghoon himself grumbles at the question. Seriously, the game creators could’ve done a little bit better. Sunoo was inexperienced and didn’t want any at this point in time, he just finished high school. Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon are too busy with university to even get a girlfriend.

However, silence fills the room as a loud exhale is heard from one person—Jay.

Right. He was the only person who didn’t have too much on his plate. He bottoms up the small shot painfully, making him grimace at the sting of the alcohol in his mouth. you all could tell that he had too much, judging by his unusual antics. Where did the prim and proper Park Jongseong go just now? Just earlier, he was talking about business and science with the boys, but now he’s laughing like a moron…

“Are you fuckers seriously lying to yourselves? Hah! I doubt you wouldn’t want a taste of a pretty cunt… don’t lie to me.”

… with his eyes directed to you.

What is he on about? You raise your brows, clearly confused about why he is staring devilishly at you. He just chuckles, finding your reaction cute. The rest of the squad stares as well, watching the buildup of sexual tension slowly unfold in front of them. Everybody knows how much you have been pining for Jay and him.

Little did the two of you know that the boys have slowly escaped in their respective rooms, leaving the space to only you and Jay who are still in a hot staring contest.

“Y/N,” he slurs, eyes not leaving yours. “You look particularly hot tonight.”

“Jongseong,” you reply, stroking strands of his hair back to the top of his head. “Is that a way for me to compliment you back?”

He snorts. “Definitely not. I don't force compliments out of people.”

You chuckle, leaning forward until your lips are dangerously close to his. His senses heighten as the alcohol kicks in; he can smell your perfume better now. He chuckles, too, and the mixed smell of alcohol and mint fills your nostrils. Fuck. you wouldn’t be able to keep your cool if he keeps this up.

“You were saying?” he whispers, looking lustfully at your lips.

“You wanna rail someone.” you reply as you feel his hand go up and down your arm. “Am I your only choice, then?”

“You are.”

Jay suddenly scoops you up by the ass, pulling you into his lap and making you squeal. He wonders if he could get more of those out of you, because that sound may or may not have caused his cock to slightly twitch.

“But I'm not bringing you to bed just because of that.” he continues, slowly bunching up your skirt around your hips. “Have I told you that you’ve been living rent-free in my mind lately?”

You squint, not knowing whether to believe what just came out of his mouth. He's drunk. There’s no way he would spew random shit on the get go, right? He senses this and buries his head in the crook of your neck, just where he can kiss and mark it up later on.

“Cat got your tongue, Y/N?” he teases, voice dropping a few tones as his hands travel up your waist. You tense up in his hold, and he smirks on your neck. “Your subconscious is telling me something.”

“And that is?” you respond despite knowing he was joking.

“She wants to get fucked so bad,” he gives your neck an experimental lick to which you gasp audibly to. “and it’s not because of the alcohol. It's because she’s been staring at me all night… isn’t it?”

“Jay.” you sigh as his hand travels upward to your inner thigh. “This is not how I wanted to confess to you, you know?”

“Mm-hmm, keep talking, little girl.” he mumbles, drawing little circles along your soft skin. It felt pillowy against his rough finger pads, which he loved so much.

“You're drunk.”

“What about it?”

“The guys have left us here… alone.”

“Isn't that supposed to be a good thing?” he tugs the crotch of your panties down and prods on your clit experimentally. You whimper softly.

Here you are, sitting on the lap of the Park Jongseong you have been crushing on for quite a while, with his fingers on your sex. He’s smirking to himself, thinking about how you’ve touched yourself to the mere thought of him. To say he hasn’t jerked himself off of the thought of you stripping for him would be a total lie. That would be unfair of him, wouldn’t it?

“Don't you get it, Park? I want to—ah!” you suddenly cry out as two of his fingers effortlessly slide in your pussy. They feel thick and boney inside of you and are already teasing you. God, how would you be able to take his cock if you’re already going haywire because of his fingers, then?

“You want to do what?”

“Confess to you in a more proper setting and situation?” you ask, sounding like a desperate whine as he starts pumping his fingers slowly into you. “Fuck, Jay, I wanted to dress up for that special day.”

“Isn't your fit appealing enough, sweetheart?” he coos, looking at you from head to toe. You wore your work skirt and a graphic tee that was big enough to be a dress. “I'd just rip off whatever expensive shit you want to buy. Would you want that?”

If it were you, I'd love that a lot. “No, Jay.” you shake your head, legs clenching around his arm as he continues to toy you with his fingers. He doesn’t forget to rub your clit, teasingly slow that makes you see stars.

“Spread your legs for me, please?” he nibbles on the lobe of your ear, and you oblige. “Good girl.”

He pulls his fingers out of you, and you whine at the loss of contact. He then lays you flat against the fur carpet and crawls on top of you, licking his fingers and tasting your wetness on his tongue. A part of you wanted him to just fuck you senseless, but the way he was undressing you with his eyes made you want to stare at him for longer until you were dripping wet again.

“What now?”

His domineering tone makes you feel so little under him that you could only respond to him with a whine.

“I’ll take that as a yes."

The next few minutes are a bit hazy for both you and him as the gin starts to kick in. He messily captures your lips in a kiss, tongues clashing together in a fight no one would win. The sting of alcohol on his tongue heightens your senses, and the taste of strawberries on yours elicits a low grunt from him. He hooks your legs around his hips, rubbing his clothed cock against your clit before completely taking his bottoms off.

“You on the pill?”

You nod. That was all he needed to line himself up against your cunt and enter you slowly until he had filled you up to the hilt. You instinctively bite on his shoulder to suppress whatever noise was to come out of your mouth, taking note of the fact that you two weren’t alone in this house.

“Come on, princess.” he coaxes, taking your head in his hands as he rubs his nose against yours. “Are you still trying to stay silent when you’ve been whining on my fingers now? Does that make sense?”

“Fuck, Jongseong!” you gasp as you feel his balls slap against your ass cheeks while he catches you off-guard with slow, sharp thrusts. He knew how to kept you going. “You feel so fucking good…”

“I know, baby.” he whispers, feeling you clench involuntarily around his cock. Sober Jongseong would never assert something that easily. “I know how good it feels.”

He proceeds to kiss you fervently and mindlessly as his hands grope your ass from under. You desperately cling onto the fabric of his shirt for stability as he is going berserk above you. Eventually, you stop caring about how loud you were moaning and just let your long-time crush do the work for you. These were one of your fantasies waiting to be fulfilled, anyway.

Your vision blurs, your eyes roll to the back of your head as Jay picks up his pace and rams into you, letting the alcohol take over his body. His hand finds its way to your clothed breast, squeezing it against his fingers and feeling for your nipple under your shirt. He tugs onto it, your whines get louder and more wanton and it drives him closer to his high.

“Mmm, are you cumming, baby?”

“Yes, fuck… I'm so close… want you to cum in me.” you beg. Heck, even making out words was hard under his ministrations.

With loud grunts, he spurts out his seed inside you, triggering your own orgasm. An array of moans and grunts fill the living room as you ride out your high, and the mixed smell of perfume, sweat, and sex fill your noses. To your surprise, he passes out above you, completely sandwiching you between his weight and the floor.

“Let's do this again, Y/N, baby…” he mutters against your chest, words slurred and almost incomprehensible. “This is so much better than the formal confession shit you were planning.”

“Jay.” you roll your eyes, hand finding his hair and gently stroking it with your fingers. “I still want it—”

“Shh.” he throws a hand above your mouth, feeling like a slap on your face though it was unintentional. “You talk so much for a little girl.”

“I’m not little!”

“Don't lie, Y/N. I can pick you up on one arm… throw you around and…”

“And?” you raise your brows, anticipating his answer. “What's next, Park?”

“And I'll wrestle you and…”

And he’s suddenly snoring. You snort. He's right. maybe this can wait until the next morning…

… or until he’s fucking you again.

“Oh, fuck. Harder, Jay, please!” you scream against the mattress as Jay pistons into you from behind. It was either you staring at the mirror or him pinning you down and letting him take over.

“This is so much better without the alcohol, don’t you think?” he suggests, landing a harsh slap on your ass. “Answer me, babe.”

“Damn, right, it is.” you whine out. “Did you lock the door, by the way?”

He slows down and whips his head to the fully opened doorway. Sunghoon stands meters away from it.

“Get the fuck out!” Jay screams, covering your bodies with the blanket.

“Lock the door next time, you moron!” Sunghoon screams back, slamming the door shut.

Well, that was embarrassing.

a/n: this is one of my old fics (from heeyunkist) that i was luckily able to retrieve! this is for all my jay hoes and non-jay hoes alike who enjoy the concept of him drunk and hot af. also this is clearly not inspired by queen beyoncé’s song of the same title /j

NSFW TAGLIST [OPEN]: @thots4hee @jaylaxies @ddeonuism @jojayke @vernonluvs-archived @puphee @forjongseong @jaeyunsz @muffinminnie @shu-ramyeonz @poutyjaeyun @fairy-junseong @duolingofanaccount @polalvsjy @taetaemylovie @heetro @yizhoutv @lavhikaru @kaislinging-slasher01 @cha0thicpisces @en-archv @simplewonderland @exactlygreatcoffee @lhseth @aerinaga @xwonniex @celeste-hoon @ajayke @enhastolemyheart (send an ask or a dm to be added!)

© criceofpain on tumblr, 2023

[criceofpain]

switch it up | park jongseong (reposted and edited)

featuring: enhypen's jake, heeseung, sunghoon, sunoo, and jungwon; stayc's yoon

synopsis: after you find your ex cheating with another guy, the quiet kid takes the opportunity to get closer to you. but the shocking part is, you never knew he could do a full 180 and be the most charming guy you've ever seen.

pairing: student!jay x student fem!reader

genre: smut, fluff, a tinge of angst (and humor lol)

word count: 7418

warnings: semi-public sex, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), slut-shaming, usage of pet names, vaginal penetration, alcohol consumption, gamer rage (especially heeseung lol), male masturbation, degradation, fellatio, minimal impact play, implied violence, two-timing, cheating, jakehoon are gay, jay has too much porn vids on his laptop, yoon has warfreak tendencies, too much tekken references, too much time skips

Being popular in school had its own perks.

If people were asked what they’d do if they became the most popular person in year two for twenty-four hours, you’d get a vast range of answers from all of them. Fame, beauty, authority, and money–the possibilities are endless for a household name in one of the most prestigious universities in Seoul. The thing is, though, downsides will always be inevitable.

Thursday’s a typical work day for the student council’s president–you. A ton of paper stacks were waiting to be scanned and submitted to the council adviser, but you couldn’t bring yourself to get up and actually work on them. The adviser’s office was two buildings away from your location, and God, did you dread walking. Worse, you had to do it every week and without the help of your vice president. Bothering to find him would be a waste of time, either.

The sudden ring of your phone disrupts your train of thought, making you look up to check whoever was trying to test your patience at this hour. Jakey ♡, your phone screen reads. You heave a relieved sigh; it’s been three days since your boyfriend last called and it was messing with your momentum. Even overthinking was a waste of time and you hated it.

“Hi, love.” you mumbled, voice laced with exhaustion. “I'm glad you finally called.”

“Love, can we cancel our date?” Jake asks from the other line, and your face immediately contorts to a disappointed scowl.

Strange. He’s usually not the type to postpone plans at the last minute because he knew you despised that type of feat. As the student council president, the last thing you'd want is for someone to waste your valuable time.

“Suddenly?” you deadpan as you put your pen down and slowly spin in the swivel chair you sat on. “We’ve got everything planned out and now you wanna cancel?”

Jake sighs. “Coach called us for training. He’s been lenient on me for the past week, I can't afford another absence.”

“Oh.” you utter, at loss for words. “Long day ahead, huh?”

It was what you least expected, anyways. You stay still in your seat, disappointment filling your chest. You start to feel uneasy—you knew you’d never stand a chance against his monster of a coach. What can I do? Jake was the team’s striker which gained him maximum importance. Without him, the team would basically be a chaotic bunch. 

“Sorry.” he mutters apologetically. “I didn't want this to happen, really.”

“I know, I know.” you grumble, picking your pen back up and fixing your attention back to the papers you were reviewing. “Can I come after training, though? We should at least eat, like, ramyeon, tteokbokki or something."

A few seconds of silence fills the other line before Jake replies, "God, that sounds—fuck. That's irresistible. I hope Coach lets me off ‘cause his diet plan is seriously killing me.”

“I sure hope he does,” you roll your eyes as the image of a conceited middle-aged man with his stomach overflowing his pants. “unless he wants a big ‘fuck you’ from me for tiring you out. You gotta rest, love.”

He chuckles, causing a grin to tug your lips. “I love you. I know you’re a busy woman and you’ve probably got a lot on your plate right now. I'll hang up now, hmm?”

Your reply gets cut off by the sudden drop of the call, and another sigh leaves your mouth. 

Popularity was so exhausting for you. However, not everyone suffers from the syndrome; take Park Jongseong–who goes by “Jay” in school–as an example. The lad has finally gotten a taste of rest after coding what felt like a thousand HTMLs, now nibbling on a cob of corn with his other hand glued to his keyboard.

Why had I never thought of playing Tekken as a way of escaping the hell of school and the sight of students’ thirst for crowd validation before? As he fervently taps the keys of his laptop, the corner of his lip tugs into a slight smirk. He continuously lands hits on a random Kazuya he was matched with, not letting them rest as he uses his trump card–Jin Kazama’s ten-hit combo.

The silence breaks as Jay’s hearty laughter booms in the computer club room. He sighed triumphantly, propping his head on his intertwined hands. 

"I gotta tell Heeseung hyung about this.” Jay snickers, grabbing his phone from beside his laptop and speed dialing the number “5”. After a few rings, his friend finally picks up. “Ay, hyung! I got good news for you.”

“Man, fuck you!” Heeseung, the student council’s vice president hisses from the other line, annoyance evident in his voice. Before the younger can ask about why he had such a tone, the older interrupts, “You’re never gonna let me live, are you?”

“Whoa, whoa, chill out, hyung.” Jay chuckles in confusion. “It’s not like I’m gonna use the ten-hit combo on you, is it? What’s the matter?”

Heeseung clicks his tongue and scoffs, “Don’t you see what’s happened or are you playing dumb right now, Jongseong? Fucking look at your screen.”

Jay, although confused, obliges anyway. He looks back at his laptop screen with the rematch menu on display. After a good few seconds, he spots the username of his opponent and immediately gasps, loud enough for his friend to hear. He then breaks into laughter, this time louder and more provoking as he hears the bantering on his ear.

“What—don’t tell me you had no idea—Jay!” the owner of the username heeba_inu_1015 yelled, followed by a frustrated shout.

“Whoops, should’ve gone easy on you, then.” Jay teases, shrugging his shoulders. “No, seriously. I had no idea. This is what school frustration makes me do.”

“Well, at least you’re not the student council’s vice president.”

Jay snorts in disbelief. “Come on, it’s not that hard–” he cuts himself off. “Oh, you’ve got a point, though.”

Jay didn’t necessarily live in the shadows; he just didn’t like being the center of attention. Being an eye candy is the last thing he wanted. Sure, he’s got what it takes to be popular–he’s a CEO's son, filthy rich, and on the honor roll. His friends say he’s got some sick visuals, too. Despite all these, he’d prefer to just blend in with the crowd and not stand out as a resident introvert (not to be confused with being a pick-me boy; Papa Park raised him with manners).

“Still, fuck you.” Heeseung lets out his third scoff of the day. A female voice rambles in the background, on the verge of screaming as the vice president grumbles in dismay. Jay assumes it was the school council’s president calling him out for slacking. “I gotta go, though. Godzilla’s on the run and she’s unstoppable–hey, wait!”

Beep. The call ends, and Jay's me time continues. A chuckle leaves his mouth. That was the president? She’s unhinged as hell.

“What’s the president like?” he mumbles, putting his headphones back on and getting ready to start a new game. “I’d like to meet her.”

*

“Lee Heeseung, I’m giving you ten seconds to explain to me why you’re on Tekken when you’re supposed to be on duty.”

If looks could kill, your vice president could’ve died a slow, painful death by now. You try your best to keep your calm composure in front of your right-hand man while trying to suppress your anger, but the urge to lash out on him is just getting stronger. Heeseung, feeling intimidated, could only look down on the ground as he hears a disappointed sigh from you.

Fortunately, the school council’s secretary, Yang Jungwon, has informed you of the vice president’s whereabouts. You made sure to leave your pending tasks untouched before storming out of the council office and to the stockroom, where he was apparently taking his sweet time being a heavy load.

“Look, I’ve just finished my last game, Y/N, alright?” Heeseung raises his hands in defeat.  “I’m done. I’ll go and help.”

“Oh, you are definitely gonna go help Jungwon in the council’s office because I’m out of here.” you snap, unplugging the Ethernet wire connected to his gaming laptop. “There are waivers waiting for you. Get your ass up.”

“Alright.” he mutters, head hung low as he switches off his laptop. “I’m sorry.”

Without another word, you turn your back on him and walk out of the suffocating stockroom. How does he even stand the heat in there? Your steps get quicker as much as the psychological warfare you were having with yourself is getting worse. People are probably looking at me right now and think, why the hell is her face so sour? They wouldn’t know. They’re not the overworked, unpaid, “popular” student council president with a freeloader of a vice president and a midfielder boyfriend who’s just as popular.

You’ve been zoned out for the entirety of your trip back to the council office, but the sight of a familiar shoe sticking from one of the corridor posts shakes you awake. Your eyebrows furrow, wondering what would someone with skate shoes be doing in that spot at this hour when it’s inter-school olympics season. You take another set of steps before seeing a man’s back view with the jersey number 5 on it, and the scene that unfolds in front of you shakes your whole world.

Your boyfriend and the school’s most famous figure skater, Park Sunghoon, were kissing.

*

It has been a week since you found out that Sim Jaeyun was cheating on you and is gay.

You remember being rooted in your spot as you saw them eating each other’s faces. Screaming at them would be a waste of time. You feared wasting time the most, and crying in front of someone came in second. Instead of doing what someone normally does in these situations–screaming and bawling their eyes out, you land a slap on each of their faces with a shit-eating grin on your face before running to the nearest comfort room to cry.

You wouldn’t mind your boyfriend coming out of the closet and ending your relationship in good terms, but the fact that he’d been flirting–and probably fucking–around with a guy behind your back infuriated you.

You didn’t know how it came to this—you crying your heart out inside the club office as Heeseung finally took over and finished the rest of your work due to you not being able to properly open your swollen eyes. Even moving around was a pain in the ass. Jungwon works from the sidelines as well, and both of them didn’t dare speak a word to you unless spoken to. They knew better than to mess with a girl who’s got cheated on.

“Cabining trip’s tomorrow. You still going, noona?” Jungwon asks, eyes glued to his laptop screen as he types the minutes of the meeting for the past week. “We need you over there, Pres.”

“Hmm.” you reply, not having the energy to speak out a proper word as you blew your nose on a paper towel. Of course I’ll be there. What am I, a ghoster?

As Jungwon bombards you with questions, your replies are short and reserved, along the lines of “yeah”, “uh-huh”, and the like. How were you supposed to show yourself without shame knowing that your ex wasn’t into you anymore?

“Heeseung.” you croak out, getting a short “huh” as a response. “I need your help with something.”

“What’s it about, miss ma'am?”

You cringe at the nickname, throwing the empty box of paper towels along his way. “If you use that nickname on me again, I swear.” you hiss.

“Damn, calm down, will you?” Heeseung chuckles, barely dodging the box that almost hit his face. “What is it?”

You saunter your way towards the table where the two lads worked. propping your hands on the desk, You then look over at Jungwon who has his whole attention on his laptop, not bothering to pop into the conversation or listen to whatever you were about to say.

“You’re best friends with the adviser, right?” you whisper to Heeseung, to which he nods. “And I’m not. Wow. What am I president for, then?

“Touche.” he shrugs. “What about him?”

“This could be fucked up but,” you lean in to whisper on his ear. “Can you beg him to sneak drinks for the adults?”

Your eyes screw shut in embarrassment, in disbelief of the words that just came out of your mouth. You’re better than this, Y/N. 

“Yes.” Heeseung lets out a dramatic gasp, nodding vigorously at your idea. “You had me at ‘drinks’, Y/N, come on. Spill!”

“Noona, you’re kidding, right? Why would you sneak drinks in–”

“Quiet, kid.” you cut Jungwon off. “I’ve got a breakup to get over. Let the adults have this.”

With that, Heeseung let out a dramatic gasp, nodding vigorously at your idea.

*

The day of the cabining trip has come, and it wasn’t the most enjoyable day for the student council so far. While the other kids were having the time of their lives, talking with their friends and not worrying about keeping the lines straight and the cabins quiet, you struggled to keep the students in order as you tapped the backs of those who made a commotion, or worse, those who made out in broad daylight.

To your relief, Heeseung was in charge of bag inspection, which meant drinks were allowed (unless one was not of legal age, of course). The students will just have to hide it from the other supervisors. Jungwon, along with the student council’s treasurer, Sunoo, were on room assignment duty, making sure to separate the guys and girls from each other. Getting pregnant on a school trip is the last thing anyone would want.

Meanwhile, Jay stands quietly as the line advances. He wasn’t really supposed to be going on this trip if it weren’t for his father insisting him to do so. Luckily, with Heeseung’s permission, he was allowed to bring his gaming laptop without you knowing. The vice president just hopes he wouldn’t get pulled by the ear again.

“God, I hope I get the top bunk.” Jay mutters, putting his bag on the desk for inspection.

“Gotta go fast, then.” Heeseung replied, probing the contents of his friend’s bag. He taps Jay’s shoulders after he’s done. “Man, I hope we’re roommates.”

“Heeseung, how's the inspection going?” you bellow over the crowd of students, craning your head to look for him.

As you and Heeseung scream at each other over the loud sounds in the cabins, Jay couldn’t help but steal glances at you. He did pass by you sometimes, but he hasn't really gotten the chance to step up and talk to you. What a waste. After news has spread that you got cheated on, he could imagine himself tackling you into a hug and giving you small forehead kisses in hopes to ease your pain. He had set his eyes on you ever since you were appointed as president, and he found you so pretty ever since. He just secretly hoped that Jake wouldn’t go begging for you to come back, or else he’d lose his mind.

His daydreaming stops when he bumped shoulders with someone whom he least expected–you. The two of you momentarily met each other’s eyes, and Jay swore he’d melt then and there if it weren’t for you turning away almost immediately. On the other hand, you wonder why he’s been stuck on his spot for a good minute, so you approach him cautiously.

“Uh, are you lost, perhaps?” you wave a hand in front of Jay’s face. “You seem to be spacing out, Jay.”

She knows me. Oh, my God, she just acknowledged me. His heart somersaults in his chest at the mention of his name. It rolled off of your mouth perfectly. 

It takes him five seconds to answer, “I’m good, thank you.”

You smile briefly at him, and he flashes one back. He walks silently, trying to suppress a shout from coming out of his mouth. You were always pretty to him, and that smile was the cherry on top. 

The first day of the retreat wasn’t really hectic, except for the fact that all of the students have to run ten laps all around the yard before they can even have a taste of breakfast. Despite the supervisors lurking around the whole site, you’ve taken brave sips on your bottle of soju, disguised as drinking water. You couldn’t help but see Jake and his new lover every time you had to lead a segment and meet face to face with everyone, and your chest would always clench. How the fuck is he so happy without me? If it weren’t for the other officers beside you, you would’ve wrestled Sunghoon without a doubt.

The second and third days would probably be the most boring of them all, but not for Jay.

His laptop keeps him company as he silently jerks off to porn videos, trying his best to stifle a groan to not wake up whoever was occupying the top bunk. He would’ve brought a fleshlight, too, but he figured it’d be too much for a school retreat. So he resorts to another option–a sock. 

He finishes without suspicion, and gets knocked out to sleep right after.

On the other side of the site, you sit awake in your bunk, finishing the last of the soju you’ve successfully hidden for days. You sigh, not feeling any signs of drowsiness as you stare in spaces. I should've seen this coming. You wanted to slap yourself for being so clueless. Hasn’t it come to you that Jake might be using soccer training as an excuse to meet up with Sunghoon instead of you?

“Y/N, you dumb bitch.” you spit out, grabbing your phone to dial Heeseung’s number.

After a few rings, he picks up. “What the fuck, Y/N, it’s 3 in the morning.” the lad grumbled as he tossed and turned in his bed. “You better give me a good reason for calling at this hour.”

“You got a laptop with you?” you ask. What a stupid question. “It's urgent business.”

“No, I don't, dummy.” he snaps, and his sudden change of tone takes you aback. “I thought you knew we can only bring phones.”

You sigh. Out of all times your council adviser demanded an accomplishment report from you, why now? At that moment, you even wished to switch bodies with Heeseung; he was the adviser’s best friend and not you. Despite you telling your superior that you haven’t brought your laptop, he didn't budge, even bringing up the drink-sneaking incident.

To say you were doomed would be an understatement.

“Why does your best friend put me in situations like this?” you whine, pulling your hair in frustration. “He knows I don't have my laptop at the moment! Tell me, does he have something against me? ‘Cause he better settle things with me. Damn it. Do you get me? Sometimes I just want to walk out on all of you because I’ve got the whole council on my back! i’m a human who has limits, too, for fuck’s sake! When do I quit? I can quit anytime and turn my back on this responsibility. You take over once this term ends–”

“Shut up. I'm at your door.”

You hitch a breath, hang up and climb out of your bunk. You silently open the door to see your vice president holding an open laptop in his hand, phone on the other. The lad passes the device on to you, praying that his friend doesn’t notice his laptop out of place when he wakes up.

“Hey, that ain’t mine, though. Be careful with that.” he says, and you scowl in suspicion.

“Thanks,” you smile slightly. “Though I thought I told you not to bring gadgets in the cabin–”

“Don’t ask, just…” he waves his hands frantically, avoiding the question. “I’ll get going.”

“Okay…?” your voice trails off, and you shoo Heeseung away. “You’re a lifesaver, by the way.”

Heeseung nods, jogging his way out as you close your cabin door. You didn’t bother to wonder whose laptop this was; the only thing in your mind was the report you had to finish.

In silence, you immediately get to work. With sips of water from time to time, you struggle to keep yourself awake as you type the needed information, word by word, making sure that it would be slap-worthy on your adviser’s face.

After two hours of staring and typing, you feel your eyes giving out and fingers straining as you move the document file to your flash drive, finally finishing your work.

“This motherfucker better not scold me tomorrow.” you mutter through clenched jaws, carefully ejecting the drive from God-knows-whose laptop. 

With slow hands, you close all of the windows you have used, even the tabs, making it look untouched as this was neither your laptop, nor Heeseung's. Whose is this, then? There wasn't a wallpaper in it, just the default one, and that made guessing a waste of time. Nonetheless, you make a mental note to thank the owner first thing in the morning for saving your desperate ass in such a critical situation. 

Before you can shut down the device, a particular folder on the desktop screen catches your attention, especially its name,

“Things I want to do to Y/N”

You squint in surprise, mouse cursor hovering over the folder. As much as you wanted to pry it open, you wanted to respect the privacy of the owner of the laptop, whoever they were. But this has my name on it. You shake your head, preparing for the worst to happen as you double-click on the folder. What you see next shocks you utterly, making your heartbeat rise as you check the name of the owner.

The laptop belongs to a Park Jongseong, with the folder containing porn videos.

In astonishment, you close the laptop with a loud thud, not bothering to shut it down properly or close the porn folder before you do. A series of knocks makes you jump and hit your head on the top bunk.

“Go to sleep, Y/N!” your bunkmate from the top grumbles.

What the fuck is going on? You sigh, wrapping yourself in a cocoon with your blanket.

*

It's the last day of the retreat, which means free time for all the students until the morning comes with no schedules to stick to. However, you were far from relaxed as last night’s events haven't left your mind until now. You didn’t know what to feel knowing that the quiet kid has been fantasizing about you, and in secret. Do you get mad, grossed out or flattered? Neither of them felt right and it messed up with your head so much. Worrying about it would be a waste of time.

Heeseung couldn’t help but notice you staring at Jay, who played basketball by himself from afar. You spaced out often, too, and it was so not like you to do so. Apparently, your efforts on acting normal outside while being a chaotic mess inside fail as you finally draw out a frustrated groan.

“Something wrong?” Heeseung asks. “You're zoned out pretty bad.”

“That report sucked the life out of me.” you reply monotonously, standing up from your seat, eyes not leaving Jay. “I'll meet you at the bonfire. I just need sleep.”

“Fine. I'll take over for you.”

You nod, trudging to your cabin in hopes to get some rest. However, once your body dips down the mattress, images of Jay hovering over you appear as you close your eyes. Shaking it off, you push a pillow against your face, muffling out a scream of annoyance.

On the other hand, Jay has been stealing glances from you as well, completely unaware of you seeing the deepest, darkest secrets he's kept hidden in his laptop.

After what felt like days of slumber, you were awakened by the noise of students outside of the cabins. hollers and shouts fill your ears as you get yourself out of bed. As much as you hated being woken up in such a manner, you were happy to be able to get a wink of sleep.

“Evening, Y/N.”

You look up from the ground, seeing the person whom you unfortunately wanted to avoid the most. Jay wore a small smile on his face, which was seen clearer without his glasses. Contrary to his usual hoodie-slacks combo, he wore a shirt that snugly fit him, in which you can definitely see the slight curvature of his chest. His toned arms were on full display, too, and you couldn’t help but wonder how they’d flex under your touch. His thighs looked just as attractive, given the fact that he wore cargo shorts.

“Good… evening, Jay.” you chuckle awkwardly. “What's the matter? Can I help you?” Why does he look so different? He even wore his hair differently.

“Nothing much.” he replies sheepishly. “Just, uh, wanted to have a casual talk with the president.” God, that bedhead. Why does it make her more fuckable? He steals glances at the skimpy top that hugged your body, accentuating your curves and your plump breasts.

“Really?” you grin in amusement, not expecting his statement. Just say you wanna fuck and go. “That's strange. No one comes up to me unless it’s about school.”

“That'd be an honor.” he comments, gaze not shifting away from you.“Would having small talk with me waste your time?”

You hesitantly shake your head, and he smiles. Fuck, that smile. Where is this going to get me now?

The two of you proceed to have a conversation outside the cabin, at the same time, thinking of lewd thoughts that were probably too inappropriate, given the setting. From time to time, your hands would brush each other’s, increasing the tension between the two of you.

Despite this, Jay would get distracted, finding your giggles so adorable, especially knowing that he was the reason behind them. You admired how Jay speaks, and how cautious he was when you ranted about your ex. He just hoped no one would call you out and separate the both of you.

Or so he thought.

The whistle trills fills your ears as rain falls angrily on your skin. Whines and grumbles were heard as the bonfire session was declared canceled by Sunoo and Jungwon. Students start sprinting back to their cabins as the rain pours, including the supervisors. No more confession time and roasted marshmallows, I guess.

You look over to see your cabin that was several meters from where you and Jay stood, attempting to make a run for it. However, Jay gets a hold of your wrist before you can take your first step.

“Stay.” his voice is deep and alluring, and you could feel your body slightly shiver.

“You sure?” you raise your brows anyway, not bothering to pull away from his grip. “What if someone sees us drenched in here? Are you willing to vouch for me?”

“You're the president. I'm sure no one would budge.”

You don't protest. Instead, you take the opportunity to ask him about the folder in his laptop, which, by the way, he still assumes was untouched. He, meanwhile, couldn’t take his eyes off of the top that clung to your skin, against your stomach. You pretty much were doing the same as you eyed his abs through his shirt.

After what felt like ten minutes of standing under the rain, both of you were drenched as you walked into an empty cabin for protection that no one used due to faulty electricity. You sit side by side in a single bed, neither of you having the guts to start another conversation.

Maybe it was time for you to spill your secrets.

“I like you.”

“Fuck me.”

The two of you look at each other after speaking at the same time. Your remark especially shocks Jay, so does the way you weren’t fazed with his confession just now. A hand instinctively goes up to cup your mouth. Shit, was I not subtle enough? You fake a hearty chuckle (which was actually a nervous one) as you see his perplexed expression.

“You don’t wanna fuck me?” you mutter, confidence leaving your system as his expression remains unchanged.

“No–I mean, yes.” he immediately replies, afraid that you might take it as him rejecting you. “Of course, I do.”

“Do it, then.”

You tower over his sitting figure, propping your hands on his chest. Jay couldn’t help but close his eyes, asking himself whether this was a dream or not. Your touch trails up to his neck, your fingertips tracing his collarbones. You catch his lips into a sloppy kiss, which he returns fervently as he slips his tongue on your mouth. The cold sensation brought by the raindrops on your skin is now gone as he pulls you into his lap and wraps your legs around his waist. For a minute, he savors your lips as his hands find their way to the hem of your top, feeling a little hesitant.

He pulls off, staring into your eyes as he searches for a sign of fear in your face. “Should I?”

Without a word, you nod, guiding his hands into taking off your top. His eyes roam along your torso, your breasts wanting to be freed from their restraints as they were practically coming out of your tight bra. His cock twitches and slightly hardens at the sight.

“Jay…” you whine, digging your ass against his hardness. A groan leaves his mouth. “I want you to take over.”

With that, he flips the two of you over, with you beneath him. He then pins your hands above your head, asserting his dominance. You hitch a breath as you feel his clothed cock rub against your crotch, still not believing his change in character.

“Is this really the quiet kid I knew?” you tease, making Jay yank your bottoms down, leaving you in your bra. He then lands a stinging spank on your ass cheek, squeezing the soft flesh after.

“Shush, Y/N, unless you want me to leave you hanging.”

Damn, even his voice can make me cum at this point. you feel him spreading your legs slowly, dipping a finger on your damp pussy as he kisses your inner thighs. You reach for his hair and stroke it gently as his lips get closer to where you needed him the most, your other hand squeezing your breast.

he licked a warm strip along your clit, eliciting a whimper from you. He held you by the knees to keep you from pressing your thighs together as he ate you out. his moans against your sex provided vibrations that made your toes curl, and moans louder.

“So miss president loves being eaten out, huh?” Jay chuckles, his ego growing as you reply to him with a broken mewl, pushing two of his fingers inside you. “Such a needy slut.”

He proceeds with his ministrations as he leaves marks on your thigh, torso, then up to your breasts, avoiding your neck to not cause suspicion. The way your walls tightened around his fingers made his cock harden even more. even until now, you couldn’t believe the situation you were in–being fucked by the resident introvert who was secretly a freak in bed.

Your grip on his hair tightens as you feel your high nearing. “Jay, I'm cumming!” you cry out desperately.

Hearing that, Jay pulls his fingers out of you, and licks them with a smirk on his lips. “You taste so sweet… however, I can’t just have you cumming somewhere that’s not on my cock, can I?”

He takes off his drenched top, and the rest of his clothes follow, freeing his erect cock from its confines. He drags his tip against your clit, teasing your entrance and holding your hips tight to stop you from pushing him in.

“Jay, please…” you beg, voice laced with frustration. “I want to make you feel good.”

“Is that so?” Jay snickers, slapping your thigh. “Little miss slutty president wants to suck me off?”

“Mm-mm.” you nod, eyeing his cock and the pre-cum that leaked from his tip. “fuck my mouth, just like how you want it.”

Just like how I want it? he stops in his tracks as he sees you grinning from beneath him. It was finally time for you to confess.

“Sir,” you whined, the pet name causing Jay to let out an audible groan. “I gotta tell you something.”

You sit up and bend over in front of him, his cock on your face and your ass up. He lets out a small gasp as your tongue teases his tip. The way you made eye contact with him didn’t help him, either. He bunches your hair up in a ponytail, wrapping it all around his knuckles as you sucked him like a popsicle.

“Tell me, baby,” he sighs, looking down at you in amusement.

“I needed a laptop for my report.” you lick him from base to tip. “And Heeseung, the vice president, borrowed yours for me.”

The way your tongue moves all over him sends shivers all over his body, and he makes the impulsive decision to rub his cock all over your face. “Baby saw my porn stash, didn’t she?” he chuckles, pushing himself deeper in your throat. You try to stop yourself from gagging as he fucks your mouth. “Fuck, yes. Those were all meant for you. All the things I wanna do to that body.”

You moan against his cock, reaching for your clit to rub yourself. you expected a different reaction from him, but by the looks of it, the Jay you passed by along the corridors was now gone. In front of you is a different person, and you actually loved it. You loved this new side of him.

“This is one of them.” Jay adds. “Fucking your mouth.”

You feel your head being guided by his hands as he nears his orgasm, thrusting faster inside your mouth. you whimper as his tip hits your throat, waiting for his warm release to fill your mouth.

However, he pulls out again, much to your dismay. He gets out of the bed and walks to the other side where he can take you from behind. Coincidentally, there stood a mirror in front of you, and you could clearly see his naked body as you were on your hands and knees. Fuck, I bet he works out a lot. He spanks your ass cheeks again, making you yelp.

“God, you’re so fucking hot, miss president.” Jay says under his breath, lining his tip on your cunt and getting ready to push himself inside of you. “I don’t have a condom with me, though.”

“I'm on the pill.” you reply. You realized you haven’t gotten rid of your habit of taking birth control pills even though you didn’t have sex as much anymore, especially now that you’re not with Jake anymore. “I have a favor to ask you.”

“Which is?”

You heave a deep sigh before speaking.  I'll have to do this once and for all. “Help me forget about Jake.”

Without a word, he pushes himself slowly inside you. A gasp leaves your mouth at how big and girthy he was as he stretched your walls. It took you a while to adjust to his size, but after he has sunken his whole length in you, he starts moving.

I'll help you forget about Jake, sweetheart. “My love… tell me.” he drags a fingertip along your spine, rocking his hips at a steady pace. “Who's making you feel good right now?”

“You, Jay.” you reply, almost sounding like a scream as you do. “Your cock feels so good inside me.”

“Fuck, yeah, I am.” jay snickers, pulling you by the hair and making you look at your fucked-out reflection in the mirror. “Look at you. Such a cock-hungry bitch.”

God, you hated being degraded, but why did Jay's words turn you on?

Jay's pace gradually goes faster as he feels you tightening around him, his muscles flexing as his skin slaps against yours.

“That fucking soccer boy can never fuck you as good as I do, right?”

“Ah, yes!” you whimper as his finger reaches your clit.

He groans. “Repeat after me, darling. Cheaters.”

“Cheaters–ah!” you squeal as Jay spanks your ass again.

“Ain’t.” Jay seethed.

“Ain't…” you draw out a whine as he holds you by the waist.

“Shit.” he pulls you to sit up, slapping your breasts.

“Shit! Oh, that feels good.” you bury your head in the bed.

“See? That fucker doesn’t deserve you.” he whispered against your neck, leaving a dark mark by sucking on it. “He can go get some dick by himself ‘cause from now on, you’re mine.”

As his hands make their way back to your breasts, you feel like putty under Jay's touch. You couldn’t help but agree to his every word as if he’s put you in a state of hypnosis. Your words are incomprehensible as he snaps his hips harshly against yours, the feeling of his cock inside you clouding your vision and thoughts.

“I said you’re mine, little slut.”

“I'm yours.” you breathe out.

Once he has been given the go signal, he slows down for a bit and turns your head so you can see each other’s gazes. “If you'd let me take care of you, I'd do it wholeheartedly.” he said, kissing your knuckles lovingly. “I don't care how slow you want the process to be, Y/N. Just give me a chance.”

You don’t say a word. Instead, you lock his lips in a loving kiss. He holds onto your waist for dear life as your hips move in sync, the heated moment turning into a passionate, affectionate one.

“You close?” Jay mumbles against your lips, and you nod.

You stay still in that position as Jay picks up his pace, letting you feel his warmth as he brings you to your high.

Your climax crashes like waves, and it seems like momentarily taking the life out of you. Jay follows suit, his seed spilling inside of you.

After a good minute, he pulls out of you, lays you down on the mattress and hovers above you. you cup his cheeks and give him a peck on the forehead, the introvert in him slowly coming back as he blushes at your action.

“Let me clean you up.” Jay says with a slight pout, the dominant in him finally out of the picture as he spoke.

“Can we do that later?” you reply, planting a kiss on his nose. “Let me hold you for a while.”

He doesn’t oblige. Rather, he picks up his drenched shorts from the floor, pulling a small handkerchief from its pocket. As he proceeds cleaning you up, you stare at him fondly. Were you in love? Not yet. Would you give him a shot? Definitely. The way he just switched up on you would need some processing time, though. It was one heck of a moment.

The night ends with Jay sending you off to your cabin, kissing you good night as he promises to meet you in school after the weekend.

*

You slowly stroll along the corridors of the art department building, looking for Jay's room as you go. You have been walking for thirty minutes straight, but without an ounce of exhaustion in your body although it was a Thursday–a work day for the student council president. To say that you were excited to meet him would be an understatement.

It’s been a week since the last day of the cabin trip and your first sexual encounter with someone who wasn’t Jake. You’ve been feeling a lot better, and it made Heeseung and Jungwon wonder how you’ve done it so fast. Jay’s been sending you food over the weekend and it stunned you how well he cooks. He’s been dropping over to the student council adviser’s office from time to time, too, just to watch you work.

You feel your feet starting to hurt, but you keep on walking anyway. I need to see my Jay after a long dayyyyy.

“There she is!” a voice starts shouting, causing you to stop on your tracks. “The prim and proper student council president.”

You squint your eyes at the person who turned out to be Sim Jayoon, Jake's cousin. She eyes you with a scowl as if scrutinizing you, and retches as if she was grossed out. You knew exactly what she came at you for–to act as a proxy for her wimpy cousin who hasn’t shown his face in the soccer team ever since. She has the reputation of being the worst pick-me in all of tenth grade, and that makes this encounter worse.

“You rang, Yoon?” you reply, faking a cheerful tone as you try your best not to pounce at the poor girl. “Do you need help with something?”

“Weren’t you crying over Jake oppa just last week?” Yoon spits out, towering over you to assert dominance. “Now you’re fucking with another guy? Seriously, sunbaenim, how much of a slut can you be?”

Does she expect me to cry and beg her to keep my dirty little secret? You snort. “Babe, your Jake oppa two-timed me with Park Sunghoon while I was on duty. That makes your cousin the slut here, doesn’t it?”

“And I did what I could do best–moving on.” you add, pissing Yoon off even more. Her face reddens in anger, and you taunt her, patting her head.  “Aww, look at you. Aren’t you such a good guard dog for not admitting that your cousin made mistakes?” 

“Shut up!” she yells defensively, stepping away from you. “You’re the president and you’re supposed to be the role model, right? You should step down if you tolerate double-dipping! bitch!”

With that, Yoon raises a hand to land a slap on your face, and you grimace, expecting the sting to land on your cheek. However, three seconds in and nothing hits you.

Turns out, a hand blocked Yoon’s arm and stopped her from slapping you. You look over your shoulder to see Jay with his usual meh expression plastered on his face. He raises his brows at Yoon, evidently annoyed by her words.

“At least she’s getting better sex than your cousin does.” he quips, throwing Yoon’s wrist to the ground.

You gasp at Jay’s choice of words. “Jay! Language!”

“What? It's the truth.” he replies, holding up a cube in his hand which happened to be a mini-recorder. “You want me to call your parents or something?”

In defeat, Yoon screams, stomping her way out of the corridors. You hear a deep chuckle from Jay behind you, and you instinctively land a slap on his chest. “You didn’t just say that in front of a fifteen-year old kid.”

“What was I supposed to do? She’s just called you slut and a bitch.” Jay shrugged, and you could only shake your head at him. He leans closer to your ear and whispers, “You’re my bitch, though.”

You roll your eyes, unable to protest  “Jay, as much as I appreciate the degradation–”

“Meet  me after your last period. I promise I won’t ditch you.” he grins, giving your lips a brief peck. “I’m off to the e-sports club office and nope, Heeseung hyung won’t be playing with me this time.”

“Thanks for the assurance..?” you say hesitantly, followed by a chuckle. He’s back at it again with the random updates. “Show them what you got, gamer boy.”

He pecks your lips again, and starts walking away with his back facing you. You could only look at him in awe as he leisurely walked the corridor with his headphones on and probably a One Ok Rock song blasting from them. He was your definition of comfort, and the only one who could convince you that wasting time wasn’t a bad thing after all.

“Love ya!” he bellows suddenly, making you yelp. Now’s not the time to say it back yet. You blow him a kiss and he makes a run for the stairs. Of course, you loved him, too.

And the other sides of him, of course.

a/n: this fic is especially dedicated to my girlies nics (@ddeonuism) and aria (@jaylaxies) bc apparently they love this fic so much so OFC i had to retrieve it and free it from the dungeon! this is for all my jay hoes 🥳 one of the fics that got me started in enhablr AND my first ever jay fic. i tweaked this a lil bit just to make jay hotter and sweeter bc ik that's what y'all want right 🙄 /lh enjoy lovelies!

NSFW TAGLIST [OPEN]: @thots4hee @jaylaxies @ddeonuism @jojayke @vernonluvs-archived @puphee @hee-pster @forjongseong @jaeyunsz @muffinminnie @shu-ramyeonz @poutyjaeyun @fairy-junseong @duolingofanaccount @jkefelx @taetaemylovie @heetro @yizhoutv @lavhikaru @kaislinging-slasher01 @cha0thicpisces @en-archv @simplewonderland @exactlygreatcoffee @lhseth @aerinaga @xwonniex @jyshdoll @iiousim (send an ask or a dm to be added!)

© criceofpain on tumblr, 2020

[criceofpain]

cat-eyed | park jongseong

summary: you loved the makeup looks jay were getting from his stylist so you had to do one to him yourself... before he takes things to another level.

pairing: idol!jay x fem!reader

genre: smut, fluff

word count: 2417

warnings: mentions of natural phenomena (storms/typhoon), cunnilingus, vaginal penetration, usage of pet names, minimal impact play

Park Jongseong had the most beautiful eyes in the whole planet.

At least that’s what you think. You had a strange affinity for those beautiful brown orbs ever since you’ve seen them up close. The way his eyelids perfectly gave them their shape, and the way his eyelashes fluttered whenever he stared at you or something else had made them a wonderful pair you swore you wouldn’t get enough of. It was your most favorite part of his whole face.

As much as you love seeing them bare and puffy whenever you wake up beside him, you loved–no, adored them with accessories and adornments of any kind. His signature sunglasses and brushed-back hair look was your greatest waterloo, not to mention his smokey eye makeup everytime he goes onstage for music show performances. They made him look like he was a different person–someone so alluring yet dangerous as if he was Medusa turning Engenes into stone statues if he stares at them long enough.

With these thoughts came the idea of his stylist noonas doing all of these eye looks for him–them dabbing their fingers all over his face, and you couldn’t help but sometimes wish you were a stylist yourself. It’d give you more time to spend with your busy man, maybe go on quick dates without having to think about privacy. Unfortunately, everyone’s eyes are on him and his members, so you’d often spend time alone. 

Now, you and Jay are both huddled up in your bunk bed after his music video shooting, the very spot being his retreat whenever he finds himself at the peak of exhaustion. Your hands are on his hair while his arms are snugly wrapped around your waist–just the perfect sleeping position on a rainy afternoon.

“Jjong.” you mutter, looking over your shoulder to see if he was asleep or not.

“Yeah?” he immediately responds, letting you know that he was awake for a while. “Need help with something, Y/N?”

“Let me put makeup on you.”

He blinks at you, taken aback by the sudden statement. “Suddenly?”

You toss slowly to face him, giving him a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose. “I've been wanting to work on my eyeshadow skills, love. You've got such beautiful eyes to put some colors on.”

Flustered, he bites the inside of his cheek, trying to hold back a chuckle or a smile. He never knew you loved his eyes so much. “I appreciate that, sweetheart, but what's all this for?”

You shake your head. “This rainy weather is seriously weighing me down and I could use some activity at home. Would you like to be my model, Mr. Park?”

“Damn, princess.” he mumbles, cupping your cheeks with his hands and squishing them. “As long as it doesn't require aegyo, I'm in.”

You squeal, rushing to grab your makeup bag after pulling away from your boyfriend’s hold. He stares at you with amusement as you lay out your brushes, slightly intimidated at the same time because of how much you were bringing out in the tiny bag.

“Okay, we've got our blending brushes over here… some highlight brushes… more brushes for the smokey eye because I'm a hoe for that look—”

“Ooh, Y/N’s gonna go all stylist noona on me now, huh?” he teases, scooting closer as you clip his hair away from his face. “I'd love to see you try.”

“Come on, Jay! You know I love the smokey eyes on you.” you protest as you gently dab some primer on his lids. “Makes you look like a sexy black cat.”

“I'm allergic to kittens.” he replies, and you can imagine him rolling his eyes through his eyelids.

“What does that have to do with anything?” you reply whimsically, proceeding to put some brown eyeshadow on him. “You're so fucking handsome right now.”

“Oh, yeah? Am I?”

“Mm-hmm.” you nod. “Now will you open your eyes for me, love? Wanna see how it looks so far.”

He obliges, slowly lifting his eyelids only to be welcomed by a sight that causes his jaw to slightly drop.

You were looking doe-eyed at him, lips slightly parted, cleavage peeking out of your neckline, and ass jutted out. He instinctively gulps, trying to hold back a groan and stop a potential hard-on to form a tent in his sweatpants. On the other hand, your clueless self ponders whether or not you've achieved the eye look you were going for. 

“Nah, not quite yet.” you mutter, clicking your tongue after. “Close them back, please?”

He sighs in defeat, lowering his eyelids so you can continue with the final adjustments. I could've stared at her for a little longer. “Are we there yet?”

“Almost,” you answer, slowly climbing up to his lap for a better view of his eyes. “Stay still for me, yeah?”

Fuck, did she just climb on my lap? Jay sucks in a breath as he fights to move a muscle. He didn't want to ruin whatever masterpiece you were making; he didn't want to pop a boner at the wrong time, either. The fact that your breasts were slightly squished against his chest didn't help, most of all. He was doomed.

“And we're done!” you chirp, causing him to open his eyes. “You wanna take a look?”

“Definitely.” I definitely want to pin you against this fucking mattress right now. “Show me.”

You tilt your mirror to the perfect angle so he can see the final product. In awe, he lets out a chuckle. That sound alone was enough to tell you that you did a good job. You loved this man so much.

“Fuck, that looks so Future Perfect, babes!” he comments, discreetly gazing at your figure through the reflection of the mirror. “I think I'm ready to perform with my muscles out now.”

Flattered, you plant a kiss on his chapped lips. “I'm glad you liked it, but we gotta do something about those lips. They're as dry as the Sahara.”

He doesn't say a word as you grab a lip balm from your bag, but flinches upon hearing the lid pop open. He silently watches as you aim the balm to his plump pair, taking you aback as he grabs your wrist, therefore stopping you in your tracks.

“I don't want anything on my lips except your lips, Y/N.” he says firmly, “Kiss me instead.”

“Oh–” 

He cuts you off with a soft press of his lips against yours, slowly progressing into slow, open-mouthed kisses as he goes. You respond with a low hum as he runs a hand down the dip of your spine, all while grabbing the balm away from your hold. With your hands making their way to his hair, you deepen the kiss as you finally figure out what he's up to.

“Mmm…” you mewl softly, pulling away from his kiss with a pop. You spare a few seconds to stare at your work of art, and you swear you could've creamed your panties then and there–it felt like you were making out with the Jay of ENHYPEN in the backrooms of Music Bank right now. “It's exactly what I had in mind.”

“Is it?” he grins slyly, tracing circles along the supple skin of your stomach and eventually pulling off your top. “Oh, baby, I think I need to warm us up. It's getting cold outside.”

“Please, Jay…” you beg as he deftly unclips your bra, latching his mouth on your hard nipple. “I'm not gonna be able to touch you for days.”

He pins you down the mattress, hands above your head. A chuckle leaves his lips as he feels your hips squirming against his boner. “Let's make this count, then.”

The sound of the heavily pouring rain accompanies that of Jay's wet lips against your skin. He wastes no time traveling down south, licking and sucking on your stomach and thighs. A shaky breath leaves your lips as you feel his hand slowly tug down on your panties. 

“Fuck.” he almost feels himself drooling at the sight of the wetness that was pooling in your panties. “Already?”

You groan out, not wanting your boyfriend to drag on and tease. “Can you blame me? It was your fault for being so hot—ah!”

You look down to see his tongue already latched on your clit, fingers slowly prodding in your pussy. His siren eyes stare straight at yours, making you involuntarily clench as he strokes you roughly. A string of moans leave your mouth as he moves his tongue and fingers in various ways–incoherent mumbles of pleasure and excitement.

“I take it I'm doing this just right, hmm?” he teases just before he fully sucks on your clit.

“Ah! Fuck… more…” you cry out, squelching sounds filling your ears. 

He happily obliges, intensifying his actions that were to eventually lead to your first orgasm of the night. You instinctively clench your legs around either side of his head, which he secures with his strong arms. Heck. His biceps felt like steel enclosed in velvet against your thighs, and the way they were flexing didn't help with your already fucked-out self.

“Wanna cum…” you whine out between shallow breaths, feeling the knot inside you wait to let loose. “Pretty please, love… m’gonna cum!”

“Right, cum all over this face, baby doll.” he replies, rubbing the wetness from his fingers onto your clit. “Let it go, c’mon.”

With a final stroke of his thumb against your clit, you release all over his face and he hastily laps up your juices clean. You take another look at his face. With sweat glistening on his forehead, lips tucked up in a lopsided smirk, and eyes brimming with hunger and lust, he was all ready to make you his and only his for the night.

“You're a stunner from up here,” he comments, eyeing your naked body up and down as he pulls his sweatpants away, cock springing out of its confines. He then leans down to prop an elbow on either side of your head and gives your lips a messy peck. “My pretty little baby… are you sure you're ready for me?”

You confidently nod as you feel him coating his whole shaft with your wetness, to which he lets out a small chuckle. “I want all of you, my Jay.”

With that, he effortlessly slides himself inside your pussy, stretching and filling you to the hilt. Your hands latch onto his shoulders, moaning out his name as he hits your most sensitive spot.

“Ah… mmm… this feels like our first time.” you whimper as he gets himself moving on top of you. “So fucking good…”

“I know how much you like it rough, darling.” he whispers teasingly, leaving harsh hickeys along your neck as his thrust gradually picks up its pace. “So much, yeah?”

“So much—ah!”

He cuts you off with a series of hard, heavy thrusts. “Use your words properly, baby.” Thrust. “I wanna know what my baby wants.”

“Ha… want it rough and hard, love.”

“Good.” he coos, the telltale action of him swinging your legs over his shoulders making your heart race. “Just tell me when I have to stop and I'll do so. No buts and ifs.”

He proceeds to ram himself inside you, not caring whether your screams were waking up the neighbors next door or his phone was restless with missed calls and messages coming from his manager. It was just him, you, and the heat of the moment.

You can feel every inch of him as he goes balls deep inside you, and you're desperately holding onto the sheets of your bed in hopes to keep yourself steady, but to no avail. Your boyfriend doesn't look like he's slowing down at any time as a heavy hand lands on your ass cheeks with a sting.

The storm grows stronger as your climax approaches nearer. Jay’s hips snap fast and hard against yours and the way his hands were moving all over your body made it even better. The way your eyes rolled back to your head as he tweaked the position a bit has him going haywire.

“Fuck, you're so tight around me.” he sighs on your ear, thumb rubbing your clit as he drives himself deeper and harder. “You missed my cock that much, huh?”

You nod in response. “I can't believe I won't be seeing you for another week.” you grumble, back arching as he hits your sensitive spot again.

“I know, I know,” he replies, his free hand groping your breast harshly. “Let me make it better for now, yeah? Cum all over me like the good girl you are.”

“Ah—yes! Almost there, please!” you almost scream out as the sensations of his cock inside you and his hands on the most sensitive parts of your body send you into a state of euphoria.

With a final thrust, Jay triggers your orgasm which also triggers his shortly after. He mumbles a quick “I love you” as he feels your legs shake against his body, feeling a little lightheaded after all the work he has done.

“I love you more.” you say in between pants as he pulls out and lays you flat on the bed. “Ah, that feels a lot better.”

“I'm happy it does.” he replies, cleaning you up with a towel he found somewhere in your bed. “You want a shower?”

You roll your eyes at him. “Just promise me you won't put me in standing O’s or something. We gotta clean up. I feel sticky.”

“Alright, princess.” he chuckles, scooping you up from the bed and into the showers.

“Will you be gone by the time I wake up?”

“No, you won't be waking up alone tomorrow morning.” he mumbles, tucking you in your blanket as he kisses your forehead. “I'll make you breakfast.”

“Promise?”

He nods. “Yeah, I promise.” Peck. “Oh, and about the eyes?”

You look up at him, noticing how he still has the makeup on. “Mm-hmm, what about ‘em?”

“I don't think I can have them in any other way.”

You giggle, kissing his eyelids one last time before finally letting slumber take over the both of you. He puts you back in the same position as you were in an hour ago—snuggled up enough to keep each other warm on a rainy afternoon.

The privilege of looking at his beautiful eyes before you close your eyes to sleep was yours, and you're happy it is.

a/n: YAYYYYYY finally a fic! this was heavily inspired by jay's stage makeup (which i'm a hoe for) and how those colors in his eyes turn him into a different person onstage (peep the photo i used) 👀 this is for all the jay hoes AND for the current non-jay hoes who are currently swerving from lane to lane. mwah.

NSFW TAGLIST [OPEN]: @thots4hee @jaylaxies @ddeonuism @jojayke @vernonluvs @puphee @hee-pster @heeshalo @forjongseong (send an ask or a dm to be added!)

© criceofpain on tumblr, 2022

[criceofpain]

cat-eyed | park jongseong

summary: you loved the makeup looks jay were getting from his stylist so you had to do one to him yourself... before he takes things to another level.

pairing: idol!jay x fem!reader

genre: smut, fluff

word count: 2417

warnings: mentions of natural phenomena (storms/typhoon), cunnilingus, vaginal penetration, usage of pet names, minimal impact play

Park Jongseong had the most beautiful eyes in the whole planet.

At least that’s what you think. You had a strange affinity for those beautiful brown orbs ever since you’ve seen them up close. The way his eyelids perfectly gave them their shape, and the way his eyelashes fluttered whenever he stared at you or something else had made them a wonderful pair you swore you wouldn’t get enough of. It was your most favorite part of his whole face.

As much as you love seeing them bare and puffy whenever you wake up beside him, you loved–no, adored them with accessories and adornments of any kind. His signature sunglasses and brushed-back hair look was your greatest waterloo, not to mention his smokey eye makeup everytime he goes onstage for music show performances. They made him look like he was a different person–someone so alluring yet dangerous as if he was Medusa turning Engenes into stone statues if he stares at them long enough.

With these thoughts came the idea of his stylist noonas doing all of these eye looks for him–them dabbing their fingers all over his face, and you couldn’t help but sometimes wish you were a stylist yourself. It’d give you more time to spend with your busy man, maybe go on quick dates without having to think about privacy. Unfortunately, everyone’s eyes are on him and his members, so you’d often spend time alone. 

Now, you and Jay are both huddled up in your bunk bed after his music video shooting, the very spot being his retreat whenever he finds himself at the peak of exhaustion. Your hands are on his hair while his arms are snugly wrapped around your waist–just the perfect sleeping position on a rainy afternoon.

“Jjong.” you mutter, looking over your shoulder to see if he was asleep or not.

“Yeah?” he immediately responds, letting you know that he was awake for a while. “Need help with something, Y/N?”

“Let me put makeup on you.”

He blinks at you, taken aback by the sudden statement. “Suddenly?”

You toss slowly to face him, giving him a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose. “I've been wanting to work on my eyeshadow skills, love. You've got such beautiful eyes to put some colors on.”

Flustered, he bites the inside of his cheek, trying to hold back a chuckle or a smile. He never knew you loved his eyes so much. “I appreciate that, sweetheart, but what's all this for?”

You shake your head. “This rainy weather is seriously weighing me down and I could use some activity at home. Would you like to be my model, Mr. Park?”

“Damn, princess.” he mumbles, cupping your cheeks with his hands and squishing them. “As long as it doesn't require aegyo, I'm in.”

You squeal, rushing to grab your makeup bag after pulling away from your boyfriend’s hold. He stares at you with amusement as you lay out your brushes, slightly intimidated at the same time because of how much you were bringing out in the tiny bag.

“Okay, we've got our blending brushes over here… some highlight brushes… more brushes for the smokey eye because I'm a hoe for that look—”

“Ooh, Y/N’s gonna go all stylist noona on me now, huh?” he teases, scooting closer as you clip his hair away from his face. “I'd love to see you try.”

“Come on, Jay! You know I love the smokey eyes on you.” you protest as you gently dab some primer on his lids. “Makes you look like a sexy black cat.”

“I'm allergic to kittens.” he replies, and you can imagine him rolling his eyes through his eyelids.

“What does that have to do with anything?” you reply whimsically, proceeding to put some brown eyeshadow on him. “You're so fucking handsome right now.”

“Oh, yeah? Am I?”

“Mm-hmm.” you nod. “Now will you open your eyes for me, love? Wanna see how it looks so far.”

He obliges, slowly lifting his eyelids only to be welcomed by a sight that causes his jaw to slightly drop.

You were looking doe-eyed at him, lips slightly parted, cleavage peeking out of your neckline, and ass jutted out. He instinctively gulps, trying to hold back a groan and stop a potential hard-on to form a tent in his sweatpants. On the other hand, your clueless self ponders whether or not you've achieved the eye look you were going for. 

“Nah, not quite yet.” you mutter, clicking your tongue after. “Close them back, please?”

He sighs in defeat, lowering his eyelids so you can continue with the final adjustments. I could've stared at her for a little longer. “Are we there yet?”

“Almost,” you answer, slowly climbing up to his lap for a better view of his eyes. “Stay still for me, yeah?”

Fuck, did she just climb on my lap? Jay sucks in a breath as he fights to move a muscle. He didn't want to ruin whatever masterpiece you were making; he didn't want to pop a boner at the wrong time, either. The fact that your breasts were slightly squished against his chest didn't help, most of all. He was doomed.

“And we're done!” you chirp, causing him to open his eyes. “You wanna take a look?”

“Definitely.” I definitely want to pin you against this fucking mattress right now. “Show me.”

You tilt your mirror to the perfect angle so he can see the final product. In awe, he lets out a chuckle. That sound alone was enough to tell you that you did a good job. You loved this man so much.

“Fuck, that looks so Future Perfect, babes!” he comments, discreetly gazing at your figure through the reflection of the mirror. “I think I'm ready to perform with my muscles out now.”

Flattered, you plant a kiss on his chapped lips. “I'm glad you liked it, but we gotta do something about those lips. They're as dry as the Sahara.”

He doesn't say a word as you grab a lip balm from your bag, but flinches upon hearing the lid pop open. He silently watches as you aim the balm to his plump pair, taking you aback as he grabs your wrist, therefore stopping you in your tracks.

“I don't want anything on my lips except your lips, Y/N.” he says firmly, “Kiss me instead.”

“Oh–” 

He cuts you off with a soft press of his lips against yours, slowly progressing into slow, open-mouthed kisses as he goes. You respond with a low hum as he runs a hand down the dip of your spine, all while grabbing the balm away from your hold. With your hands making their way to his hair, you deepen the kiss as you finally figure out what he's up to.

“Mmm…” you mewl softly, pulling away from his kiss with a pop. You spare a few seconds to stare at your work of art, and you swear you could've creamed your panties then and there–it felt like you were making out with the Jay of ENHYPEN in the backrooms of Music Bank right now. “It's exactly what I had in mind.”

“Is it?” he grins slyly, tracing circles along the supple skin of your stomach and eventually pulling off your top. “Oh, baby, I think I need to warm us up. It's getting cold outside.”

“Please, Jay…” you beg as he deftly unclips your bra, latching his mouth on your hard nipple. “I'm not gonna be able to touch you for days.”

He pins you down the mattress, hands above your head. A chuckle leaves his lips as he feels your hips squirming against his boner. “Let's make this count, then.”

The sound of the heavily pouring rain accompanies that of Jay's wet lips against your skin. He wastes no time traveling down south, licking and sucking on your stomach and thighs. A shaky breath leaves your lips as you feel his hand slowly tug down on your panties. 

“Fuck.” he almost feels himself drooling at the sight of the wetness that was pooling in your panties. “Already?”

You groan out, not wanting your boyfriend to drag on and tease. “Can you blame me? It was your fault for being so hot—ah!”

You look down to see his tongue already latched on your clit, fingers slowly prodding in your pussy. His siren eyes stare straight at yours, making you involuntarily clench as he strokes you roughly. A string of moans leave your mouth as he moves his tongue and fingers in various ways–incoherent mumbles of pleasure and excitement.

“I take it I'm doing this just right, hmm?” he teases just before he fully sucks on your clit.

“Ah! Fuck… more…” you cry out, squelching sounds filling your ears. 

He happily obliges, intensifying his actions that were to eventually lead to your first orgasm of the night. You instinctively clench your legs around either side of his head, which he secures with his strong arms. Heck. His biceps felt like steel enclosed in velvet against your thighs, and the way they were flexing didn't help with your already fucked-out self.

“Wanna cum…” you whine out between shallow breaths, feeling the knot inside you wait to let loose. “Pretty please, love… m’gonna cum!”

“Right, cum all over this face, baby doll.” he replies, rubbing the wetness from his fingers onto your clit. “Let it go, c’mon.”

With a final stroke of his thumb against your clit, you release all over his face and he hastily laps up your juices clean. You take another look at his face. With sweat glistening on his forehead, lips tucked up in a lopsided smirk, and eyes brimming with hunger and lust, he was all ready to make you his and only his for the night.

“You're a stunner from up here,” he comments, eyeing your naked body up and down as he pulls his sweatpants away, cock springing out of its confines. He then leans down to prop an elbow on either side of your head and gives your lips a messy peck. “My pretty little baby… are you sure you're ready for me?”

You confidently nod as you feel him coating his whole shaft with your wetness, to which he lets out a small chuckle. “I want all of you, my Jay.”

With that, he effortlessly slides himself inside your pussy, stretching and filling you to the hilt. Your hands latch onto his shoulders, moaning out his name as he hits your most sensitive spot.

“Ah… mmm… this feels like our first time.” you whimper as he gets himself moving on top of you. “So fucking good…”

“I know how much you like it rough, darling.” he whispers teasingly, leaving harsh hickeys along your neck as his thrust gradually picks up its pace. “So much, yeah?”

“So much—ah!”

He cuts you off with a series of hard, heavy thrusts. “Use your words properly, baby.” Thrust. “I wanna know what my baby wants.”

“Ha… want it rough and hard, love.”

“Good.” he coos, the telltale action of him swinging your legs over his shoulders making your heart race. “Just tell me when I have to stop and I'll do so. No buts and ifs.”

He proceeds to ram himself inside you, not caring whether your screams were waking up the neighbors next door or his phone was restless with missed calls and messages coming from his manager. It was just him, you, and the heat of the moment.

You can feel every inch of him as he goes balls deep inside you, and you're desperately holding onto the sheets of your bed in hopes to keep yourself steady, but to no avail. Your boyfriend doesn't look like he's slowing down at any time as a heavy hand lands on your ass cheeks with a sting.

The storm grows stronger as your climax approaches nearer. Jay’s hips snap fast and hard against yours and the way his hands were moving all over your body made it even better. The way your eyes rolled back to your head as he tweaked the position a bit has him going haywire.

“Fuck, you're so tight around me.” he sighs on your ear, thumb rubbing your clit as he drives himself deeper and harder. “You missed my cock that much, huh?”

You nod in response. “I can't believe I won't be seeing you for another week.” you grumble, back arching as he hits your sensitive spot again.

“I know, I know,” he replies, his free hand groping your breast harshly. “Let me make it better for now, yeah? Cum all over me like the good girl you are.”

“Ah—yes! Almost there, please!” you almost scream out as the sensations of his cock inside you and his hands on the most sensitive parts of your body send you into a state of euphoria.

With a final thrust, Jay triggers your orgasm which also triggers his shortly after. He mumbles a quick “I love you” as he feels your legs shake against his body, feeling a little lightheaded after all the work he has done.

“I love you more.” you say in between pants as he pulls out and lays you flat on the bed. “Ah, that feels a lot better.”

“I'm happy it does.” he replies, cleaning you up with a towel he found somewhere in your bed. “You want a shower?”

You roll your eyes at him. “Just promise me you won't put me in standing O’s or something. We gotta clean up. I feel sticky.”

“Alright, princess.” he chuckles, scooping you up from the bed and into the showers.

“Will you be gone by the time I wake up?”

“No, you won't be waking up alone tomorrow morning.” he mumbles, tucking you in your blanket as he kisses your forehead. “I'll make you breakfast.”

“Promise?”

He nods. “Yeah, I promise.” Peck. “Oh, and about the eyes?”

You look up at him, noticing how he still has the makeup on. “Mm-hmm, what about ‘em?”

“I don't think I can have them in any other way.”

You giggle, kissing his eyelids one last time before finally letting slumber take over the both of you. He puts you back in the same position as you were in an hour ago—snuggled up enough to keep each other warm on a rainy afternoon.

The privilege of looking at his beautiful eyes before you close your eyes to sleep was yours, and you're happy it is.

a/n: YAYYYYYY finally a fic! this was heavily inspired by jay's stage makeup (which i'm a hoe for) and how those colors in his eyes turn him into a different person onstage (peep the photo i used) 👀 this is for all the jay hoes AND for the current non-jay hoes who are currently swerving from lane to lane. mwah.

NSFW TAGLIST [OPEN]: @thots4hee @jaylaxies @ddeonuism @jojayke @vernonluvs @puphee @hee-pster @heeshalo @forjongseong (send an ask or a dm to be added!)

© criceofpain on tumblr, 2022