Athena

Four tattoo appointments. Various neighbourhoods. Two estate apps constantly running on your phone. This is what your days have been looking like for the past couple of months.

You and Jungsu have been splitting your free time between cramped apartments and the cool, ink-scented air of the small tattoo studio Paint it. It’s chaotic, but as you glance at your boyfriend, you know you’ve never been happier.

“This started as a simple piece on your pec last year,” Jiseok grins from his spot on the sofa. “Next year you’re gonna be a walking canvas.”

Jungsu lets out a low chuckle. He’s sitting backward on the leather chair as the artist’s works diligently on the final touches spanning across his back; the element to anchor the shoulder blades - a sleek, minimalist blade running straight down the center of his spine.

The tattoo decorates most of his back now; it’s massive. Sharp, complicated lines start at his left breast, then seamlessly flow over the ridge of his shoulder, and spill across his wide shoulder blades. The geometry is intense and razor sharp at the core, yet beautifully delicate at the same time; edges thin like eyelashes. The art perfectly emphasises the powerful shape of his shoulders.

Jiseok, one of your friends who tagged along for this final session, stands up, stepping closer to inspect the sketch. “Sharp,” he nods. “No pun intended.”

“Go big or go home,” the artist smiles, pressing the soft paper towel against Jungsu’s skin to wipe away the excess ink mixed with tiny beads of blood.

“Well, we need to find a home first,” you chime in, playfully.

And then - a small gasp escapes your lips. On your screen, the perfect apartment is staring right back at you. It feels surreal, you immediately tap the photos to make sure your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you.

It’s cosy, compact and beautifully styled - completely furnished with the exact sleek aesthetic you both like. Best of all, the rent is shockingly reasonable for such a good neighbourhood. A fresh wave of excitement rushes through you as you can’t stop swiping the pictures again and again, already imagining the two of you walking through that wooden door.

Oh, and the bedroom? It’s like as if the universe had custom-built it just for you and Jungsu.

Unable to keep it all in, you walk over to show him what you found. “Jungsu, look at this one! It’s so cosy, and it has hardwood floors, and it’s only ten minutes away from—”

Jungsu lets out a sharp hiss through his teeth, his knuckles turning white against the edges of the chair.

Instantly, your lips close shut as you freeze, suddenly worried you distracted him at the worst second. But a moment later, he looks up. And when your gazes meet, the aura of his broad frame completely melts. His facial feautures are naturally mellow, so gentle… a striking contrast to his decorated upper body, and they soften even further when he’s watching you.

A warm smile slowly spreads across his lips, so sensually shaped; it crinkles the corners of his eyes, as if your proximity made the pain suddenly disappear.

“Sorry, baby,” he murmurs, his voice reassuring. “Ten minutes away from where? Show me.”

The hopeful smile on your face returns. “Your gym.”

Wanting to stay close, you pull the nearby rolling stool, right up to the side of Jungsu’s chair. As the artist keeps his focus on the intricate linework, you gently slip your hand into his; his fingers, warm and calloused, instantly wrap around your own, squeezing tight.

“If you like it,” he speaks softly, his eyes full of absolute trust as he endures the steady bite of the needle, “request a viewing for tomorrow morning. I love anything you pick.”

You lean a little closer, your posture shifting from a casual observer to something intimate. Your tone dips, going quieter and secretive as you bring your lips near his ear.

“Also…” you whisper, your mouth curving cheekily. “The bedroom in this apartment… it’s special.”

His expression shifts, not from curiosity, but from a ripple of pain that crosses his feautures as the needle hits a nerve on his spine; it starts the blade work. But he fights through it, forcing his eyes to lock back onto your face. He’s desperate to focus on your words instead of anything else.

“It’s not like the rest,” you continue, teasing softly as his grip on your hand tightens. “It’s not just an ordinary bedroom.”

The reality of moving day one - boxes, boxes, more cardboard boxes. You and Jungsu had spent the last seven hours of your Saturday carrying and sorting through boxes and endless packing paper.

You feel dirty - dust and sweat coat your skin, and your back aches from lifting crates of books. The bedroom closet organisation can definitely wait for another day. But, looking around the welcoming sunlit space as it fills with pieces of your shared life, every ounce of exhaustion is worth it.

You grab a clean towel and finally retreat into the bathroom. The hot shower feels like absolute heaven.

When you step out, wrapped in your plush robe, you realise how quiet the apartment is now that today’s hectic activities are over. You walk down the short hallway and stop at the edge of the kitchen area.

Jungsu is leaning against the newly wiped countertop, a cold can of soda in his hand. He took his shower earlier, and now he’s wearing nothing but a pair of gray, low-slung sweatpants.

From your position - the view is breathtaking. His hips look appetising, the fresh, black ink has healed beautifully, and the minimalist blade running down his spine looks incredible against his muscular back.

Gazing out of the window, he takes a sip of his drink, his chest expanding as he exhales a satisfied sigh. His broad frame dominates the small kitchen, but he looks entirely at home. As if sensing your presence, or the way your adrenaline has heightened, filling the air, he turns around, his eyes instantly landing onto you; the well familiar sofftness takes over his attractive face, and a lazy, warm smile appears.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice carrying a tired rumble. He sets the soda can on the counter and holds out his arm to invite you close to him. “Feel better?”

You step into the warm curve of his side, his hand coming to rest on your hip; his skin is so warm even through your robe. Your eyes find his, your mischievious glint returning.

“Much better,” you purr, leaning your weight against his chest. “But you know… we still have a lot of work to do. In the bedroom.”

Jungsu’s eyebrows jump up, his smile slowly turning perky as he catches onto your flirtatious mood. “Right, the bedroom.” His fingers find the belt of your robe, tugging slowly. “The one that isn’t just an ordinary bedroom.”

Your smile widens as you slip your palms up his broad chest, the pads of your fingers tracing the delicate lines of the tattoo stretching over his pec.

Then, you hear him swallow; his adam’s apple moves as you lean in till your lips almost brush his jaw. “Fuck me.”

You look up into his adoring eyes, just as his gaze falls to your mouth. At the very same moment, your robe opens, welcoming Jungsu’s fingertips; they’re rough, but so affectionate all at the same time, tracing a slow line down your stomach. The touch is very light, bringing goosebumps across your skin.

“And let me watch,” you add, your touch sliding over his decorated shoulder in teasing motions.

You can almost feel the genuine surprise vibrating through his skin… through the soft, delighted chuckle that escapes his chest.

Between the two of you, you’ve always been the bolder one; the first to drop a suggestive comment or a dirty word without blinking. Jungsu is used to your sharp, playful mouth by now.

In fact, he thrives on it. However, no matter how often you catch him off guard, he never quite learns how to control his reactions; his chest always tightens from fluttering, and his gentle eyes darken with a thrill he can never hide.

“You have such a bold mouth,” his voice thickens slightly.

“You love my bold mouth,” you smirk, looking directly into his eyes.

Under the palms of your hands, his heartbeat picks up the pace, thumping a rapid rhythm. It’s a delicious sensation… knowing that just a few dirty words from you can effortlessly disrupt his calm.

“I do,” he murmurs, tracing burning patterns across your bare hip, then guiding them a little higher. “I love it a lot.”

He’s trying to rein in his reaction, but the sudden heat in his gaze gives him away. He needs you as soon as possible.

The moment you lay down on the bed, robe carelessly dropped onto the floor, Jungsu takes in the sight of you indulgently - legs beautifully splayed over the freshly washed sheets, hair still a little damp, your skin only luring him in with the sweet scent of a familiar body wash.

Already, his one hand slips down his stomach, unable to resist the pressure coming from his growing bulge; his fingers curl around the shape, not strong, but teasingly. The immediate relief flows through him as he squeezes, roaming his gaze all over your naked silhouette.

His knee sinks into the mattress as he joins you, his weight looming over you.

“So hard already,” you murmur, pleased. “I can see it.” You palm his boner, humming at how big and solid it looks even through the fabric of his sweats.

Momentarily, Jungsu moans softly, his eyes inspecting the way your teeth graze your bottom lip as you rub his erection; the sight of the playful little bite, so alluring, makes him twitch against your fingers.

“Don’t act surprised,” he says, his voice coming out airy. “You know exactly what you do to me.”

Then, his mouth lowers, capturing you for a deep kiss. You always love the way Jungsu kisses you, but this right now… this feels like a drug. Deep, heavy, making you dizzy with how much you want him.

Soon, he ends up dragging his soft lips down your neck, kissing every single spot he can reach. Your vision is already locked onto your reflection when he backs away to catch his breath, simultaneously moving just enough to pull at one of your nipples; he sucks on it gently, his eyes closing in delight.

Yours - remain open, focused; tracking the long, elegant curve of his inked spine… the muscles shifting smoothly beneath his skin as he takes his time with your boobs, squeezing them together as he scatters even more kisses.

You’re fascinated by the way the light of the late afternoon catches the sharp definition of his shoulders, the solid warmth he radiates pressing against you in an exciting way.

Slowly brushing his thumb against your perked nipple, Jungsu notices you arching from the rising pleasure. But your eyes never leave the ceiling.

“Didn’t know you liked mirrors so much,” he muses, his tone smooth as he waits for you to meet his gaze.

“I like you,” you counter, looking at him with a flirty smile before tracing a path across his cheek with your lips. You press eager, breathless kisses that bring heat to his neck. Then, you trail downwards, running your tongue along the line of his jaw, sliding upward, your breath hot against his ear. “Especially when you’re on top of me,” you continue, your tongue peeking again, so you can tease the sensitive spot.

He always trembles when you lick him there, just below his ear. His breath catches completely till he tilts his head to the side, blindly giving you more access while his hands fist on the bedsheets in a silent plea. You flick your tongue, you bite tenderly at his ear, causing a full body shiver to pass through him.

“I like you best when you’re between my legs,” you add in a whisper, dragging your nails all the way down to the waistband of his sweatpants.

Instantly, Jungsu takes the signal.

Every movement of his upper body is hypnotising as he settles between your thighs, pressing several pecks here and there. Silently, you follow the reflection of his sculpted shoulders as he puts both of your legs over them, then - the back of his head as he plants a kiss on your clit, continuing down your slit.

Usually, Jungsu takes his time building the tension; the anticipation of the first direct contact between his mouth and your pussy. Not this time.

His tongue settles in between your folds, a long, steady drag that makes you buzz; the warmth beneath your skin doubles as he lets it move faster, bolder, applying just a little more pressure with each stroke.

Savouring the taste he collected through his practiced licks, he backs away slightly, gaze intensifying from the mesmerising view - you, dripping and pulsing with desire.

“You’re soaked, baby…” he notes softly; one of his hands leaving your hip so he can feel the pulse of your entrance; slowly pressing his thumb against it. “That mirror really does turn you on.”

It does; you can feel the sensation settling right into your core, building up as his firm digit slips inside you with a squelching sound accompanying the movement. But you can also see it on his charming face - his lips are already glossy, coated with the shiny essence that your body can’t help but produce the second he moves on top of you.

However, this is not the right moment for him to be a tease.

One more pump of his thumb, and you reach for his hair, pulling blindly; the action is rushed and harsh, giving away exactly how desperate you truly are.

“Need your mouth, Jungsu.” You intend for your voice to sound stern but your words catch in your throat, emerging as a breathless murmur instead. “Now,” you insist, a subtle quiver splitting your tone.

Your body immediately reacts to his gentle lips returning, and when he starts eating you out, you fully sink into the dizzying delight. “Oh, fuck—“ A sharp gasp escapes you as your head tilts back. “I love your mouth, baby.”

It's a sweet blur of heat every time he breathes against your clit let alone when he swirls around it in those sensual circles... and when the press of his lips eventually turns heavy, desperate, like he’s chasing the rush running through your veins, the pleasure in your core expands into something profound.

As your focus on his reflection in the mirror wavers, you catch yourself being noticeably noisy in your state of pleasure, uttering continuous pieces of praises.

Jungsu’s arms are wrapped around your hips, feeling them buck off the bed as he keeps licking between your folds. Not stopping for a single second, he lifts his eyes to your blissful expression, drinking you in completely before dipping into your entrance, wanting to taste you directly.

Every time your lips part wider, he feels something dizzying fluttering inside his chest at the possibility of hearing another compliment from you; he is completely hooked on the way you praise him, and he waits there, in sweet anticipation, hoping for more of what you have to say about him.

While his tongue, slow and sharp, slides in and out, making your thighs tremble.

“Please, keep going, baby…” you moan, moving one hand to your breast, squeezing strong as his tongue swirls deliciously through your wet heat. “Eat my pussy, just like that.”

Soon, the rhythm of his mouth turns frantic against you, the relish sweeping through you, so consuming. You can feel the depth of his passion and devotion just by the motions of his long, tender tongue.

You thread your fingers through his hair, using a strong grip to anchor him there - exactly against your clit.

Jungsu lets out a sound of surprise, it comes out muffled, vibrating subtly against your cunt. The fierce pull of your fist makes his pulse skip with excitement.

His deep licks change up when your hips lift a bit, then a small moan catches in his throat as you perform little circling movements, rubbing yourself against his face while your hand keeps him still. His tongue flattens, dragging steadily to the top, pushing you higher in bliss.

But soon he elicits the most intense, deep sigh, his eyes locking on you with want.

“Mm,” he licks his lips, his breath caressing your folds, “that’s my sweet girl.”

You arch your back, feeling the warm knot in your belly tighten in a demanding way.

“Can I have your cock?” You ask, your heart racing in anticipation. “Please, baby… I need it.”

“Only if you keep watching yourself take it,” he answers with a seductive smile pulling his puffy lips.

The rush blurs the room around you entirely once he starts making his way inside you. It never stops being exciting - the painful stretch that inevitably comes with his size. He pushes an inch, slowly, so you can adjust around him gradually and there’s already a trail of static electricity across your skin, buzzing, as you whine at the strong sting.

It hurts, and yet…

“Deeper,” you whisper in demand, piercing through his gaze.

Jungsu’s eyes widen slightly, a small but bright surprise darting into them as your command sinks in. A quick blink follows, his hips slowing so that he can pull out carefully - not entirely, just enough to ease the pressure, to help your tight walls open for him.

“No,” he murmurs, watching you intently, “don’t you remember?” he pauses, his body moving with deliberate speed to keep only the head of his cock inside; he starts pumping in and out, sending maddening heatwaves through your system. His voice remains low, slightly airy around the edges despite your frustrated whines rising in pitch. “Last time I listened to you… you cried.”

And you loved it.

A flash of unexpected emotion betrays the last bit of resolve in your gaze - his tip escapes, leaving you clenching around air.

You manage to bite back the threatening noise of despair. But your nails sinking into his arms, unintentionally leaving scarlet marks, express your need to bring him close again.

“Jungsu,” you breathe, using his name as a way to weaken his composure. As expected, it works; one second his gaze is focused upon his heavy length resting against your pussy, brushing your clit and counting down the seconds until he is back inside your warmth, the next… he’s caught off guard with a beautiful shift in his expression. “Pretty please…”

He blinks, the look on his face softening in quiet, helpless fascination. His erection, hot and solid between your legs, twitches once, tempted by your pleading. Earlier, he was so focused on your pleasure, completely hooked on every breath and word of yours… now, it hits him just how badly he aches for relief.

His breathing stutters when your fingers come in contact with his member, pressing against the sticky skin, against the throbbing vein stretching at the side. At once, they close around it, twisting expertly.

“Give me that big cock, baby…” you repeat seductively, like you’re casting a spell on him. “All of it. Every inch.”

If you focus on the large mirror above, you can almost see the light catching every single flex of his back muscles… how the spreading sensation ripples through him as his weight still looms over you.

“Look at my little pussy,” you say, gently catching his chin with your free hand, “just look at how wet it is for you.”

Jungsu’s grip around the sheets tightens as he grounds himself in the feeling; he’s getting more and more light headed, every next twirl of your powerful hand making him practically melt under your stare.

“Why would you deny me, hm?” you arch a brow playfully, keeping the steady momentum up and down.

He hurries to object: “I’m not…” but his sentence falters just as quickly, because you lean in, teeth grazing your favorite place below his ear, biting softly, then licking across the same spot. His face is warmer, his throat moving as he gulps one more time. “Fuck—“ he gasps, eyes fluttering close.

Like that, his mind goes blank, and he completely forgets what he was just about to say.

You open your palm and move it in front of his mouth; simultaneously you slow the other one, easing the pressure; the shift in the rhythm lets him finally meet your eyes.

“Spit,” you murmur quietly, tone laced in subtle mischief. “I want to make it all nice and wet for me.”

His gaze drops, but his eyes stay open, looking at your steady fingers while they wait for his spit. In those few seconds, as he lets it pool into your palm, the tenderness on his face transforms into something more intense and hungry.

A muscle jumps in his jaw once he looks up, licking his lips. His chest begins to rise a notch quicker as he focuses onto your lips - the almost devilish curl that’s enough to make his head spin.

But it’s also the way you take him with both hands, your fingers perfectly covering every single inch of him, sliding from top to base in effortless motions. The moisture spreads evenly beneath your palms, slippery and noisy.

“Mmm… better,” you hum in approval, eyes flickering to the arousing sight of his reactions; the mellow look on his face slightly hardens, the lewd sounds beneath your palms grow louder as you start to pump in a faster rhythm. “Too big for just one hand, isn’t that right, baby?”

Jungsu’s breathing turns ragged, erratic as your fingers work him even harder. His head falls weakly, warm forehead pressing firmly against yours as the last remaining bits of his control keep him from dropping his entire weight on you.

Heavy warmth blooms low inside him, sparking along every single nerve; it makes him feel like gravity is slipping away. His limbs go weak, his head woozy from how strongly he throbs inside your fists.

You glance up, the reflection of his toned thighs, his ass, his hips as they strengthen in order to thrust into your secure hands - it’s an image that sparks new doses of pleasure.

A moan, so deep, comes straight from his chest, but so sweet too, you could almost taste it in your mouth. The following sounds that fall from his lips are just as appetising, making your toes curl as you watch him aim for better thrusts; his long dick moves effortlessly, finding constant pressure in between your slick fingers, you don’t even need to move a bone.

You just relax and watch.

Until a tasteful, discreet whine slips in between his rapid pants: “Do it… fuck—please…”

You lower the girth, the feeling of his heated tip pushing into your entrance has you holding your breath in anticipation.

“All of it,” you sigh, pleased. Then, your mouth opens in a stunned o, unable to shut as you slowly process the overwhelming sensation.

A wild fire looms in your body, half-harrowing due to the big intrusion, half-pleasant because you are finally full.

You move a hand to Jungsu’s lower back, pressing hard so he can be as close possible, deep as possible.

He registers the sign and grinds against you, slow and deliberate, letting out a small, unsteady grunt.

“Yeah, make it deep,” you moan softly, the small painful thrills blending with raw pleasure as he repeats the swift motion, teasing that magical spot, “Make it fuckin’ deep for me, baby.”

“Like this?”

For the first time, you are unable to respond. A strong wave of arousal washes over you, knocking out the air from your lungs - Jungsu is pounding into you now. He buries his entire face into your neck, forcing his hips in a wild rhythm that makes the bed shake.

You dig your sharp nails into his inked skin, holding onto him while his full weight - an exciting, heavy pressure - keeps pulling constant breathless gasps from your throat every time he slams back into you.

It feels unreal; it feels like your entire being is one warm knot under a solid wall of scorching heat, and it’s getting closer and closer to snapping into millions of tiny pieces. As he moves, pinning you down in the best way possible, you feel like you are beautifully trapped. You welcome the intoxicating pressure, your soaked pussy sucking him in so strong, as if it wants to permanently keep him.

“Don’t go quiet on me,” Jungsu speaks up in your neck; it sounds more like a quick hiss and you almost dismiss it. “Not now.”

But how can you keep talking? Every time you attempt a word, your voice betrays you, producing broken, pathetic little sounds.

“Talk to me,” he tries again, beads of sweat rolling down his temples. You are starting to clench so much that he quickly shifts, adjusting his posture slightly in order to gather more strength.

Without looking, he moves one hand to your face, his thumb pressing against your lips.

“Harder,” is all you can manage while grabbing a handful of his hair.

He’s not sure what it is - the new environment, the fact you haven’t had sex in two weeks, or maybe something entirely else… But you’ve never had an orgasm so quickly before.

When it hits, it hits you so intensely, so powerfully, that there is no doubt… your new neighbours heard it all.

A moment later, as the air around your bedroom thickens with the heavy scent of sex, Jungsu stills completely inside you, his breathing slowly normalising while he rests in your embrace, cock twitching against your walls every now and then.

“Why did you stop talking?” he asks, voice barely audible; the aftermath of his own climax made it low with a subtle rasp.

The question makes you grin in soft amusement, the tears in your gleaming eyes long gone. “Too busy watching,” you answer with an even bigger smile.

— ♡ thank you for reading! || copyright © joocomics 2026 all rights reserved. do not repost, copy or translate my works on any platforms.

MASTERLIST || JOIN MY TAGLIST

Gunil

Domming or subbing isn’t what he really pays attention to, he just wants to make you feel good service top

Lives to hear you moan and praise him, wants to hear you tell him how good it feels allll fucking day

Will talk you through it (!!!)

Gentle manhandler, he won’t be tossing you around but he will be keeping you still/in the position he wants

Godddd… his voice

Breathy and gentle but so so so obviously turned on, like he sounds strained

Trying to hide how painfully turned on he is by literally anything you do, and then it gets raspier when he cums

Jungsu

Almost entirely a dom, loves giving or receiving

Dirty talkerr, can work you up so fucking well with just his voice and he’ll do it until you’re practically begging

Smug about it too, he knows how much it gets to you

Will tease and play with you until neither of you can handle it

Could totally see him as a brat tamer lmaoo

Will remind you how strong he is so subtly but so firmly, (gently) manhandling you, putting you into whatever position he wants, lifting you up omfggggggg I need him

Jiseok

Switch with a dom lean, will do whatever you feel like

He’s so goofy funny sweet until he’s not, and then he’s meannnn

Will edge you until you cry, and will be smiling about it yep yep

Teasee, he loves teasing you regardless of if he’s domming or not

Loves getting his smug little smirk wiped off his face the second you start giving the same mean energy back to him

Prob a bit of a masochist, wants to get bitten/be physically shown what he does to you in the form of being marked like that

Seungmin

Switch with a sub lean

Brat!! Masochist!! He’s all of it!!

Wants you to put him in his place, he will act out until you give him what he wants

Will go for hours. Not joking

He’s a bit greedy with his pleasure, he just wants to feel good for forever with you

While I think he’s definitely a masochist, I don’t think he’s really a fan of edging, definitely prefers the pain of overstim over the pain of being edged

Sooooo fucking loud

Junhan

Switch, prefers receiving but will happily give

Just loves feeling good :(( loves getting to turn his brain off and let you be in charge for a bit

Soft, not very vocal at first but if you draw it out/tease him to any extent it gets harder to control himself

Breathier whimpers, more airy than full on moans, but sometimes you can get that out of him too

Embarrassed by how good it feels sometimes, probably needs to be squeezing something really hard (your sleeve, your hand, etc.)

Will go dumb after his first orgasm, doesn’t mean you have to stop tho

Jooyeon

Sub. Or a switch with like a 99.9999% lean towards subbing

Will give or recieve he does not care in the slightest, in fact prefers doing both/changing it up during

Does he have stamina? Kinda lowkey not really at all … does that stop him from going just one round? No!! overstimulate himmmmmmmm until he’s a mess

Vocallll, he’s all of it. He’ll beg, he’ll whimper, he’ll moan, he’ll cry

Cannot shut his mouth to save his life

In the bar, you sit across from Jooyeon, halfway through your drinks.

He’s very relaxed tonight; yesterday he caught up on sleep so he’s well rested. His jacket is slung over the chair, and his hair, which he let you style for him in the bathroom, is slicked back. His lips smile easily at you.

Tonight, he’s your boyfriend - just that.

Until the couple appears; they step into your circle without asking permission. The guy smiles easy while the girl sharper. It doesn’t take you more than a second to notice that her eyes are already snagged on Jooyeon like hooks.

“Hey,” she says, voice pitched high with enthusiasm that hasn’t earned its place yet. She steps too close, you notice. “Sorry to interrupt, we just uhm… Are you from here?”

Jooyeon, nice as always, answers; with a soft laughter tucked into his words that immediately makes the girl move even closer.

He always gives people space to speak. He always smiles, open and inviting, you know this about him like the back of your own hand. His ease with strangers is one of the things you love most about him.

But not tonight.

The girl’s attention sharpens as she keeps the questions coming - they’re hardly questions at all, they're just excuses to keep Jooyeon talking while her boyfriend drifts away, distracted by someone he recognises at the bar.

When Jooyeon mentions the band, like it’s nothing more than another job, she squeals. The effect is immediate.

“Oh my god!” She exclaims, nearly louder than the disco beat pounding through the speakers. “You’re in a band?” She spins on her heels, hair whipping as she calls out. “Babe, come here! He’s in a band!”

When she yells babe you assume she calls out for her boyfriend. But you’re wrong.

Another girl you’ve never seen before in your life walks to your table, eyes bright with interest. A short, disbelieving breath escapes you.

This is absurd.

The word band blasts again, and you feel it lodge somewhere under your ribs, impossible to ignore.

Jooyeon smiles, bashful now, waving it off like he always does. “Yeah, it’s not a big deal.”

But the girls’ eyes are shining, their attention vibrating like neon. Their questions multiply: what kind of music? Do you go on tours? Are you famous?

Jealousy rises inside you in hot, unwelcome waves. You hate it. You hate jealousy - how small and insignificant it makes you feel, how it shrinks you, making you feel invisible. You try to drown it with the last of your drink, force it down like something poisonous. Someone like you, who loves someone like Jooyeon, should know better than to feel jealousy. Jealousy ruins relationships like yours, you've seen it happen countless times.

You trust Jooyeon because you know him. He’s just being social and kind the way he always is. Still, your annoyance simmers, stubborn and unyielding.

This girl isn’t even trying to be subtle.

“Do you come here often?” She asks, head tilted, voice sweet and purring.

“Uh, no,” Jooyeon replies, then shifts one of his hands deliberately to lace fingers with yours. “My girlfriend actually picked this place tonight.”

And you will not be coming back soon.

Her boyfriend, if that's what he is, reappears at her side, cheerful and oblivious to what’s going on. The conversation swells further, voices overlapping, and your heart starts to race.

You reach for your phone. The screen lights up in blue and you pretend to scroll once. “Anyways,” you speak up, voice bored but steady, eyes still on the screen. “Our friend will be here any minute now.”

You lift your gaze just in time to catch the girl's smile falter, just for a second before it snaps back into place.

“Oh, right,” she says. “Yeah, of course! It was nice talking to you…”

She throws one last lingering look at Jooyeon. You see it so clearly - how desperately she wants to be remembered.

Jooyeon nods politely, already looking back down at his drink.

Once they're gone, the silence settles between you until he reaches for your hand again.

“You okay?” His brows lift suspiciously.

You look up at him, and his gaze softens slightly, the way it always does whenever your eyes find him.

“I am now.” You reply, then glance away.

“Oh come on!” He laughs, fingers tightening briefly around yours. When you pull your hand away, he doesn't follow - he just keeps smiling in that effortless, charming grin that tells you he's not going to take this seriously. “You were adorable just now. Pretending to be all busy on your phone. What? Got a little jealous?” He leans forward, eyes gleaming bright.

You exhale sharp through your nose in frustration. “I wasn’t jealous.”

Of course, unbothered, he laughs. “You were. You still are.”

“I’m not,” you argue. “I’m annoyed.”

“Mhm.” He nods, leaning back in his chair. His gaze drifts away, the smile finally fading. “You're the one who insisted we go out tonight.” He looks back at you, brows lifting in rising irritation; the faint slit through one eyebrow catches the light as his expression sharpens. “I agreed, but I’m not allowed to talk to people now? Is that what this is?”

The words hit harder than you expect. Your mouth opens, then closes, uncertain of what to say first. When you finally speak, your voice is lower and laced in cold disbelief.

“I insisted? I suggested we go out because I barely see you anymore.” You say, shifting slightly closer so you avoid raising your tone.

Jooyeon frowns, confusion flickering across his features. It's not like you've never had this conversation before.

“I wanted one night,” you continue, eyes burning now. “One. I wanted one date because I don’t remember the last time we had one.” You pause to take a breath then continue: “Not after a show when you’re too exhausted to hold a conversation. Not backstage. Just you and me. A real date. That’s what I suggested we do tonight.”

Jooyeon exhales, searching for words that don't come. When your chair scrapes loudly against the floor, his head snaps up. “What—“

“We’re leaving.”

“Baby…”

“I’m done.” You cut in, gathering your things. “I don’t want to talk about this here.”

For a fleeting second you really consider walking out without waiting for him, but the room is crowded; there are too many eyes, including hers somewhere. You refuse to give her that pleasure, so you wait.

Sighing, Jooyeon drags a hand through his dark hair and goes to pay. The minutes stretch thin and fragile while you just stare at nothing, your pulse thumping loud in your ears.

When he comes back with the receipt folded in his hand, his expression seems to have changed; it's more cautious now. He reaches for your hand, gentle but firm. “Let’s go.”

Of course, as he expected, you slip away and start walking ahead.

Your attitude doesn’t soften in the uber ride home. Every time he searches for your hand, every time his palm settles on your thigh in quiet reassurance, you pull away, gaze fixed on the opposite window.

You’re aware you said things you shouldn’t have, and things you don’t fully mean. Jooyeon always tries. You know how hard he works and bends his schedule to show up. This isn’t about mistrust. It’s about the anticipation you allowed yourself - you planned it all so carefully in your head (the place, the clothes, the intimate conversations, the romance). But most of all, it’s about how he turned it back on you, like you’re the problem for wanting a special night in the first place.

You roll your eyes when he leans closer again, cooing at your ear.

“How can I make it up to my pretty girl, hm?” He murmurs. “The night doesn’t need to end here, baby.”

“The night already ended at the bar,” you say, snappy. “Obviously, you weren’t in the mood to spend time with me in the first place.“

The words surprise you too. But once they’re out you can’t do anything about them. Something inside you is fuming, and just keeps you pushing: to talk, to argue, to provoke him.

You cross your arms in front of your chest when he goes hey, waiting for you to look at him. But you ignore him, like it was the wind or something.

Then, your head is turned to the left. Your gaze is suddenly forced on him and you have nowhere else to look. Not that there’s anything else you’d rather gaze at right now - he is extremely hot when he gets mad.

“Hey,” Jooyeon repeats, firmer this time. His grip steadies you in one place as his fiery eyes hypnotise you. “Watch your mouth.”

You tilt back, just slightly to really look at him. Something in your own gaze must intrigue him because his grip doesn’t loosen - if anything, it firms, fingers warm against your jaw as he studies you.

It seems like he’s not aware of how much he turns you on sometimes when he’s angry. He’s not sure how to read your reaction. So, you decide to throw a little hint:

“Or what?”

The challenge in your quiet voice makes something in his gaze shift.

“I’ll find a way to shut it up myself,” he answers.

You hum softly, almost amused, and let the moment stretch. You don’t show it, but his words definitely made your pulse stutter. Slowly and performatively, you lick your lips before responding.

“If you were confident enough,” you say, voice smooth as silk, “you would’ve found a way by now.”

His thumb twitches against your cheek once. His jaw tightens, not angry, but more focused.

“That so?” He murmurs with a half-smirk.

You watch his eyes flick to your mouth, and just when they lock with yours again, the car stops.

It takes a second for both of you to catch your breath and remember your surroundings.

The second the apartment door clicks shut behind you, Jooyeon doesn’t say a word. He moves past you and heads straight into the bedroom. He sits on the edge of the mattress and shrugs out of his jacket. A tired breath leaves him as he drags a hand through his hair, shoulders sagging for the first time all night.

You follow a moment later, intending to reach for your nightstand, but you barely take two steps before his arms catch you.

He pulls you in without a warning and suddenly you’re sinking down onto his lap, the space between you disappearing completely.

A chuckle escapes you before you can stop it, but his hands stay on you, like you belong there; back against his chest, warm and solid. For a moment he just looks at you - the night’s frustration still clings to him, it still flickers in his eyes.

Then, he leans in. For a small, slow kiss; his mouth brushes yours, barely there. When you don’t pull away and tilt into it instead, he deepens the moment in a way that makes your breath hitch.

Now, it’s a smug, challenging kind of kiss. Wet and insistent. It has your hips shifting against him; the sudden friction makes both of you whine into each other’s mouths.

He pulls back only a fraction, lips hovering close enough that you keep feeling his breath.

“Still gonna talk like that now that we’re home?” He asks, voice teasing and threaded with heat. “Hm? Or was that just a show?”

Feeling his warm lips trace your jaw, you tilt your head against his shoulder, letting him press more and more sloppy kisses - from the corner of your mouth to your neck. He moves quick and greedy, but the motions of his hands roaming your body make it feel like he’s savouring every small twitch of yours.

“You were pretty bold earlier,” he lets out a small, humourless laugh. Then, he grips the hem of your dress only to drag it all the way up to your waist. “Wonder if you’re gonna keep that energy.”

That’s when you meet his eyes - in the long mirror across the room. He lifts one hand to your face and squeezes it in that same possessive way from earlier that makes your stomach flip.

“Yeah, look.” He murmurs approvingly. “figured you should be able to look at yourself when you talk so cocky.”

You can feel how the room starts to feel a little smaller, with his arms around you, and much more warmer. Heat rises to your cheeks simultaneously pooling in your core.

Jooyeon smirks, satisfied at your lack of speech. “You’re cute when you’re all flustered.”

“I’m not flustered…” you protest only to have your cheeks gripped harder.

“Ah, there it is.” He sighs as if disappointed. “Spoiled little brat.”

Before you can say anything, you’re on your feet and he removes your panties. The excitement of not knowing what his next step might be swirls in your tummy - it’s thrilling. Yet… you still turn around before he makes a move, and place a hand on his chest like you’re ready to take over.

“Nuh uh,” he murmurs amused, fingers closing around your wrist. “You’re sitting back here, baby.”

Your balance shifts as he draws you back against him. In one swift motion, he turns you, guiding you until your back settles against his chest and you’re facing the mirror again. His legs bracket yours as you land on his lap, exactly where he wants you. “There…” he says lowly, chin hovering near your shoulder. “Right here… on my cock.”

The reflection catches everything - the way his hands rest on your hips, squeezing obsessively as he spreads you wide open; the way your breath stalls for a second when you realise how erected he is. His eyes drift to meet yours in the mirror across the room, his lips part with intent.

“Feel how hard it is already?” He says smoothly. “See what you do to me?”

“I want you,” you plead quietly. “Please, baby…”

As if that was some sort of a command, Jooyeon dips fingers to your bare pussy. His gaze never leaves your reflection as he finds your clit, circling it with his middle finger - in the most light, tender touch.

“Yeah?” He smirks then plants an open mouthed kiss on that spot just below you ear that always gives you goosebumps. “Now you wanna be a good girl all of a sudden?”

He rubs your sensitive spot a few seconds longer, twitching in his trousers every time you moan, and you think he might give you what you asked for. However, the nice motions stop and the first flat-handed spank comes - quick and easy.

Your body responds with a jolt, and that provokes the heavy palm to fall on your aroused clit one more time immediately after.

Already entertained, Jooyeon mocks your soft yelp while his other hand makes sure you stay spread apart for him. “You thought you were gonna get away with it, huh?” He rasps as a new slap strikes your pussy; same place, but the sting is harsher. “Bad girl.”

His dominant hand comes down - deliberate, harder. Whining, you try to snap your legs shut, but he’s strong. He pins them back open with a grin on his face.

“Aw, don’t be like that now,” he coos, but there’s a quiet fury still creeping in his voice. “Spit.” He orders, almost casually, when he lifts a palm to your mouth.

A small string of saliva trickles through your lips. But it’s not enough - Jooyeon lets out a displeased tsk with his tongue. “I know you can give more than that.”

More spit pools in his palm, then finally he smears it all over your throbbing clit, leaving a single string to dangle from your chin.

The pressure inside you rapidly increases as his wet touch slides up and down, pressing a little harder at the top before dipping into your entrance.

Once the tip of his finger slips into you for a third time - vanishing just as quickly - you shudder, looking for something to grip on for support. The warm knot tightens overwhelmingly fast. “Please—“

All you get is more spanks. And nothing else. Two. Three… Five.

Eight. Fourteen.

Eventually, you stop counting.

All you acknowledge is the pressure, the heat. The friction. The way his palm gets warmer, rougher, and your clit - further stimulated, but not enough to help you reach release. Soon, your skin begins to sting, but Jooyeon’s grin remains smug on his lips.

“Baby, please—“ you mewl, restless hips shifting against his crotch. “I’m so…”

“Horny?” He purrs mockingly. “Is the little slut horny?”

You find his eyes in the mirror and nod slowly with puckered lips. “Yes… I’m horny. So horny—please…”

“Gonna cum just from this, aren’t you?” His smirk fades and he strikes again; the lewd sound of his weight landing against your puffy clit fills the air, clashing with your shameless moan.

Without a warning, he shoves two fingers inside you, and groans at the puddle. “Fuck! Look at this soaked pussy…” As he pumps them in and out, he can feel his own temperature rise. He curls his digits, aiming deeper for that special spot.

The wet squelch magnifies as he strengthens his wrist; your eyes roll back. You’re so, so close…

Then, suddenly he pulls out - only to slap you with his slick palm even meaner than before, and leave you clenching around air.

“Baby!” A needy sob escapes you as you quiver helplessly in his arms. You start to pant now, you can feel your eyes watering from being denied so harshly.

“Open,” he rasps, gaze darting to your face as he tries to hold himself together.

You blink, tilting your woozy head to see his reflection better, but he’s not talking about your eyes.

“Open that mouth.” He grunts; his impatience running out. “Show me how you’re gonna take my cock.”

Obedient and quiet, you open wide. There’s no more of that glare you punished him with in the car. Just pure lust and desperation.

“That’s right,” he groans, invading your mouth with his stained, messy fingers; they press on your tongue roughly, like they purposefully want to reach further than you can manage. “You’ll take it all the way down… since you can’t seem to keep that filthy mouth shut.”

He draws out all the way down and emphasises on it by shoving deeper into your throat. This forces you to gag loudly, but instead of letting you have a proper breath, Jooyeon pushes his ring finger too.

“Suck, just like that… I want to see you choke on my cock.”

His fingers pull out and you finally breathe in. Quietly, you wait for him to catch all of your drool in his hand; heart skipping wildly. You know what’s coming now, and the anticipation is killing you.

You fist on the fabric of his pants, bottom lip tucked between your teeth. You wait for the loud smack, you wait for the impact, for the shocks to fly through your core…

What you don’t expect is for Jooyeon to cuss under his breath; voice laced with a new kind of tension. “Fuck it.”

He pushes you away, back flat against the mattress, and immediately starts undoing his belt as quick as he can.

Unlike you, he can’t wait any longer.

Next time he won’t go so easy on you, he tells himself. Next time…

— ♡ thank you for reading! || copyright © joocomics 2026 all rights reserved. do not repost, copy or translate my works on any platforms.

a.note ! genuinely don’t know what this turned into… i was in bed with the flu and all i knew was that i had to write something about that handsome look of his

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You tilted your head back until a sharp crack echoed through the quiet room, followed by a low, satisfied groan slipping out of your mouth. 

“Ugh, fuck.” You whispered below your breath. That stretch felt like heaven. A relief spreading across your body. The kind that you have forgotten after being chained and locked up inside your art studio by your unfinished art assignments. You decided to be an art major because ever since you were teenager, this hobby helped you to cope and relieve some stress on whatever fuckery life kept putting you through. But now, it seems like you'd rather chase Michael Myers instead to end your misery. 

The fading sunlight soiled throughout your art studio windows, then painted everything in a gleaming gold. Not a big fan of it though. The sun and its light. How it's always too much; squinting your eyes just to see clearly when you're in its presence, hiding in a shade when its warmth touches your skin. 

While putting finishing touches, you suddenly snapped back into reality and looked around. It finally dimmed into dusk without you realizing. The timely burial of the sun reminded you that it's time to step out of your art cave to touch some grass. And in your little world, it meant heading to a local underground gig to lose yourself in the chaos of never-ending metal riffs and a mosh pit filled with people who knew talent. 

Looking down, you saw dark charcoal dust and brushstrokes of dried paint clinging to your skin like stubborn adhesive. You squinted your eyes and saw black powder that worked its way beneath your nails.

A quiet cuss came out of you. 

You mentally reminded yourself to just buy some new nail polish, while your fingers desperately excavate the dirt pooled underground your nails. You hate it whenever this happens. Which is always. It is so bad that you acknowledge the established routine wherein washing it off takes three to five tries. 

Your hand reached for the nearby cigarette and lighter. 

Watching the flame spread over the end of the stick between your hands, you couldn't resist yourself to take a long drag— your lungs were waiting to be fully filled. 

You let out a long sigh and began peeling off your art clothes until you were left in just your red lace panties. You're not really the type to be bothered wearing a bra inside. Especially when days after days of your life are spent heavily hunched over plates, your cruel art professor demanding impossible deadlines? If letting your girls out is a damn sin, then you'll gladly be a sinner. You know that this is the only mercy and payment the world could offer to you. 

Well, it’s either that, or a night fucking someone senseless, would probably do the trick just as well. 

“I swear to fucking god, I need to get laid,” you muttered, half to yourself and half to whoever's down to do it. 

The whole studio then started to get filled with too much smoke, which made you finally stand up and open the windows. The sudden cold breeze touching your skin made you slightly shiver. Crossing your free arm to your body to bring some heat. 

It had been a while… two months maybe— since your last hook-up. Your previous fuck buddy had finally settled down, leaving you with art, deadlines, and your fingers that had seen better days. Well, you had hookups with a friend before, but since both of you are in the same art program, getting some action is really off the table. He's definitely too tired from squishing creative juice as well to even think about doing you. 

You raked your fingers through your hair, frustration starting to settle in. This rut had lasted longer than any art block you'd ever had, which was saying something. Something that defies how you view yourself. 

You turned toward the mirror. Could it be how you look? 

Your makeup still looked decent, your piercings gleamed under the dying light, and your breasts sat perfectly together with your nipple piercing. You looked good— intimidating, like how most people said. Maybe it was the way you dressed, or maybe how rarely you smiled. Either way, you didn't mind. It only added to the image. 

You guess you being the reason is off the list, cause you look fucking amazing. Men definitely would kiss the floor you'd walk on. They usually do. 

You finally took your final drag before pinching it down to your ashtray. 

The piece in front of you was the fourth one you've finished this week. And despite the exhaustion from churning out pieces just to satisfy your sadistic professor, this one felt right the most. It looked like you.

The thematic topic given by your instructor is about finding beauty in things usually seen as disturbing and unpleasant. When you receive the instructions, your artistic instincts go feral. This thematic topic is your forte. You knew exactly what you wanted to capture in your piece: a performer’s soul mid-show, lying down suggestively. The way they let the music swallow them whole— their back arching, hair sticking all over their exposed skin, hands gripping the mic, which were unplugged, as if it could save them from the high of performing what they're passionate about. 

Their head was tilted back as far as it goes, light washing over their face until it vanished into brightness, leaving the mouth erased. Unfinished. Every stroke was raw and imperfect, yet deliberate. Those imperfections were what made your art yours: personal, human, vulgar. 

From the easel you turned into some makeshift hanger out of laziness, you grabbed your Linkin Park tee and some cool bottoms. You watched yourself wear it in the mirror. It was full of smudges, but it was clear enough to guide you where to tightline your eyes with practiced precision. Satisfied, you grabbed your sketchbook, slipped your drawing tools inside your bag. You put on your headphones and played She Burned Me Down by Type O Negative.

The night air hit you immediately as soon as you entered the society once again, cool and sharp, sending shivers down your spine. Your pace started to pick up a bit, enduring the chill instead of running back down to your studio. While you’re on your way, you remembered to check KnotLips’ program for tonight. That was the gig venue you’re comfortable to call your second home since it’s inherently a nearby vacation site for your metalhead ass.

Scrolling through your phone, you checked their socials for tonight's lineup: Madmans Esprit, METHOD, and Lanalogue. Then your eyes caught something in the small text below. 

[ “Special guest: Xdinary Heroes” ]

You scoffed. 

“Who the fuck names their band Xdinary Heroes?” 

It sounded like they all huddled in somebody’s living room, word generator on hand, and a fucking dream. Are they aiming for Edgar Allan Poe level of deep and profound or that Gabbie Hannah woah song? 

You bit back a grin. 

You went to the search bar, typed their band name, and clicked their profile. Curiosity wasn't new to you. Especially when it came to mocking these kinds of rock-wannabe posers. With their stupid name. With their forced uwu-faces. 

You believe they are not built for this scene.

And you’re right, like always, their feed was exactly what you expected: the over-edited gig photo, fanservice shots of their hands all over their instrument, and the overly filtered photos of their faces that they’re all washed out. It was too clean for a band claiming to be in a “raw” and an “underground” band. The last thing the underground scene needed was another group of pretty boys trying to look rockstar enough.

 You squinted at the caption below one of the posts. 

“Ordinary is a crime.”

#XdinaryHeroes #WeAreAllHeroes

You are actually gagged. 

“Oh my fucking days,” you cackled.. 

‘You ARE the ordinary’, you thought while your laugh echoed through the streets.

People around you started glancing your way, but you couldn't care less. You did not even pay any mind to the group of five men staring at you the whole time. 

“Who's behind this? An eleven-year-old poet on a Jungkook self-insert binge?”

Your shoulders shook as you scrolled further, trying and continuously failing to contain your laughter.

Then one photo made you pause. 

You blinked and leaned closer. 

The bassist… 

It was a live shot mid-performance— his head tilted back, eyes half-lidded, veins visible along his neck with strands of blonde hair on the side. 

You unconsciously gulped. 

This deserves to be that photographer’s signature shot. The way the lighting illuminated the sharpness of his features. And the way his nose stands tall, that could motivate Doja Cat to release another level of the Planet Her album. Your eyes followed the visual flow of the photo. And when your gaze went lower, it got stuck. It lingered on the sculpted long column of this guy’s throat. 

That Adam’s apple is staring back at you.

You closed your eyes. “Adam, thank you for swallowing that fucking apple.”

God, what is wrong with you? Just earlier, you were shitting on them, then now you’re thirsting for one of the members from a recent band you despise.

“Well, maybe the photographer just deserves a raise,” you said, pretending that was the reason as your thumb tapped the save button. 

Just to be exactly clear, there was no meaning behind that. It was purely for reference. Artistic inspiration. Composition study. Lighting analysis. Anything but “the bassist is hot”. 

Artists recognize art. Artists recognize talent. Artists recognize… insane anatomy.

And as one, you'll admit, artists like you won't get tired of drawing this guy. 

You turned off your phone and shook your head, muttering, “Weirdo.”

When you reached KnotLips, you walked over to sit on your usual spot, the corner of the bartender’s side. Inside, everything was colored by the LED lights, a completely different place in comparison to the world outside. A world wherein it seems like life has taken its heart away. Even the people walking felt like an NPC, no other movements other than their feet moving forward. 

Your eyes moved to the stage when buzz echoed in the place from their amplifier, a band was preparing their instruments for tonight's performance. The people tonight were wearing their band tees and enjoying each other's company. They're still scattered in the middle, but everyone knows when to leave space for an upcoming mosh pit when the performance starts. Looking at this place, this is where you believe life is real. It's a place where passionate people in the scene showcase everything they got, and they have these people to experience it. 

For you, though, you're not an observer; you're a capturer. So you placed your bag on the table and took out your sketchbook and some pencils. 

“Look who's back,” you slightly smiled at the bartender when you looked up, her black hair in a messy bun. She’s drying off her hands and placing 3 glasses in front of her, preparing an order. “How are your art pieces, darling?” 

“Thank God I finished them first before they get to me.”

She laughed at your reply while pouring drinks. “Is there anything you’d like to have some good time with?”

“Guinness. Tall glass.” You then took out your phone and paused the song currently playing. The headphones were left on your ear, a habit you've been practicing whenever you go to these gigs ever since you experienced your first tinnitus. It was absolutely hell that you couldn’t listen to any music for months. You do not wish for it to happen to you again, but you do wish it for those who infuriate you.

Tapping on your Instagram, you went to your saved posts and started drawing the bassist. You started with a few guide shapes and slowly built on that. Every stroke you’ve made carefully captures the bassist’s emotion during the performance. And when you finally worked your way back through the neck, you went a bit wild with it. Already in the final process, heavily detailed with cross-hatches, while the other parts are just outlines.

For the whole duration of the first band’s performance, all you did was carry out what you just escaped from. Drawing like there’s no tomorrow. You nibble on your bottom lip as you try to capture how the loose checkered long sleeve was hanging on his broad shoulders, leading down the tension of his veined hands against the string. 

The bartender’s place then had gotten too crowded for comfort after the last song from the first band. You could only sit there. Half-trapped between somebody’s guitar case and a guy who clearly didn’t believe in deodorant. You looked down at your sketchbook and compared the reference on your phone. 

“Huh?”

It doesn't look right. The bassist's Adam's apple looked even sharper under the stage lights. You zoomed in to his neck, analyzing closely. You tilted your head, your eyes inches away french kissing your phone. 

Maybe you overdid the shadow in your sketching. 

“You know,” a voice appeared behind you, light and curious, “most people come here to watch bands, not… zoom in on someone's neck.”

“Shit—.”

Your shoulders jumped at the sudden closeness, eyes widening. You turned and were ready to curse him off. A tall figure stood there, the light behind him burning too bright to see his face. You can't see him but you already hated him. The nerve to stand that near to you? 

“Too close. Can you move?” You snapped at him. 

There was a pause. His body stiffened, before his mouth let out an airy and sharp “... Oh.”. You caught it, the hint of surprise and amusement in his voice. 

But you didn't wait for more. 

“I said move.”

Another pause, then a light awkward chuckle echoed over the music. “You're scary.” he mumbled, leaning back just enough to give you space. 

Your mouth twitched by his side comment. You couldn't see a smirk on his face but you know it's there, and you definitely want to punch it off of him. 

You crossed your arms, keeping your glare fixed on him, trying to instill that you clearly dislike his existence. Then something hit you. Like an uppercut from Muhammad Ali that will send you to a coma. The creeping sense of dread started pooling in your stomach. 

You just got caught zooming in on someone's neck… like a total creep. 

A neck. Zoomed in. With intense eye contact with it. A neck… zoomed in… with intense eye contact with it. Your other hand jorking it feels like a missing puzzle piece to complete this random guy's experience at this point. 

You straightened your spine. Forcing your glare to deepen. To look meaner. Like it could make him forget he ever saw something. Man… you'd rather piss off Muhammad Ali in his prime to get violently knocked out. 

“What do you want?” You forced out a question before even deciding if it was worth asking. The way you asked it came out a little harsher than you should. 

His face was still hidden in the harsh party light, but you caught it. The slightest stiffening in his posture when you spoke. The playful confidence that quickly got under your skin seemed to fade a little. It was replaced by a pause. Like he's weighing how to approach someone who'd just call him out to speak up.

“I didn’t mean to scare you or anything. I just— uh, saw my face. Or, more like my throat actually. Zoomed in and everything.” 

You raised a brow at him. You hear him. Loud and clear, even through the noise drowning the room. But your brain hasn’t caught up yet. You refuse to let it. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet. 

But… fuck. 

If this day couldn't get any worse. 

You squinted your eyes at his face. Trying to confirm if it's the same person like a two step verification. Then it went lower. 

You stared. Then blinked. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Thrice. 

Jesus Christ. 

It's the fucking throat. 

He reached the back of his neck, scratching lightly. His eyes darted away for a fraction of a second. Trying to escape the feeling of confronting a stranger. 

“It’s, uh, kind of weird, honestly.”

Your breath started to hitch. You need to punch something. Maybe the table. Or, definitely, yourself first. You want it to be strong enough to eliminate yourself, consequently taking your whole bloodline with you. 

Wait. 

Another good idea. 

What about him instead? Just a jab on his throat specifically. Like, enough to take him out so then he won't be able to talk about this to anyone, but not the kind you'll get detained for years.

“I'm sketching.” You blurted, throwing your sketchbook in front of him. 

He held onto the side of your sketchbook and bent over, looking closely. You sighed, at ease. Thank heavens you're smart to come up with that excuse that fast. 

You watched his slow movement as he stood straight, towering over you once more. The light tracing his outline. 

“That looks really amazing.” 

His voice was calm this time, no awkwardness. It's just steady. It made you pause. Is this guy genuinely in awe after seeing someone zooming in at his throat before even having a context? You couldn't clearly see his face, but you noticed a subtle smile from his mouth. 

“You should be an artist.”

You blinked, scanning the blur of him just to be sure if he really meant it. Your eyes softened, it was unusual for you to receive this kind of comment with such… tenderness. 

Being an unorthodox painter whose style is labeled lewd and borderline pornographic by others, “artist” would be the last thing they'll brand you as. It's a recurring event already. Hearing your blockmates name you as the call girl artist. You don't really care. You just roll your eyes and go on about your day. But it was nice to hear something new once in a while. 

“Thanks,” you said, “I am actually an artist.” You bowed slightly before turning your back against him, ending the conversation. That was nice of him, yeah, but there's nothing else to talk about so you carried on with your activity. 

But when people had finally left the bartender, he slid into the seat beside you like he'd been invited. He wasn't. Clearly he wasn't. You thought people would leave once you turned your back on them. But nope. This guy cannot read the room. 

Your legs brushed for a brief moment when he sat down, then your shoulder. He squinted at the page you're outlining like some art critic who couldn't resist deprecating everything. 

You tried to ignore it, dragging your pencil for another line along the curve of his neck, but the closer he got, the more you realized how near he was. 

“I actually thought you're a creep.” He softly laughed. 

“Yeah, can't imagine that...”

He suddenly chuckled. It was so low that you almost did not catch it. 

Your eyes stole a glance at him and caught a tiny silver glint on his slitted eyebrow now. A flash of surprise crossed your eyes. It is an eyebrow piercing you somehow missed when you're trolling on their photos. 

And, you wouldn't lie, it suits him. 

“Cool piercing,” you said flatly. The compliment came out just the right blend: a pump of lack of enthusiasm and an extra shot of dryness. Perfectly served by your highness.

“You think? Thanks.” he said, absentmindedly running a hand through his blonde hair after with a shy smile. 

Up close, with the light finally reaching his face, you can clearly see how he looks. Jooyeon's features were sharp in a soft, unfair kind of way… his dark eyes carried this glint of warmth that radiated in his whole aura, a nose that had absolutely no right to be that straight, and lips curved into a lazy grin. His blonde hair fell slightly over his forehead, and the neon lights from the venue traced the edges of his jawline perfectly— the kind of jawline that is only a clay away to drive a sculptor into a hyperfixation spiral to make twenty versions of it. 

His eyes flicked to you. “Is that how you flirt with people?” he asked randomly. 

“What? By giving a dry ass comment?” You raised your brow. 

“No,” he shook his head. “I mean… like that.”

“Like what?”

“I've never met anyone who looks at me that… intensely.”

“Don't think of it too deeply. I'm studying anatomy stuff.” You clarified. 

He stared at you again, a small cheeky smile forming at the side of his mouth. “I don't mind it, though.”

“Mind what?” 

“You looking at me like that. Your eyes are pretty. ” He said it casually— too casually. 

You snorted. “Is that how you flirt with people?” 

He perked up, blatantly mocking your tone “What? By giving a dry ass comment?” 

The smirk he added at the end made it obvious he was copying you. A silent chuckle escaped from your mouth, while rolling your eyes at him. You can't believe you just got a taste of your own sarcastic comment. He looks like he has won the Miss Universe title by how triumphant he looks after pulling it off. 

Silence finally settled between you two, giving you a chance to finally concentrate. But since your peace is not in his nature, he has to open his mouth again. You don't even know what set him off, but apparently every neuron in his brain insists on linking with yours. 

“Whoa, hey—that’s my shoulder! And my arms? Why do they look—ohhh shading. Okay. You're good at this. But my fingers? They’re not that slender… wait. Can you look at my hands? Just to, y’know, double-check before you make me look hot hot?”

Is this dude ever going to shut up? 

You tilted your sketchbook from your lap away from him, hoping he'd get the hint. He didn't. God, of course he wouldn't. It's not that he can't read the room... he doesn't read the room. 

And guess what? All it did was make him move closer to you than before. Too close you could feel your shoulders brushing. Too close you could feel the heat radiating off his skin as he tilted his head again to see better. 

You're starting to feel overstimulated by the unwelcomed propinquity. 

You stopped mid-stroke, irritation bubbling up inside. You had enough of him.

“Have you ever heard of personal spa—”

You turned to him, ready to scold. 

But he was right there. Just inches away. Close enough for your breath to bounce right back at you. His eyes met yours, wide and soft, as if he had no idea what kind of proximity violation he just committed. 

“...ce,” you finished, your voice dropping. 

He blinked once, his lips twitching into that boyish half-smile and sent his eyebrow all the way up. “Space?”

“Yes,” you said quickly, leaning back a little. “Personal space. It's a real concept. You should look into it some time.”

“Oh. Got it.” He nodded, pretending to understand but clearly not giving you what you want. “Did you know, I also have a friend who's an artist. You might know him.” He said, quickly changing the topic.

 You squinted at his little TMI. How scarce does he think artists are? 

“What made you think I would even know?” Your lips pressed into a thin line. “Also, I'm not your friend.” 

“We could be.”

“Find someone else.”

“But I want it to be you.”

You paused your action and breathing. Is this guy messing or flirting with you? You shoot him a glance, deciphering his expression. But he got you first. His big expectant eyes locked with yours, waiting for your approval to be each other’s “bestie”. A smile so innocent that it feels like you have to dive inside his brain to get his real intention. 

“You're still in my space.” You replied, avoiding his eyes. “Do you not have bandmates to annoy?” 

He simpered at how you tried to change the topic this time, nose scrunching up in that annoying way he does. “But I'm watching.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Watching what? My patience running thin?”

His expression didn't falter, no longer surprised by your bluntness. He's only anticipating more of it now. He leaned back slowly, still grinning, waiting for what you'd do next. You didn't give him another reaction though. You only kept your pen moving, sketching lines over and over without looking up at him again. 

“You draw really fast, by the way.” 

“Yeah,” you muttered, your whole attention on your paper placed on top of the bar table. “I enjoy it more than talking to a stranger all over my personal space.”

The corner of his cheeky smirk twitched just slightly, but he said nothing, letting the silence hang. You didn’t need him to. You prefer it this way. This is where you thrive. And, unfortunately for you, this guy knew he'll wither in it. 

“Sorry,” he apologized, while not sounding even remotely sorry at the same time. “No one should interrupt an artist while work is in progress.”

You sighed, leaned in, and grabbed his shoulder—not too hard, just enough to make him blink in surprise. “Come here,” you muttered.

He tilted his head, amused, and obediently leaned closer until you could feel his breath near your cheek. “Yeah?”

You reached for his ear, fingers brushing lightly against his hair. “You,” you said, low and dry, “are the interruption.”

For a beat, he just looked at you, smile widening like he thought you were being cute instead of threatening. Which, unfortunately, made it even worse.

“Well, correction, madame,” he said, tapping on your sketchbook, “I am the subject.” He leaned his elbow on the counter, casual and smug. 

You immediately pulled your sketchbook from your lap, hiding it away from his optical range. “Temporary subject at that. You just have an interesting neck, stop getting too full of yourself.” 

He laughed. “That's the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”

“It wasn't even a compliment.” 

“Still sounds like one.”

Your eyes looked up in exasperation and tried to focus on your sketch instead, pressing the pencil against the page like you could erase his existence through sheer concentration. But no matter how hard you bit your lip or furrowed your brows, your hand just wouldn’t cooperate. He was still watching—eyes darting between your face and the paper. You could feel it. And you absolutely hated that. 

“Stop watching me before I skewer those.” you muttered, not lifting your eyes from the paper.

“You know, I'm just curious…”

“Keep it to yourself.” You took a slow sip of your stout, sending a glare over the rim of the glass. 

“Do you always draw people this intensely?” he asked anyway, ignoring the glare you batted.

“Gosh. Why are you still talking?”

“Sorry. Should I pose instead?” he teased, clearly not sorry. “Looks like you’re more interested in my body.”

His lower lip pushed out into an exaggerated pout, trying to appear pitiful. He then pressed a hand over his chest like you had wounded him so deeply. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose. Of course he had to say that.

“Please don't.” 

His mouth turned back into a grin. Much wider than before. Then he casually reached beneath the stool you were sitting on and turned it so you were facing him.

“I could tilt my head back again just for you. I'll do anything you want, you know—”

“Don’t even—”

“—for accuracy.”

He tugged the neckline of his 5SOS sleeveless shirt downwards, exposing his collarbones. “Is this what you wanted? Like this?” Adam's apple bobbed as he laughed, and you could feel your soul leave your body for a second.

You mentally fought yourself not to look at it. What is this? His mating call? Because, you hate to admit it, but it's kind of working. Especially with your current condition, of course. Which is lack of fucking and dick inside deficiency. You can feel your face turning hot. 

Genetics is really such a randomizer, because why would they give this annoying motherfucker a body you won't mind having a one-night stand with then a personality you'd rather sit through a 24-hour Hugh Jackman concert— sober, no bathroom breaks. 

If this man just only knows how to shut up… 

“Stop whoring yourself up, damn.” You set your pencil down and glared. “Do you enjoy making people uncomfortable?”

He tilted his head, pretending innocence, though that stupid cheeky smirk didn’t budge. “Well, it's not like you didn't just stare at my throat for, like, two minutes when we just met… even after staring at a picture of it.”

Your eye twitched. 

“Stop exaggerating to feed your ego—it was barely a second.”

“Still stared, though.”

You opened your mouth for a comeback but came up empty. 

He leaned on his palm, not breaking the gaze between you two. His eyebrow borderline touching his hairline, wearing that stupid mocking grin. 

“You want to say something, hmm?”

You don't want him to feel good with your silence so you just muttered, “I made your Adam’s apple bigger so you have something to feel good about by the way.”

“Wait— really? I thought it was the same.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” You rolled your eyes. 

“Dead serious,” he replied, eyes sparkling like his neck was his family's pride and joy. “It actually gets me more compliments than my solos.”

You squinted at him. “You are terrifyingly confident for someone who agreed to name their band Xdinary Heroes—”

“It’s you!” 

He gasped dramatically. “You’re that girl who doesn’t like our name on the streets.”

“You overheard that?” You groaned.

“It's really not hard to catch when someone laughs at their phone like she’s giving her best Heath Ledger impression.” 

“Why would y'all even name it like it's waiting to be ridiculed?”

“It's meaningful to us, though...” he replied, looking down. “Our drummer got really pissed too by the way.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “Not my fault, your band name sounds like what my friends and I would’ve called ourselves before, like, we hit grade school.”

He laughed, the sound overpowering the band in the background. “Better than something like…” He reached out and lightly tugged at your Linkin Park top, just enough to read the print. “Definitely better than the band who forgot their apostrophe back in middle school.”

Your brows shot up. You might’ve forgotten how close he got—almost brushing your collarbone—if you weren’t busy being offended. Because this came from someone wearing a 5SOS tee.

“Well, that apostrophe-less band is the foundation of teenage rage and emotional depth ,” you said, crossing your arms. “Then yours are— what? A band whose name and listenable songs are both seasonal?”

He threw his head back and cackled at your reply. “You probably have said more than once that you could write pages of essays about Somewhere I Belong alone.”

“Yeah, right. Like the way you believed She Looks So Perfect was ‘so peak’ it changed your life,” you deadpanned.

He chuckled, shaking his head. 

“You’re fun.”

“And you’re loud.”

“You speak in daggers, though.” 

“We're just honest around here.” You picked up your phone and checked if you had any messages. 

“So…” he started, testing the waters if you'd bite him for speaking once more. You glanced at him, waiting. 

“You into rock?”

You gave him a funny look. “You’re seriously asking that in a metal gig?” You giggled. 

“Was that… a laugh?” He sneered. 

You snorted before you could stop yourself, eyes rolling the second it slipped out. “No.”

“Pretty sure it was,” he said, sneering like it was his mission to annoy you into confession. 

“Get your eyes checked.”

“But I heard it too.”

“Then get a psychiatric evaluation.” 

He tittered at your reply. Another upturn was happening again at the corner of his mouth. You also noticed that whenever someone waved at him, he would smile and greet them back. Showing off that “effortless charm” like it was coded into his automation. And somehow, seems like pivoting back to you after is part of it, his wide eyes glistening whenever it returns to you. Like the noise and lights and crowd meant nothing compared to whatever weird back-and-forth was happening here.

You hated that. Or… you told yourself you did.

Then, like it was nothing, he gestured toward your empty glass. “Can I get you another one? Looks like you drink strong beer, no foam type.”

You raised a brow. “What are you, a bartender now?”

He shrugged, grinning. “Nah. Just observant.”

“Okay, Mr. Observant, if you really observed, Guinness is foam.” You smirked when he blinked, caught off guard. “And what? You also ‘observe’ random girls staring at your neck?”

“Only when they’re cute.” He didn’t even hesitate to let those words spill out of his mouth.

“Excuse me? Cute?” You blinked. It was a complete wonder how this man could pick that word after meeting you— piercings, dark makeup, and that whole caliginous getup. 

He tilted his head, his head only filled with confusion and, apparently, air. 

“What?”

“Are you seriously calling me cute?”

“Well… yeah? You are.” He blinked, completely puzzled. 

“You have got to be kidding me.” You let out a short, incredulous laugh while shaking your head. “Cute? Really? You saw this and chose something to describe cats?”

“Just like you said— we're just honest around here.” he argued. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose again. “You’re unreal.”

He chuckled softly, leaning his chin on his hand. “I get that a lot.”

“Never a compliment when it's used on you.” You flipped through your sketchbook, pretending to focus. 

“And,” you gave him a side eye, “don’t you have a band to prepare for?”

“We’re not up yet,” he replied. “Our synthesizer's probably out flirting with the sound tech again.”

“Great. A band filled with Romeos.” You sighed. “Reconsider your band name and change it to Xdinary Hoes or something.”

He laughed under his breath. “Nah, I'm just being friendly. People just… think I’m flirting when I’m talking.”

“Right. Because calling strangers cute and buying them drinks is completely platonic.”

“Hold on— that's flirting?” 

“Yeah… like you don't know what you're doing.” 

“Are you sure?” he asked. 

“That's exactly how men act when they want to get laid.”

“I didn't mean it like that, though.”

Your hand stopped moving mid-movement. Eyes squinted at him, lips pressed into a thin line. “So… you didn’t actually mean I’m cute?”

“No—” he blurted. “You’re definitely cute. I just didn’t mean it, you know… flirty-flirty.”

The bartender slid another glass toward you. You stared at it.

Talk about timing...

“Courtship of sunshine boy,” the bartender said, with her smile reaching both her ears, winking at you, before walking off. Your mouth slightly parted by the teasing. 

You turned to him. “Did you seriously—”

He raised his hands like he was innocent. “Art commission payment."

You reached for your wallet anyway. Being indebted to anybody is not your thing. You don't need their kindness. And for you, it's much worse if it's out of pity. 

His hand reached for yours. The back of your hand warmed immediately when his palm rested on it, stopping your motion. 

“What are you doing?” You asked. 

“Just don’t draw me ugly.” 

“Remove the damn hands.” You raised your brow. “And no promises.”

“Guess I’ll just dedicate a song to you then.” He mock-sighs.

You blink. “You what?”

“Just kidding,” he says with a playful lift of his lips. 

That answer and face did not reassure you at all. 

You stare at him, trying to decide if he’s just messing with you or if he’s actually serious. At this point, you don't need to choose, he surely means both. 

“You’d like it though. The setlist.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice, not wanting others to hear. “We’ve got one that’s practically screaming your taste.”

“What would you know about my taste?”

“Hey, I’m trying to get your approval here.”

“Yep, and it’s showing. Painfully.”

He laughs again—loud, genuine, and a little too carefree like the people dancing on the mosh pit right now. You turned away, sipping on your drink. “Go warm up or something.”

“Soon,” he said, “but I’m having a good conversation.”

“With me?”

“Yeah.”

You didn't give a reply, but he smiled like it was the most obvious thing you've ever said that night. Which is ironic because he seems completely clueless with your direct, snarky comments earlier. 

“I feel like you'd listen to my playlist.” His head is tilting, attentively watching every microexpression you'll make. How your furrowed eyebrows tighten. Or how your tongue swiftly licks your lips after sipping your stout. And your mouth forming an amused grimace following his assumption… 

You still didn't like it. But you could only avoid his gaze. 

“I sure would,” you shrugged, “but only when I'm visiting the rage room.”

His face got all scrunched up. You wondered if the brain up there finally started to activate. 

“Are you saying that because it'll make you mad or it's mad good?”

“What do you think?”

“That it's mad good.”

You scoffed. “Having ego doesn't mean being delusional.”

“It is mad good though… I have some Killswitch Engage here. Deftones? Type O Negative? Beyond Creation?”

You paused. 

Maybe he still could be salvaged. 

“Fire.” 

“Do you approve?” He asked, hope in his eyes. 

You gave him a light nod, which made him clench his fist in triumph. 

That random emote made you let out a small huff. 

“Don’t get too comfortable. I still think your band’s a bunch of posers.” 

He smiled. “Then maybe I’ll make you eat your words.”

“Try me.”

“Gladly.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but the stage lights shifted. The crowd roared loudly as the MC’s voice echoed through the venue, anticipating the next band's performance. 

He stood up. “That’s us.”

You crossed your legs and leaned back, trying not to show your interest. “Break a string, then.”

“What?” His voice almost got muffled by how loud the cheers were for the next act. 

You sighed. You do not want to say it multiple times until he finally decides to move closer, so your body moves on its own. 

“I said—” you hooked a finger at the back of his neck without thinking, pulling him in until your breath touched his ear. “Break a fucking string.”

He laughed under his breath. 

It's low and shows how entertained he was. Then he tilted his head, mouth brushing dangerously close to your skin. 

“Draw me again while I'm performing, ” he said, his mouth dangerously close, which made you immediately regret leaning in first.  “If it's good, I’ll save you our band tee.”

You didn’t even get to roll your eyes before he pulled away. 

His smile was crooked, and his eyes held yours for a beat longer than necessary, not bothering how his bandmates called on him just to stay here for a bit longer. 

Your eyes hold onto his. 

The way those eyes stare at you feels… familiar. Which was weird because it feels like it came from the distant future. Like how one day, it would look back at you, carrying a grief you inadvertently carved into it. 

He then turned and disappeared into the noise of the venue. 

The feedback from the speakers cuts through the air as the lights dim and the crowd starts moving closer to the stage. You blinked as he walked away, the crowd parting for him to let him through. How they did it subtly gave you a postulation that he wasn’t just some guy, but someone everyone somehow recognized. 

Jooyeon stood tall on the center of the stage, then wore his bass in one smooth motion, that same easy grin still plastered on his face.

“I hate this fucking guy,” you mumbled. 

But frankly, you hate it more that you actually can’t wait to be proven wrong.

The stage lights started to dim, then a smoke suddenly hissed from the side vents. Someone shouted into the mic, testing it. 

You took your pencil and turned your sketchbook to a blank page. A part of you was wondering why you're preparing to take a request from someone, especially if it came from a guy who enjoys getting under your skin. 

Wait a damn second. 

Do you even care? 

Something about that snapped you back to reality.  You don't even know this dude nor do you care about his band. Because, again, you literally labeled them as a poser an hour ago. 

So you stood up, and started packing your things. 

But the bass suddenly hits, making you stop and turn. 

It wasn't subtle at all. The people started rumbling ever since it growled. Your brow furrowed. A certain ring it made somehow drew distinction from the other instruments, leading the song. 

And there he was.

Your muse tonight.

His fingers then dragged itself along the neck of his bass. It was slow— sensual even. 

He's wearing his same pesty face default that's plaguing your good time earlier, but now more clearly. The blue and red strobe lights are directly shining over him now that you can see more intricate details of him. His long hair was damp from the heat, jaws flexing slightly as he focused on his bass. His body is moving naturally with the rhythm, like he truly knew what he was doing. 

You leaned on your other elbow, trying to look unimpressed — like this was nothing new. That is a lie though. As much as you hate being wrong, you know that what you're witnessing before your eyes right now is a rise in the making. 

Your hands grabbed the glass and took another sip, drowning the pride stuck on your throat. It's unusual for some, but you take some pride in your opinions on certain things, especially those you're passionate about. Despite that, a small smile was forming on your lips. You're enjoying your time. 

His hands got your attention. You're following the manners of its slenderness on the strings. They're sliding along the strings effortlessly and smoothly. The gaze slowly followed his figure to his neck that exposes how his Adam's apple are bopping up and down. After singing his part, he throws his head back, and then— tongue out. 

You coughed. The shiny thing taking you by surprise. 

You see that. You saw that. 

There's silver on it catching the stage lights. Too familiar. 

On his tongue... 

“What the… fuck?”

Is that a— ?

You blinked. What else could you do? You're too mesmerized to see this guy with a tongue piercing. 

Your chest thumped a sudden beat like it was the drummer’s fault. Where's your bag? The sketchbook? And the pencils? You rummaged through your bag, chasing that inspiration-high. It was so so clear. The image you wanted to draw. 

So you start. Without a single hesitation. 

Your brain is still not working properly though. It's buffering. All it's processing is that damn piercing on him. 

Fully rendered. 8K Resolution. 

You closed your eyes. Apologizing to your ancestors, meticulously, for the side-effects of your so-called sexual deficiency that cannot be tamed by any self labor in bed.

It's odd seeing yourself like this; you're like a virgin who's excited for her first time. Because seeing piercings on people wasn’t new to you, like— hell, your whole body was covered in them that it’s basically a shrine. Most of the people you hang around with had them too. At this point, self-expression was normal, while conformists were the “weirdos”.

But this guy… a tongue piercing? On someone who acts like he’d apologize to a cashier if the fries were slightly soggy? He got an amorous profile and framework too, of course, but you have no right to be honest right now after apologizing to the ancient grandmas-and-pas. 

You tried to focus. You really did. So you supervised yourself: drag the pencil, eyes on the damn sketch. Just finish the damn drawing.

You cursed him silently under your breath, but it's blaring inside you. Your mind should not be this invested at all. He was just a subject afterall. A body to be replicated by your hands. And his piercing is part of that subject. 

When their third song was almost over, a girl beside you screamed something that sounded like “Jooyeon!” 

You took a deep breath, and stole a glance at the stage, adding background details. But then he looked up. 

He's looking straight at you. Your hands stop moving as he stares back at you while his head is carelessly tilted back, and his lips are pulled back into a grin. 

Then, unsurprisingly, he had to ruin it by talking.

“Alright. For our last song for tonight: this next one’s for anyone, or someone, who called us posers tonight.”

You nearly choked.

The crowd booed, screaming their disagreement. He laughed while you could only glare at the stage. 

“Little shit.”

The drummer then immediately counted off with his drumsticks. Tak, tak, tak.

The next song bombarded each corner the soundwaves could reach. It was completely different from their previous song. The kind that you like. You could physically feel the heaviness of each note, each rhythm, each scream. The crowd jumped, wilding on the mosh pit they saved for themselves.

You held your pencil and sketchbook tightly, eyes furrowed and sighed in defeat.

At this point, you're only doing the deal for their band tee, especially not after that diss. Gotta keep the self respect at top, you know? And while you're busy rushing the unfinished parts like your crammed assignments, the phone inside your bag vibrates.

♪Moments by MOIO

A contact was ringing you. Your fingers declined the phone call and checked the messages. The white light flashed your face and made you peer lightly.

After reading the message, you immediately packed up. Without looking back, you swung the door open and left.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Jooyeon swept a hand through his hair. The attempt was unsuccessful though. Most of the light strands were stuck to his cheeks and neck. No matter how hard he tries, it’ll just end up pushing only a few. He squinted his eyes through the heat, chest rising up and down heavily. His head was tilted all the way back, calming himself since the potent shot of adrenaline still visible in each sweat dripping down on him.

Their final song just ended, a light echo still playing through the speakers. Everyone was dead silent. But as soon as the final frequency ended, the crowd practically exploded. Looking down, people were jumping and chanting “XDIZ” over and over again. His eyes were wide and bright, genuinely surprised at how loud they were. 

There’s a part of him that softens inside, because based on how alive the whole place felt– yeah, he guess they did pretty great. 

Maybe he did too.

He walked towards the back of the stage and picked up the final tee inside their box. At the rear, he scanned the whole place, then finally glanced at the part where you should be. Where you’re leaning against the bar like before.

But… there’s nothing. 

A frown was forming on his forehead. You’d been right there— scribbling furiously in your sketchbook like you’re murdering somebody, a pair of eyes that seems like they have noticed things most people missed and memorized every crease on him— and now… just gone? Like you went poof after he dedicated a song. 

His hand gripped on the tee, the grin he’d worn all night started to falter. 

“Where did she go?” he muttered under his breath.

The eyes started to wander everywhere. Left corner? Right corner? Adjacent corner? No matter how carefully he scanned and searched, it was like you rapidly vanished from a single snap. You weren’t hiding. He’d easily recognize you. He knows it. 

But there’s no you.

His feet started moving, leading him to the bartender. He flashed that bright smile once again and greeted her over the chaos in the background. “Have you seen the one with the sketchbook? At the corner? All piercings and frowns.” 

The bartender raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Was it the one that glares at you like she got your funeral planned out?” 

Jooyeon laughed. It came out soft and nervous while scratching the back of his neck. 

“Yeah… that’s her.” He brightened a little, both shoulders lifts into an optimistic shrug. ‘But she’ll warm up eventually. People usually do.”

He added a small giggle. “I mean… I try to be nice. That counts for something, right?” He asked; not bragging, just hopeful. 

The bartender’s smile softened, replying that you suddenly packed up and left after checking your phone. It was not unusual for you to disappear though, at least on the KnotLips.

A smile surfaces on his face, a little disappointed. “Ah, I see. Thank you. Have a good night.”

Jooyeon gave one last scan of the crowd. There was a hint of hope he’ll catch you, but that won't happen though.

He turned toward the spot where you’d been sitting earlier and noticed a slip of sketch paper weighed down by a few bills. Wandering over, he picked it up.

It was your sketch of him.

After seeing what you made, a mischievous grin was plastered across his face. It was not cocky at all, just his dorky little pride he can’t hide because it came from you. You, the sole person he’s fully convinced despises his whole being. He believed he should take a little pride in that. He deserves it.

He traced the outlines of a sketch of him with his thumb, then stopped when he noticed where your message was scribbled.

Not bad for a poser. Don’t ever come back here.

A warm laugh slipped out of him as he read it.

Well… guess too bad for you— he likes you around.

𓇢𓆸𓍯𓂃🖌 an. Thank you for trying the whole thing! I hope it was worth your time. It took me too long to fully commit in finishing this chapter since I'm too anxious it'll disappoint buttt I had fun writing the banters. For the next chapter, it'll be a little faster-paced. I just like to take the first chapter slowly. A little fun fact too, last night, when I saw Joo crying at their recent concert, it reminded me of the hurt/comfort scene I had in mind that I'm stokeedddd, about so I was like "fuck it" and started to lock in.

One day you got worn down by your aunt’s endless praises of Father Kim Jungsu. Even your teenage cousins started nodding along and agreeing with her, saying he’s not like other priests.

So one Sunday you decided to tag along despite being skeptical of him - and Jesus Christ. You decided to slip inside the church out of curiosity; to see who’s the young man who has the entire town so fascinated.

One thing is for certain, you didn’t expect him to look like that… Warm, welcoming gaze, lips that moved patiently and intentionally, dark hair, stylishly done.

There was something quietly commanding about him. He had a powerful presence in the most modest, humble way, filling the room without demanding for attention. Yet, everyone around you was spellbound, clinging onto his words as candlelight shimmered across the church, giving him an almost magical glow.

Truthfully, it pissed you off.

Instead of going home feeling your curiosity met, your questions - answered, you walked out with a knot of irritation twisting in your chest. A sense of injustice almost.

It just didn’t feel fair. He wasn’t supposed to look like that - like the kind of man you’d spot at a party and want to lock lips with… like a face you’d see on a movie poster and imagine what the rest of his body looks like, naked.

Priests were supposed to be old and cold. Detached from the outside world. They have already lived a life and carry way more wisdom, after all. But he wasn’t old nor detached. He wasn’t safe. Surely not from your imagination and greed.

Against every bit of logic, you kept coming back.

You didn’t always understand what he preached and honestly you didn’t try to. What drew you wasn’t his theology, it was him. The way he spoke with such conviction. He was so devoted, it made you wonder if you were capable of devoting yourself and your entire existence to something… anything, really. It sounds kind of limiting and suffocating.

If you ever surrender like that, it wouldn’t be to a god you couldn’t see. It would be someone you can feel with your hands… whose heartbeat you can hear when you lay on his chest.

─── ♱

Next Sunday you stay unti the final blessing.

The congregation stands up, murmuring Amen in unison. Everyone moves slowly down the aisle for communion meanwhile you just wait, pretending indifference as mixture of rustling clothes and whispered prayers fill the air. One by one, they all approach him with open palms, and he greets each of them with the same gentle authority.

The Body of Christ. Amen. The Body of Christ. Amen.

You try not to stare at him as he stands at the front, chalice in one hand,, but you do - every gesture of his looks so calm yet as if it carries weight, it’s captivating. Tempting. Especially as the sunlight creeping in catches the edges of his black hair like a halo, making him seem ethereal and untouchable.

As the line thins, something pulls you forward. You wonder what it would be like to have him look at you that way too.

Your heartbeat quickens as you step closer to the altar, people nod and cross themselves in front of you.

And then, you’re standing before him. He looks up from the ciborium and your eyes meet; his are unreadable yet definitely not indifferent. Yours - restless and jittery. Suddenly the space feels unnaturally quiet… so quiet that you can hear the thud of your own heart, loud and insistent, like you’ve just been caught doing something you shouldn’t - at the wrong place and time - and now, it’s signaling you to run.

And maybe you have been caught red handed. You don’t stand here with any pure intentions.

“The Body of Christ.” He says steady. Automatic.

“Amen,” you whisper.

His hand moves forward, gaze landing on your mouth.

For a second you catch hesitation flashing in his eyes, but all you can do is stand still - you’re unsure what is expected of you to do or how to do it right. Somehow, your lips part anyway and he places the wafer on your tongue, not leaving you out of sight.

The gesture is nothing more than a ritual, but your breath catches like it holds a hidden meaning; your train of thought suddenly stutters as your mind tries to make sense of it… of why his hand movements make your skin hotter like they’re practicing magic.

The wafer dissolves almost instantly and you slowly open your eyes.

“May God bless you.” He says softly.

You step back, crossing yourself and walk away, lightheaded. The faint dryness that the wafer left on your tongue lingers weirdly, but you don’t hate it. There’s something hot rising inside you, distracting you from everything else - something that has no place there.

Not after you just went to church.

─── ♱

One Sunday, when mass ends, you decide to stay for a few minutes, just until the aisle clears, you tell yourself. The crowd spills toward the doors in a tide of polite chatter, your aunt among them, with the kind of smile she wears only on Sundays - when she believes the world is a little softer and more forgiving. She doesn’t even notice you’ve stayed behind. None of them do.

With crossed arms in front of your chest, you remain by the stained glass windows, like there’s something about the colors that has you too intrigued to leave just yet. You pin your eyes on the view, the light spilling across your skin in shades of gold and red, but truthfully you’re still chasing his voice.

You replay in your head the way he spoke earlier - confident, earnest, so alive… inspired, as though he built raw stories with hidden powers that could shift the world. But what you remember most isn’t the sermon, it’s the way he looked at people; like each face mattered. Including yours, and you don’t believe in anything.

“If you keep hanging around after mass,” the familiar voice calls out behind you, light yet enticing… uplifted by your presence, “I might think you’re converting and get excited.”

You turn to find him leaning back in one of the pews, perfectly at ease, with hands folded loosely as if this was the living room of his home and not a church heavy with candle smoke.

You let your eyes rest on him longer than you should. You think your expression is neutral, not sharpened by any emotions, but that’s far from the truth.

Father Jungsu knows what your aunt’s told him - that you don’t believe, that you sit through mass out of politeness, not faith. That you’re still “lost”, as if your doubts are a fever waiting for him to cure. She asked him directly once. “Please, guide her, Father. Make her listen,” she said, “you’re around the same age, after all. She’s going to trust you more than anyone else.”

He didn’t promise anything then, but he remembers her words. He tucked them away and kept you in mind each Sunday, not as a task or a project. He couldn’t stop noticing you anyway.

However, except disbelief, Jungsu recognizes something else in your eyes too. Curiosity? Restlessness? A quiet longing for something you haven’t named yet? Certainly, that’s not the gaze of someone who’s broken.

His lips curl slightly, but there’s no pity nor mockery behind the smile. He wonders what keeps pulling you back into a place you claim not to belong to. Maybe you don’t realise that you’re inching toward admitting your faults, or perhaps you’re simply demonstrating your provocation like a mischievous child.

“Why?” you finally break the silence. “My aunt and half the town already worship the ground you walk on.”

He tilts his head amused. “And what about you?”

The question lands lightly but his stare is so analysing, it holds you still.

“Worship isn’t something I’m interested in,” you reply at once; instead of matching his casual tone, your words come out defensive.

He chuckles, though - a reaction you did not expect. You’re taken aback by his laughter and how warm and unthreatening it sounds.

He shifts to the left, placing one palm beside him. “Sit.”

You blink at him, the weight of his command sinking in. As you settle next to him, suddenly you’re aware of his presence, his closeness… how magnetic it is despite the fact both of you are pretty much from two different worlds. Somehow, it makes you keep talking. It makes you want to push further.

“You just…” the thought slips out, “you don’t look like a priest at all.”

He laughs again, this time the easy sound makes your tummy tighten.

“Thank you.” He says, his eyes flickering discreetly as you adjust on the pew.

“That wasn’t a compliment,” you say flat.

“Honest…” Jungsu leans back, eyes still on you. “I like that.”

A brief pause comes between you and in that moment you realise that you can sense the faint scent of cedar coming from his body. Your neck warms up and you swallow thickly, forcing your eyes away from his collar.

Soon, he speaks, shifting your gaze back to him.

“But you should know… I worked hard to get here. The minimum age to become a priest is twenty-five years old. I was twenty-four when the bishop made an exception for me.”

“Oh…”

“I studied, I trained, I prayed… I made sure I was ready even if I was younger than the usual requirement.”

A faint spark of respect creeps in your chest despite yourself. “I didn’t expect all that,” you murmur.

“Well… it’s easy to underestimate someone because of physical appearance.”

Your lips curl a little bit as you shift to see him better. “So, let me get this straight… you’re younger than most priests, much younger… you’re better looking than all priests, and you’re wiser too?”

Jungsu rests an arm casually on the pew, speaking softer. “Wiser? That’s very generous.”

“Don’t pretend you heard half of what I just said,” you tease.

He suppresses a chuckle, then looks down at his lap. “As I said, I worked hard for it,” he says. “Discipline, study, prayer… and a lot of patience.”

You nod once, smirking with eyes upon his face. ”That’s all it takes to look like a movie star in a collar?”

The question makes him tilt in your direction and the air between you shifts. There’s a glint in his eyes as they hold yours, studying you in a way that makes your breathing slow.

The light mood of your teasing suddenly fades, replaced by something tense and heavy. His attention does that to you every time - when he catches your gaze across the pews, when he nods in greeting as he walks down the aisle… but this feels different now, dangerous. You hate that it scatters your thoughts, erasing every clever word you’ve ever known. You want to impress him, to show him that you’re sharp and confident.

“Looks alone don’t get you anywhere,” he says finally. His voice slips lower than usual, like it took him effort to push the words out.

He doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, he raises on his feet, emitting a small, short sigh.

“Why do you keep coming back?” He asks, narrowing his eyes at you.

You fake a shrug in order to hide the fact you were not prepared for such question. “Curiosity.”

Father Jungsu smiles faintly; it’s a kind of smile that reaches his mouth halfway. “Curiosity,” he repeats, perhaps taking the moment to gather his thoughts. “That’s a dangerous one. It’s… the first spark that lit a fire. It’s what got Eve in all sorts of trouble.”

“And Adam,” you add as yout stand up.

His grin stretches, delighted you’d spar with him. Then, he takes a step forward as his tone dips into that thoughtful almost musical cadence he creates when speaking about faith.

“Still, maybe it isn’t such a bad reason to return.”

For the first time your tone softens slightly cautious. “Do you think God would want people who question Him here?”

“Curiosity means you’re still searching. Don’t look at it like it’s an enemy of faith, but rather like… a doorway to it. After all, curiosity is also what brought Moses to the burning bush.”

You blink, caught off guard by the calm convinction in his voice. “I… don’t know what the burning bush is.”

His lips curve as though he half-expected that answer. “When Moses saw a bush on fire… but it wasn’t burning away. He went closer to see why and that’s when God first spoke to him.”

You nod slowly, obviously not touched by the story. But there’s something about the way he tells it - not preachy or superior. It stirs something uncomfortably warm in your chest. You glance away, back to the stained glass as light crawls across the floor, and you try to gather your thoughts.

Jungsu still watches you, you can feel it. It’s both comfort and intensity all at once.

“Maybe you haven’t found your burning bush yet,” he says carefully, “but that doesn’t mean you’re not welcome here.”

You turn to him, lips parting to say something, but his smile disarms you.

“Go in peace,” he says, then adds almost under his breath: “Even if peace isn’t what you’re looking for yet.”

─── ♱

Father Jungsu feels like a narcotic; one that enters your system slowly and quietly. With every encounter, it becomes harder to break the cycle that you never even considered to start. Now you can’t find a way out.

The thoughts of him linger, multiplying as Sundays draw closer. At night, you find yourself crying into your pillow, wishing he was like every other man you know - careless, cruel, easy to reach and even easier to forget. But he isn’t. He cares deeply; he looks at the world as if it still deserves kindness. When his eyes rest on you, they see you, they understand.

You can’t say the same for the few people around you.

You can’t help but wonder why. You can’t be the only one who believes there’s another unspoken reason for this connection. You can’t be the only one who senses there’s something else… something neither of you dares to name because naming it would break everything he’s built his faith upon, everything he’s fought to protect.

You can’t be imagining this all because you’re too caught up with your loneliness and desperation.

You know it’s love.

─── ♱

Your aunt is out of town for the weekend.

It’s Sunday and you have a text with an invitation to a party from one of your friends still unanswered on your phone; she tells you names of familiar people and popular boys who are going to be there, but you don’t care about any of them. You stare at it for a while before locking the screen.

Nobody would know if you skipped mass. But as the hour draws closer, you find yourself grabbing your coat and stepping out into the gray late morning. You tell yourself you’re only going because the church feels so suspended from the rest of the world, but that’s not the full truth.

You’re going for him.

It’s a strange feeling, but obsessive. During the week everything feels dull. The joy on your friends’ faces around you lately doesn’t settle on yours. Conversations don’t quite reach you and sometimes feel exhausting just like peoples’ laughter that echoes too loud in the cafes you go to.

But when you’re in his presence, something changes.

You stop feeling like an outline of your body and you feel… like you’re slowly coming back to life. You don’t feel entirely at peace or safe, but you feel awake. As if a drug slipped into your veins that reminds you that you can do anything… be something to someone.

It’s dizzying, the rush he brings you. Especially on days when it lingers for longer and you can’t help but touch yourself under the sheets of your bed to calm your mind that swirls with images of him.

Now, sliding into your usual seat near the back with his melodious voice threading through the air as he stands at the front, turning a page in the missal, your pulse revives.

The more you think about it the more you realise this rush, this need opening inside you, is also terrifying. However, maybe exactly that frightening thrill is exactly what keeps you coming back. Not faith. Just the forbidden adrenaline boost he gives you with a single look.

The forbidden want to love him and be loved by him.

After mass, when you rise, ready to head towards the doors, a hand lands on your shoulder.

You turn, startled.

“You! I didn’t know you go here!”

It takes you a second to recognise her - a girl from high school that you haven’t seen nor spoken to in years.

You nod silently, and she doesn’t even wait for you to say something. She starts talking, loud and too quickly. Her nosiness hasn’t changed nor her grin.

“I would’ve never guessed you’re religious,” she blurts, eyes flicking with intrigue. “When did this happen? What brough you here?”

Your mind blanks. You feel cornered, exposed. Like she’s trying to take something out of you without permission.

“Did something dramatic happen that suddenly made you find faith?” She laughs before catching herself. “Sorry, that sounded awful. I’m just surprised. You never seemed like the church type.”

You force a smile. “People change I guess.”

“Apparently,” she says still amused. “I remember you always partying, and…”

“Everyone finds their way here in their own time.”

His familiar voice cuts through the noise, calm and unshakably kind. “Every person in this house is a child of God, whether they come in seeking answers or simply comfort.”

His gaze flickers to you, carrying a kind of reassurance that feels like it’s meant just for you.

Your friend’s smile falters on the instant when she recognises him. “Father Jungsu,” she murmurs, suddenly polite. “I didn’t mean to… I was just surprised to see her here, that’s all. We used to go to the same high school.”

He offers her a patient smile. “That’s nice.”

“I should probably get going,” she says, tucking a strand of her hair nervously.

“Of course,” he nods. “Go in peace.”

She mumbles a quick goodbye, heading toward the exit.

You exhale a breath, glancing away. Now it’s just the two of you standing there in the echoing quiet.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

“You looked like you needed rescuing.” He turns to you, gaze landing steady upon you, but slightly softer than earlier.

“I think I did,” you say, feeling your heartbeat quickening beneath your coat the second you lock eyes.

Everyone has left the church - there’s stillness around you that has you instantly acknowledging the electricity that passes between you.

You remember there are rules and vows to look away, but you don’t.

Then, he clears his throat quietly, glancing to the side briefly. “Your aunt is not here today.” He leads you both toward the doors.

“She’s out of town. She comes back tonight.”

You step outside. He walks beside you, just a step behind, hands clasped loosely in front of him. The church doors close with a dull echo.

“I’m glad you still decided to come.”

You lift your gaze from the ground, meeting his.

For a moment Jungsu feels like he’s seeing you as unguarded as never before; like something in you softens beneath his stare. Your beautiful features shift, gentler as the seconds pass by, and suddenly he’s exploring everything you hide from the world.

In that instant, he knows… that he’s not looking at the version everyone else gets, - but the one who’s been quietly trying to hold herself together. The one you never let anyone else see. The one reserved just for him.

However, your eyes flicker with a light that unsettles him - a reminder of how fragile a human can be when faced with certain temptation. How sometimes the heart can start speaking a language of its own.

He swallows the unwelcomed thoughts, and forces his vision towards the trees, the stone benches… “You’ll catch a cold if you stay out much longer.”

You nod, but you still can’t move. It’s not the cold wind stiffening your bones… it’s you unable to bring yourself to leave his presence.

“Can we stay here for a little while?” You ask, voice quieter than you expected, but laced in hope.

His expression falters. “That wouldn’t be appropriate.” He says carefully.

Your brows furrow as the wind caresses your face. “Why?” The word escapes you, small and childlike. “Why would it be wrong to just sit here for a few minutes? I’m not asking for anything of you.”

Father Jungsu breathes in slowly, eyes lowering. “Because this place asks something of me.” His voice is edged with something you haven’t heard before from him. It seems like he recognises it too; his body begins to betray him. This time he speaks slower and more measured, like he wants you to memorise his words. “People come here to pray… not to confuse what they feel with something else.”

You can’t answer. You just hold onto the eye contact as the wind stirs between you, light but cold.

Confused? You’re not confused, not when it comes to him. That’s the problem.

“If you need to talk about something, you can always come by my office. I hold visiting hours every Wednesday.”

“I don’t need to talk,” you murmur, shaking your head slowly. “I just don’t want to go home… I don’t want to be alone right now.” You hesitate to look at him, so you trace the edge of his sleeve, his calm, straight posture. “You’re the only one whose company I enjoy lately…”

His gaze softens, painfully so, but he keeps the cautious distance between you. “That’s kind of you to say,” he replies quietly. “But you should go home now.” He gives you a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “There’s a cold wind coming,” he adds and his tone slips almost pleading.

You get the urge to argue, to ask why it would matter so much if he stays by your side just for a few minutes… but you nod and turn to go.

As you walk away, his silthouette in the black robe is still standing there, unmoving when all he wanted is to reach for you.

The party is already loud and in full swing when you arrive. You know almost everyone, so you keep nodding and forcing smiles as you drift between small groups. Someone hands you a drink and you accept although you’re not in the mood for it. You take a few sips out of habit.

A familiar voice calls your name across the room, your friend waves you over.

By the time you make your way there, someone gets up from the couch, leaving a space right next to Keeho - the guy you used to work with at the pizza place last summer. You took orders over the phone, he made the deliveries, and the two of you made out behind the building during breaks. It never led to anything serious, not even sex; it was just something to spice up the long summer nights.

He drapes an arm casually along the back of the couch as you sit with your drink still in hand.

“For a second I thought you weren’t coming.” He says.

“Well, I’m here.”

“Thank God,” he flashes his brows at you, a grin tugging at his lips.

As the conversation rolls on, his hand keeps finding its way on your thigh, just resting there long enough to make his intentions clear.

When you’re halfway through your drink, he leans in, alcoholic breath brushing your ear. “This place is getting loud. Wanna see if upstairs is quieter?”

“That’s the best you could do?” You arch a brow.

“I didn’t need pick up lines last summer,” he laughs, unbothered.

That’s true.

He stands up, offering you a hand, and you take it.

Things escalate quickly - Keeho never wastes time; with him everything happens fast.

But as he touches you up and down, eagerly pushing your dress to your waist, something inside your mind switches. Another face flickers in the dark behind your eyelids. It’s not Keeho’s voice whispering at your ear.

Your brain works slower from the alcohol in your system, but it’s awake enough to call for him. The image of him that lately has been perminent in your mind creates some sick illusion in the warmth of this room, making every move, every breath and kiss mismatched.

His enticing eyes. His rousing voice. His collar. The line of his throat. His fingers… the way they trace the sign of the cross with such practiced grace, you could almost feel them on your skin, making their way up your inner thighs. All of these fragments send jolts of pleasure through you as Keeho invades your walls with a steady push.

You imagine Jungsu’s lips curving against your neck, calling you good. Eyebrows scrunched up in pleasure as he praises you like no one has ever done before. Your pussy is heaven, he’d say.

You don’t even try to escape it.

You let yourself sink into this fantasy, imagining it’s his weight pressing against you every time your arms tighten around Keeho’s shoulders.

They’re built similarly, or so you tell yourself. You can easily picture Father Jungsu at the gym, it’s probably one of his few interests as he’s the kind of man who believes discipline of the body keeps the mind healthy. In your imagination, his movements are rhythmic and hypnotic, like the way his knuckles tighten around the chalice, making you hold your breath until they relax again; his lean muscles flex and glisten under sweating slick skin… and he breathes heavy, but steady as he pushes through another rep. And you wish you could devour him. Tongue licking every part of him, every droplet of sweat and arousal. Teeth sinking into warm flesh.

A choked moan slips out of your mouth. That provokes Keeho to move faster, glancing down between your bodies as you pulse harder from the powerful creations of your imagination.

Your fingers rub circles on your clit as if they’re his.

Come for me, he’d say as you get pushed toward the edge. Come… sinful girl.

With his voice echoing in your head, his name between your teeth, you shake through your orgasm, head pressed back into the pillow.

The euphoria lasts a few seconds, and then… you feel hollow, empty. And you want to go home.

That’s when you realise how much has changed.

─── ♱

Jungsu sits at his desk, hands clasped tightly, lips moving in prayer that sounds more like a confession rather than a recitation.

“Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner,” he whispers. “Forgive me if I have failed You… in thought, in word… in silence.”

The rosary slips between his fingers before he catches it again. His palms are sweating. His collar feels too tight, his throat dry.

“Create in me a clean heart, O God.” He runs his thumb over the beads, pressing hard like penance. “Strengthen what is weak in me. Let Your will, not mine, be done.”

He draws in a long breath, but peace doesn’t come.

The stillness of his office feels heavy, pressuring, as though the walls are watching and listening. Like they know.

That sometimes he keeps his sermons short because he wants to talk to you. That sometimes he says things that aren’t meant for the room, but for your ears only.

That he notices the way you fold your hands, the way you bite your lip when you don’t understand the meaning of a word. That he has the exact shade of that red dress you wear beneath your coat memorised, the one that only ever appears when you’re feeling braver. It’s the shade of terror. The color of the need crawling under his skin when he thinks of you. The color staining everything when you visit him in his dreams - completely bare, exposed in all your glory… in his dreams you always smile at him, triumphant and alluring, like you’re a holy fire that he’s about to kneel for.

When he wakes up, it aches. This morning he almost lost control; he’s never felt so desperate and unstable in his life. Fortunately, he managed to endure, then he went for a run to clear his head a little bit.

They know, and they see it - the invisible thread pulling tight each time your eyes meet across the space between you.

Then, comes a knock at the door. Hesitant, and somehow unmistakable.

He doesn’t need to ask - he knows who it is. He can feel you in the air… your presence, your heat, your perfume, your quiet longing.

At first when he met you for the first time, he felt a spark. A small, innocent one, the kind of spark you get when you meet someone intriguing. But he didn’t expect that spark to quickly grow… so rich, so blinding.

He smooths the front of his black shirt, then opens the door.

There you are, standing in the front of the hallway, coat damp from the drizzle outside. Your breath is uneven, your eyes instantly darting past him toward the small crucifix on the wall.

“Hi,” you say quickly. “Sorry, I know it’s late. I just… needed to ask you something if that’s okay.”

He steps aside without hesitation. “Of course. Come in.” His hand silently invites you on the chair across from his desk.

“I wanted to ask about… confession,” you say, twisting fingers together. “As you can probably guess already, I’ve never done it before and… I don’t know how it goes. Are there any… rules? Limits? Things you aren’t supposed to say.”

“There aren’t limits. Confession isn’t about rules, it’s about honesty.”

“Even if it’s about… sex?”

Jungsu’s expression subtly shifts; there’s an unreadable tension darkening his eyes, and the flickering of the lamp only makes it more evident. “Yes,” he answers. “You can tell God anything.”

“And you’re there…” you lower your gaze, voice dipping softer, “listening.”

He nods. “But I’m only a witness. Everything passes between you and Him.”

You wonder if he really believes he could be just a witness to you.

You shift in your seat, taking a few seconds to calm your stirring emotions. Rubbing palms against your thighs, you remind yourself you don’t have to do this. He doesn’t have to know. After all, you don’t feel guilty for your feelings or desires.

But this… this isn’t just lust anymore. You’re in love. And it’s the quiet, terrifying kind of love that’s been building without your permission. You also feel admiration, not just for who he is, but for how he makes you want to be better… for the way he sees you even when you don’t want to be seen.

And now, standing here with your heart trembling in your chest, you know - if you want to be loved back, you’ll have to tell him everything.

“Uhm…” you force a chuckle as nerves cripple at your neck. “This is going to sound silly, but… can we practice here for a minute?” You finally dare to look at him only to see that his expression has changed again. It’s not cold or disapproving, but it’s definitely sharper. “I don’t think I’m ready yet, but I’d like to know what it feels like.”

Just now, you realise he’s not wearing his vestments, only the black clerical shirt and slacks, sleeves neatly buttoned at the wrist. The small square of white at his throat draw your eyes like a magnet, simple yet hard to look away from.

He stands up and carefully moves his chair next to yours. He sits, hearing you take a deep breath. The sound as well as the sudden closeness makes his pulse stutter. His broad shoulders tense.

“Just be honest,” he manages, hands folding slowly as he looks at the crucifix. “What weighs on your heart?”

You lower your gaze to your lap as your lips part, but it takes a moment for the words to find their way out. By the time you speak, your mouth has gone dry. “I feel lost… and lonely most of the time. I have friends, but it’s like I’m there without really… being there. I don’t fit anywhere anymore.”

His lips press into a thoughtful line. The silence is free of any pressure, but it hums with something else. Nonetheless, you go on, as it gives you more courage.

“Ever since I started coming here,” you continue, your voice tighter, but honest. “I’ve been feeling… alive. I haven’t felt like this in such a long time.” The words pull themselves from somewhere deep inside you, and it starts to make breathing easier. “The thing is… It’s not because of God. I don’t know if I believe or not.”

He manages a small nod.

“It’s because of you, Father…”

“You don’t have to call me Father if you don’t…”

“No, I want to,” you’re quick to reassure him, desperate to show your growing devotion to him. “I believe in you, Father.” Then, you risk a glance at him.

He doesn’t look at you back. His eyes flicker away in an opposite direction as he takes a breath; a breath of restraint that hides behind many things including fear.

Soon, he forces a faint smile. “If you see something good here it’s not mine to claim.”

“Can I ask you a question?” you keep your gaze on him.

“Yes, you can.”

“Why is it,” you murmur, sitting straight again, “that if you look close enough, you can find the physical kind of love in almost everything? Art, literature, in myths… even in religion. It’s like it’s everywhere.”

Jungsu stills, eyes unfocused for a moment. He’s always had an answer for everything, but now his silence feels purposeful. The pause between you buzzes, and your pulse falters as you wait for whatever might come next.

Finally, he speaks: “That’s… the oldest language we have for creation.” He swallows, as if steadying himself, chasing the rest of his thought before it slips away. “Before there were words, there was touch. Before prayer, there was longing… to be joined with something greater than yourself.”

“I like the sound of that,” you say softly, resonating with his words.

Jungsu’s throat tightens as he swallows again. He feels heat slowly crawling up his neck and he fixes his gaze back on the wall across from him.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” he nods. “Would you like to continue?”

You agree, drawn to the slow cadence of his careful voice.

“Two nights ago I went to a party where I slept with someone,” you admit, steady and calm. “We had sex and…” your tone stutters at the end and you take a brief pause.

A shadow of concern crosses Jungsu’s face. Anticipation settles in his stomach as he fights something dark threatening to spill where it’s supposed to be nothing.

You draw a breath that barely reaches your lungs. “I’m just going to say it.” You exhale, eyes fluttering shut. “The entire time… all I could think about was you. I was picturing you… because I kept wishing it was you touching me, not him. I’ve been thinking about you, Father… so much it hurts.”

You slowly open your eyes. There’s heavy silence.

Jungsu folds his hands firmly, murmuring a quiet prayer for guidance. God, grant me the words to help without failing in my duty…

“Even now,” you continue, voice unsteady as suddenly your thoughts flicker faster than you can catch them, “I wish you were holding me in your arms, I… I want you. I’ve never felt this way before for anyone.”

The confession hangs between you, spreading heat in the air, melting the edges of reason. Until all that’s left are the suffocating, corrupting feelings.

There are some sentences and prayers hovering on Jungsu’s tongue, but the fire rising in his body makes it hard to think, hard to breathe. When his lips finally part, his brows furrow, like he doubts every word that crosses his mind right now.

“You said you believed in me,” he says slowly, but there’s slight roughness in his voice that gives it away - that he could raise it higher if he was allowed to. “Why didn’t you seek my guidance when you were struggling to find peace in your thoughts?”

“Because I knew thatt if I came to you, I’d want more than just a conversation,” you admit, honest. “I would’ve wanted… everything. Your comfort, your kiss, your touch, all of it.”

It’s the truth, and saying it out loud feels like tearing a wound open, but it’s also satisfying. The hunger that’s taken root inside you has grown so strong it keeps you awake at night, pulsing between your legs at every thought that has to do with him.

“I thought that if I looked for relief somewhere else, the desire might finally leave me alone,” you continue, but then… the thought of him believing you could ever choose someone else over him makes you sick. Before the silence stretches too far, you add almost desperately: “But it didn’t help. It only made me realise how real this is… what we have between us. It can never go away. Father, I—”

“Stop.”

The command lands like a whisper, but your stomach still turns.

Jungsu finally turns to you, his eyes dark in disbelief and something dangerously close to longing. He notices it - the absence of shame. The lack of guilt and regret in your confession. If anything, this lifted something heavy off your chest.

You’re a sinner.

And when it comes to him… he feels like he’s slowly going mad. His mind begins to swirl with thoughts he could never dress in holy language no matter how hard he tries.

“You shouldn’t say things like that.” His words are almost forced, as if he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.

“I thought we are practicing for my confession.” You say, not breaking eye contact. “So I’m confessing.”

His pulse skitters as his temperature increases from your gaze alone. Your yearning, no—your greed, lands warm and provoking, digging a wound straight into his soul.

He utters your name softly, holding onto the last bits of patience he has left. “You know this… whatever this is… can’t happen.”

“But it’s real. I know what I feel.”

Jungsu exhales shakily, his head drops low.

You eyes drift to his lap; his hands are trembling against the rosary beads, betraying everything he’s trying to hold back.

Slowly, you reach for him. Your fingertips graze his knuckles in a quiet attempt to steady him. “You’re shaking.”

The tension in his jaw, the restraint in his shoulders… it’s almost painful to watch. It’s as if every muscle in his body is working against his instincts.

“You’re tempting a man of God.” He says in an agonised voice.

“You make love sound like a sin.”

He finally turns to you; his breath escapes as his lips part. “You have sinned.” The words leave his mouth sharp, like an accusation.

“Maybe,” you reply, tone calm. “But I don’t feel guilt about it.”

The simplicity of your response catches him off guard. There’s uncertainty in his eyes as he searches your face for remorse and finding none.

His fingers twitch beneath yours, caught between wanting to grip your hand and forcing himself not to.

Then, you say: “You can touch me.”

Upon hearing this, Jungsu’s eyes drop to your mouth. And they rest there, observing the appealing color and shape.

“I would love for you to touch me,” you whisper, entrancing him even more with the way your lips move.

In that moment, something stirs in his stomach before settling below his belt. The feeling isn’t entirely unfamiliar, but it’s tied to other emotions - shame, guilt, fear. Nevertheless… a brief touch wouldn’t be so bad, right?

A brief touch, he tells himself. He’ll touch you only for a second. That’s all he needs - just a second to feel your skin, your warmth.

Finally, for the first time, he reaches toward you.

His hand slips from your palm, then slowly lifts to your face, brushing fingertips against your skin. The contact sets every nerve in his body on fire, and that heat pulls him closer.

You’ve never known comfort quite like this - the rough warmth of his palm tracing the side of your face, slowing until your breath matches the rhythm of his touch. Your head tilts, surrendering to it, your whole body easing as if it finally remembers what love feels like.

Your eyes flutter shut and Jungsu swallows thickly; his mouth waters in a way that has little to do with the thirst for salvation he should be feeling.

Before he can resist, his thumb brushes your lips; touch that feels both featherlight and enough to part them slightly open.

When he speaks, his voice is so small and weak, that it doesn’t feel like it’s his own. “This… doesn’t feel right.” Yet, he presses down on your lower lip, cherishing the view of your teeth, your tongue bold enough to flicker out and wet his thumb.

Your gaze lifts up. There’s a new light in his eyes, a quiet steadiness.

“Then… what does it feel like?” You ask softly.

Jungsu takes a moment. Because how do you name something that feels both ruin and relief?

“It feels,” he murmurs, hand shifting below your jawline, “dangerously close to it.”

“Keep going,” you say, pulse skittering as he slowly leans in, “please…” you trail off, getting dizzier in the charged air between you. His touch slides to explore the line of your neck, warming you up further.

Jungsu knows he should turn away.

But his body’s instincts are stronger in this internal battle, and before he can stop himself, his mouth touches your cheek - not for a kiss, but a light touch, so he can gain a little taste.

He lets out a blissfull sigh; the drags of his lips are slow, measured, as desire and reason twist within him. “You’re ruining me,” he mutters against your skin, tone laced in desperation. “You don’t realise the damage you cause me.”

His lips are soft, lingering so tender and warm. They move lower, studying you, caressing you as your breathing picks up excitedly. “You’re here to plague me,” he continues near your ear.

He can smell your perfume, the scent of your lotion creeping through your heat. It makes his body react - his manhood thickens, pressing against the placket of his pants.

As if you can feel the fire looming in him, your hand slides along his thigh - not so much to comfort him, but to encourage him to surrender. “I long for you… every day.”

Jungsu breathes shakily as he presses his forehead against yours. Suddenly, he cups your face with both hands, like he’s about to kiss you, the cold beads brush your skin. “We have to pray,” he says, his voice rising a notch though unstable. There’s some kind of noise buzzing non-stop in his head, as if Satan himself is whispering at his ear.

Your palm rubs against his thigh, drawing light patterns in the direction where you can guess he’s pulsing for your touch.

His large hands stay on you, steady and unyielding, as his breath fans warmly across your face. He keeps you close as if he’s afraid you might slip away, even while every part of him screams to release you.

And then… the space between you disappeares - his lips press against yours, light and unrushed; like a silent confession of everything he can’t say out loud. A kiss so soft and brief it feels like a plea.

When he pulls back, his grip tightens, grounding you where you are. His voice slips, more controlled yet still weak at the edges. “Please take away my guilt and wipe my slate clean with the blood of Jesus Christ…”

It’s hard to focus on everything he’s saying, though. Your thoughts are still tangled somewhere in the lingering warmth he left on your lips. It’s dizzying, the way something so gentle can feel so immense - especially when you’ve been dreaming of it night after night.

Mid-prayer and with no hesitation, you kiss him back. A moment passes as your lips stay on his mouth and Jungsu allows it. He holds your warm face in his hands, drowning in the thrill of your touch.

He doesn’t understand it, but his knees weaken, his chest tightens… and that throbbing ache, the one that woke him up this morning after he saw you in his dream, returns, fluttering in his core. It’s like you shifted the rhythm of his whole body with just a single touch.

“I am a sinner in need of my Savior…” he continues after you detach to breathe in.

“We don’t need to…” you try to tell him, but he doesn’t hear it.

His voice is hushed and quick as if that’s going to help him escape the depraved lust washing over him.

With foreheads resting against one another, you ghost one hand over his slacks, fingers brushing his prominent boner. The on-going prayer falters as a stuttering moan crawls out of his throat. The sound enters your mouth, so sweet, you immediately want to hear it again.

For a moment you’re so focused on the different changes in his voice that you don’t realise when his hand, wrapped in the rosary, shifts to your waist.

Your eyes, glossy with desire, peer into his dark gaze in a frenzy as the beads disappear under your sweater. His fingertips travel up your back, bringing goosebumps across your skin. Your breath comes out in shutters at the way he caresses the curve of your spine, beads sliding down your figure while his lips slow the rhythm.

You can taste the insatiable desire, the need for pleasure and love on his tongue as the phrases unfold slowly, voice barely audible, almost matching the easy pace of his fingers exploring your bare skin.

Your temperature is heightened, a warm slickness seeping through the fabric of your panties when the final word finally comes, soft like an exhale. Amen.

When your eyes meet, it feels like the world suddenly tilts, like everything outside this office feels so far away… and too cold in comparison to the space between you that’s warm and electric.

The echo of his touch burns on your skin when he pulls his hand, glancing away.

The clench of your heart when you see him rise to his feet is unspeakable. The warmth of the moment collapses into the distance now stretching between you.

He speaks with his back to you, because he’s afraid that facing you will undo whatever resolve he somehow managed to finally build. “You don’t need to be perfect to be forgiven. God hears honesty… before anything else.”

For a long breath there’s only silence. Then, his tense shoulders rise and fall as though even the air inside the room is troubling him.

He turns, but his eyes never make it to your face; they hover somewhere near the floor, guilty and hesitant. When he lifts a hand to trace the sign of the cross, you know - you have to leave.

─── ♱

The rain greets you cold and unrelenting as you step out of the restaurant. In your rush to escape the scene that unfolded at the table, the judgemental murmurs you left behind, you forget to grab your coat.

You love the rain; it soothes and clears your mind, but not tonight. You can still see it - your aunt, half-hidden beneath the awning, kissing passionately another man that isn’t your uncle. Twenty minutes later, she returns to your table with a steady smile, explaining it away as an urgent work call.

The woman who preached virtue and family daily.

Your mind barely catches up as you walk fast, dress clinging wet to your body as each step leads you closer to the only person you can think of… the only one worth holding on to.

Father Kim Jungsu.

You don’t how much time passes, but before you know it, you see his window, glowing in the night with a faint yellow light.

You don’t even think about it - you run up the steps, heart pounding, and you ring the bell.

When the door opens, the warm light spills out over your figure - drenched, shivering, breathless. On the other hand, he’s standing there, wearing a soft, dark gray sweater and blue denim jeans - casual, relaxed and so ordinary. It makes him even more… real and present.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe as you glance away from his eyes widened from distress. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Instantly, his expression shifts from many emotions washing over him all at once. Confusion, concern, apprehension… something softer.

“It’s all right,” he says, stepping aside to let you in. “You’re safe here.”

The door clicks shut behind you and the world outside - the rain, the noise, your aunt… all fade into a distant blur. Then, his calm voice speaks, anchoring you.

“Take your time.”

He moves quietly, slipping into the next room and returning with a zip-up hoodie, just a few shades lighter than his sweater.

When you hesitate, caught mid step, he steps close behind you, guiding your arms into the sleeves.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs with a low, soft voice. “Come, sit if you need to.”

You sink into one of the kitchen chairs, your muscles finally relaxing in the comfort of his hoodie.

Jungsu hands you a towel, then proceeds moving around the small space, glancing back at you. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks. Now, his voice is slightly more tense, but still carrying that undertone of care you learned to love.

“Whatever you have,” you reply. “Thank you.”

He nods, pouring a cup of milk from the fridge, then sets it carefully on the table in front of you. The gesture is simple yet it feels intensely personal, and your chest flutters.

Jungsu lingers near the counter, eyes flicking toward you every now and then, silently checking if you’re okay. He watches you slowly lift the cup to your mouth, and it’s like for a moment time itself slows around you. When you take a sip, he swallows, mirroring you without thinking. He watches the small tilt of your head, the soft exhale that follows when you place the cup back to its place. He watches you lick your lips, and his mouth waters as he remembers their softness… how they welcomed his tongue with ease.

He turns his gaze, ashamed of the thoughts he cannot seem to quiet; disgusted with himself for thinking of anything other than the fact that you’re hurting.

“Better?” he asks finally.

You nod, pressing the towel against your chest before running it slowly down your leg. “We went out for dinner, family friends and all,,” you begin; the event already feels like a distant memory, but you can’t tell if that’s a good or a bad thing. “At one point, she excused herself and didn’t come back for… twenty minutes. So I went to check on her, and…” you pause, exhaling shakily, “she was with someone.”

“Your aunt?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. Nothing else could have left you this shaken.

“Yeah,” you let out a soft, unsteady laugh, looking down as you grip the towel. “I’ve never seen her smile like that.”

Jungsu lets out a slow breath, crossing his arms as he moves to the other side of the room. He stops near the darkened window, shoulders tense.

You swallow hard before continuing. “She looked so happy. Living an entirely different life behind my back.” You pause again as the hurt twists deeper. “All this time she preached to me about sin, purity and honesty… and she’s been cheating on my uncle.”

Your voice cracks and the rest of your sentence breaks off.

Jungsu turns immediately at the sound, all of his hesitation gone. The sight of you trying to stop your tears pulls him forward before he can even think; the distance between you closing in an instant.

He’s beside you before you can look up, crouching slightly to meet your eyes. “People fail,” he says softly, as if speaking too loudly might shatter what’s left of you.. “Even the ones who teach us not to.”

You press a hand to your face, trying to stop the shaking. “I don’t care that she’s seeing someone. It’s the lies… everything I believed just—”

The tears come fast, heavy, spilling past your fingers.

Jungsu reaches out, wrapping fingers around your wrist, gently pulling it away from your face. His thumb brushes against your cheek, catching them as they keep coming.

“I don’t understand,” you choke out.

“You don’t have to make sense of it rght now,” he whispers. “Just breathe.”

But you can’t. You gasp with an aching sound, the towel slipping to the floor.

Jungsu pulls you close, your face pressing into his chest. His sweater smells faintly of detergent, and you cry harder - deep, painful; the kind that comes when you’ve been holding too much inside for too long.

Kneeling in front of you, he circles your waist. His arms are steady and patient, holding you together while you fall apart. For a while, there’s only the sound of your sobs, echoing in the small kitchen.

When your breathing finally starts to calm, he tilts his head upon the quiet sound of your voice; it’s hoarse, lower than usual…broken in a way that makes his throat close.

“It’s always the same. I keep hoping, but…” you pause, feeling him tighten his hold on you. “Everyone lies… It hurts.”

This is when it hits him the hardest - the flash of anger, sharp and sinful in his chest. He’s not supposed to feel like this. He’s always been taught that anger is pride in disguise, that judgment isn’t his to hold. But he’s angry.

He’s angry at the people who broke you like this. He hates that you’re sitting here, crying because the ones you trusted most chose deceit. And worst of all, he hates that he’s angry.

His hand moves gently along your back as your tears soak through his sweater. He wants to promise you that he’ll keep all the pain away from you, that he’ll make it right somehow, but he knows he can’t.

And yet… he can’t stop the tought burning inside him. If God won’t protect you, he will.

“You don’t deserve any of this,” he mutters, rough but quiet. “They don’t get to hurt you like that.”

You pull back, your eyes finally meet. His words hang between you like a prayer and a promise at once.

There’s a tremor behind his gaze. He’s fighting the part of him that feels too much, that wants too much, and doesn’t know if that makes him a sinner or simply a human.

For a moment you can’t speak. The man who inspires devotion in a room full of strangers now kneels before you. And there’s flicker of protectiveness in his eyes, of frustration at himself for not being able to shield you from the world.

He lifts a hand toward you, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb as your heart keeps thudding against your ribs; the gesture a vast contrast to the evident tension in his jaw.

“If I could take it from you, I would,” he says. “All of it.”

You look at him, really look, and you realise it - despite all his faith and restraint, he’s just as lost right now as you are.

“I know,” you whisper, nodding once. Your eyes are hot and heavy, half-lidded as you take in how beautiful he is.

His eyes flick downward for half a second, like he’s silently asking for strength or forgivness.

However, he drags his fingetips along your leg instead - slowly, from your ankle to your knee.

You’re not wearing tights, and his breath falters at the nice feeling of your bare skin, the edge of your white cotton sock brushing against him. It all sends a shiver down his spine he can’t disguise.

He angles his head and his lips trace a slow, deliberate path upward, making your skin prickle. Parting them just enough, he drags them up your inner thigh, trailing warm, open mouthed kisses.

His hands find your hips, fingers curling around the fabric of your dress as his mouth moves more fluently.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into the softness of your thigh.

You stay silent. You’re not sure who he’s apologising to - you, himself or God who’s supposed to be in the room with you right now.

You swallow hard, feeling your body flush with heat as his tongue grazes your plush flesh.

The way his heavy breathing gets closer and further between your legs sends a tingling sensation to your core, and you bite the corner of your lip, unable to stay still anymore.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice dropping half a note, tender in a way that has your tummy swirling. “You’re so devastatingly beautiful… I don’t want to see you hurt.”

When he lifts his gaze, your heart almost stops beating from the gleam inside it, a mixture between hunger and affliction. For a breathless second you’re certain you’re dreaming, that you’re only imagining his words, his touch, but the warmth spreading through you as he draws you closer says otherwise.

His hands lift up the hem of your dress, revealing the most intimate parts of you. The view of your panties has him swallowing thickly as you spread your legs for his stare. Before you can say anything, he plants an open mouthed kiss just above the waistband, then another one, even more sensual and slow - on your clothed clit.

Then, his tongue dips out slowly, dragging up your folds.

Peering through your lashes, you watch his eyes flutter shut, unfamiliar lust radiating off him like perfume the more he allows his tongue to move. You feel it lick again, then again, flattening, grinding in the center of your folds, tasting, exploring this new and thrilling territory.

A small sound of bliss escapes him before Jungsu can stop it, his throat going dry as he can feel a certain wetness starting to form. His lips suck through the barrier, making every muscle in your body draw tight like a bowstring.

You let out a breathy moan just before he pulls back to see the darkening fabric. He stares at it with heavy eyes, then gently presses his fingertips to feel it, immediately looking up as you whine at the motion.

You’re completely mesmerised by the way he looks at you.

“I want to make you feel better,” he says, applying light pressure as he strokes up and down. When he bumps into your clothed entrance he can almost feel it pulse as he watches how your body responds. “I want to make you feel good.”

Within a minute, your underwear is gone, your fingers tangled in his dark hair as you slouch in the chair. Every drop of arousal that leaks out of your cunt is devoured like a sweet nectar, the sloppy motions sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

“So sweet… you taste unreal.” Jungsu gasps in between your puffy folds, enjoying the way you tremble, legs shaking around him with each roll of his tongue. “I can’t believe how sweet you are.”

In awe, he cannot stop whispering praises directly into your heat. The fan of his excited breath makes your stomach knot tighter while one of his hands removes your socks to massage your feet.

“I’m… so c-close…” you whimper, hips slightly rolling against his face. “Please…”

Your shaky voice has Jungsu detaching his lips, reddish and shiny with your slick. His eyes darken in a way you’ve never seen before as he takes in the sight of your dripping pussy, your small hole fluttering.

“Everything about you is so pretty,” he murmurs, inhaling your scent as he quickly leans in again, capturing your sensitive bud; he sucks and twirls around it, making your spine arch in pleasure.

His hands shift back to your hips to steady you. The tip of his tongue swirls deliberately as he carefully studies your body language, memorising every action that makes you shudder, squirm and moan louder.

Feeling him bring a finger to your entrance, you grip the table with one hand for support. He only traces up and down, too wary to push into it.

“Put it in,” you plead, tugging at his sweater. You’re too drunk on the rush to consider what he might think of you for asking so shamelessly. “Father, please… I need it.”

In an instant, Jungsu slips through your walls to meet your request - patient, slowly stretching the area while giving you what you need to near ultimate pleasure. The grief on your face still lingers in his mind and now every movement he makes carries a quiet promise - that you won’t have to feel that way anymore. He wants to replace every tear you shed with warmth instead.

“Fuck—” your head lulls backwards.

And he can’t quite grasp it… how incredibly rousing he finds you like this - spread wide open, cursing freely, choking on your words like he’s draining the air from your lungs. All for him - a man of the cloth.

But that’s not exactly how you see him, is it? You see past that - past the collar, the discipline and his calm exterior.

He begins moving his digit inside you, back and forth. It feels so hot and tight, he inhales sharply as something in his own core pools. “Like this?” he asks, glancing at you with glazed over eyes.

You nod twice, unable to do any other movement except rock into his touch, urging him deeper and faster. “Yes, just like that…” Then, unknowingly, your other hand reaches out, caressing the side of his face.

Your toes curl in the air the moment he dives back in, tongue moving in a faster rhythm this time. Below, you begin to throb hard, like you have a second heartbeat. Your moans of pleasure echo in the air, growing high pitched by the second.

Captivated by the state of enrapture you’re falling into, Jungsu smoothly pushes one more finger inside you, making you mewl at the wider stretch. His head moves side to side, tongue applying the perfect friction on your sensitive spot as his spit dribbles down your cunt.

“I’m gonna—” your breath hitches, your eyes squeezing shut.

Jungsu keeps his tongue rolling, savoring the taste of your arousal.

The pulsing around his fingers as they rub your walls intensifies when you cry out, going completely rigid for a moment - only to quiver against his mouth once the rush buzzes through you. His free hand roams along your thigh as your legs close around his head - not to stop you, but to silently assure you that he’s got you.

The kitchen is silent for a while; there’s warm thickness that doubles as you both acknowledge what you have just done.

Jungsu straightens his back, face decorated with a tint of pink blush. The same hand that brought you on your orgasm stops to rest on his thigh, unsure what follows next.

That’s when you notice the bulge, trapped by the confines of the denim.

You guide your foot forward, rubbing in light patterns; your mouth waters as you picture how flushed and hard he must be.

Jungsu can only stare down helplessly. So many perverted images flood his mind, all revolving around you; images he shouldn’t be welcoming in his head let alone consider.

But he allows them to unfold. A rush of precum leaks from his cockhead, staining his underwear.

“Thank you for taking care of me.” You murmur softly, moving back your foot.

You catch an uneven breath leave his mouth as he fails to meet your eyes. So you stand up, still in his zip-up hoodie. “I should go,” you hear yourself utter.

However, a firm grip around your arm stops you from taking another step.

In a matter of seconds, Jungsu raises to his feet, pressing you against the edge of the wooden table. His mouth, warm and glistening under the light, captures your lips. His hands cup your face, securing you in place as his thumbs brush your cheeks stained with dried tears.

He’s never felt this kind of hunger before - the kind that burns through reason as you moan between his sensual kisses.

He refuses to loosen his grip when you tug at his belt, unbuckling it with swift movements; the clink of metal rings out in the othewise silent kitchen.

Soon, his cock springs free, bouncing up toward his abdomen. When he pulls back, exhaling deeply from the addictive taste of your lips, he looks down, eyes widening at how close your hand is.

The desire overpowers the feeling of trepidation, and he makes no move to stop you.

The sexual frustration is dizzying as he watches you wrap fingers around his erection, stroking with a confident yet gentle motion. His jaw falls slack, breath hitching as you don’t shy away from repeating the steady movements, magnifying the heat curling inside him.

“It’s my turn to take care of you, now…” you whisper lovingly near his trembling lips. You wish you can memorise every small twitch his face makes for you in this current moment, so handsome and rapturous. “Has another girl ever touched you like this before?” you ask at once.

You bring your fist higher, smearing the collected precum along his length. The uninterrupted action pulls out a long, desperate moan out of him before he shakes his head, exhaling a small no.

Relief blooms in your chest as you realise he’s never had something even close to this with anyone else. It’s you and only you. The thought makes your heart swell with warmth and contentment.

This moment, this connection… it’s entirely yours.

Before he can stop himself, with palms still on your face, Jungsu starts panting your name. His brows knit together, sweat begins to trickle down his temple as he feels himself losing all composure because of your experienced touch.

Your eyes do not leave him out of sight, he looks and sounds absolutely captivating. That same sense of purpose you feel when listening to him during mass floods back; stronger, deeper. Swiftly, you take a second to spit in your palm before proceeding the strokes. “Yeah? Feels nice?”

Overwhelmed, Jungsu lets his head fall on your shoulder, unable to look at you as he’s on the verge of breaking. A brief whine drops from his tongue as a response - one of many irrepressible noises that won't stop escaping his throat the more your grip moves, pleasing and slick; it’s starting to speed up, wet noises erupting from below where he doesn’t dare to look.

Heat rises to his cheeks. He feels like he can’t hold it in much longer, like something inside him is going to be teared apart any second now. “I can’t,” he stutters breathless, but his thought ends there.

His voice shatters weakly, an elongated whine heating your neck as the pressure bursts. For a moment the sensation almost has him lose his footing, his mind going blank.

The warm arousal shoots out of his swollen tip, trickling down your hand, a few white streaks landing messily on your dress. Your fist eases before stopping completely, allowing the relief to settle under his skin, warm, heavenly.

As much as his dick twitching in your palm, and his arousing moans ringing at your ear turned you on, nothing can compare to the thrilling look in his dazed eyes where faith and sin intertwine - like he’d take anything you decide to give him, and nothing can stop him.

With vision fixated upon him, you move on your knees. His hoodie drops to the tiled floor, then your mouth welcomes his still hard length, enveloping him in an imensive warmth. Your lips wrap tightly around the slick head, sucking every bead of arousal lingering.

Jungsu moans shakily at the sharp sensation, not thinking as his hand fists in your hair. You, on the other hand, hum blissfully as you savor his salty taste.

“Ah—” his body trembles as your lips detach with a lewd, wet pop, tongue flicking out to swirl around the swollen tip.

He’s unable to take his eyes off you as you slowly lean forward, trying to fit more of him into your mouth. The stretch of your cheeks looks almost painful as you control your breath, eyes fluttering shut as you focus on relaxing your throat.

Jungsu’s jaw flexes as another inch disappears through your puffy lips, clouding his mind with a fog. Then, feeling sweat across the back of his neck, he grabs the hem of his sweater, pulling it over his head and tossing it on the table behind you.

“Sweetheart…” His touch returns, stroking the top of your head gently. “Is this alright?” The words stumble steadier than he expects.

He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, suppressing an unstable sound. It’s undeniable - the wave of rapture your mouth provokes. But the thought of that causing you even the smallest discomfort twists something inside him.

Slowly, you drag your lips back to his cockhead. Then, you unwrap them through a light suck.

It takes you a second to realise you’re staring up at him, eyes wide and hazy, heart tripping over itself from the sight of his naked chest. But then… sweetheart. You’ve been called that before, but not like this.

The tension in the air shifts when Jungsu sees the corners of your mouth curve.

“I love it,” you reply softly, making his breath still.

You stand, finally stripping from your dress. The cloth slips from your shoulders, pooling soundlessly at your feet.

Jungsu’s gaze follows every inch revealed, almost hypnotised. He doesn’t move at first, only his throat bobs when he swallows, hands flexing at his sides.

Then, he twitches in the air, blood flowing into his cock again.

You can’t deny the rush that floods your chest when the realisation hits - you’re standing bare before him, completely exposed. A shiver of nervousness runs through you until he steps closer, like a man approaching something sacred. In one effortless motion, he lifts you into his arms, and every flicker of doubt melts away, replaced by the dizzying thrill of his hold.

You hardly get a glimpse of his room - you’re gently tossed on his bed, the mattress dipping beneath you as he follows. He completely steals your focus; toned stomach, muscled arms, warm chest heaving in an excited rhythm as he hovers over you. His dark hair falls over his forehead when he leans in, searching for your lips.

“You drive me crazy,” he breaks the silence before capturing you in another breathtaking kiss.

Lightheaded, you place hands on the sides of his neck. It feels like it’s just the two of you in this world, and you want to stop time, so you can feel like this forever.

When he inserts himself inside you, the first few seconds it feels overwhelming - too much, too big, - but then, it feels perfect, like he’s made for you.

He starts off slow, massaging your gummy walls with precise, sensual slides that allow you to get used to the stretch. However, soon, he begins thrusting like a man who’s losing all composure.

“So… ah! You’re so—t-tight!” he tries to steady his voice, but the effort breaks with every word he manages to say. “It feels amazing… like you were made for me.” He buries his face against your neck, trying to silence his shaky moans that escape with each hit of his hips.

His body is sweating, clinging to you desperately as you hold onto him, nails sinking into his muscular back.

Each time his tip reaches that sweet spot inside you, it feels like the air is being knocked out of your lungs; your pussy walls spasm, sucking him in tighter and tighter.

The sounds of skin against skin intensifies as the heat between you makes everything around you feel like a blur. Soon, the rush will be too much to bare; you can feel it in the way your core scorches.

“Jungsu—”

Jungsu’s brain is hazy, as if all of his thoughts turned into smoke the second he slipped inside you. The only thing reaching him is the filthy sounds your fluids create every time your bodies connect deeply, reminding him over and over again that this is reality. There’s no coming back from this.

But then, the sound of your strained voice whining his name cuts through the haze, grounding him completely.

He hums, searching for your eyes. His body slows, your hands grasp onto him tighter. “Am I…” he says, low and hot. “I’m sorry, am I going too fast? Did I hurt you?”

Swallowing, you slightly shift your hips, already needing him as deep as possible. “Don’t stop, please… it’s perfect.”

He takes a second longer to look at you before confessing: “I like hearing you say my name.” His lips press gently to your forehead, your eyes closing at the comforting gesture.

Almost immediately, he revives the needy rhythm, hips slamming sloppily into you. The sounds are lewd and harsh, clashing with his shaky pants and whimpers. “I’m sorry,” he says again despite your assurance, a tear falling from the corner of his eye.

The need for relief he felt earlier becomes nearly unbearable, washing over the lingering guilt; the pleasure you offer him with your body being only one can dream about is enough to make him want to cry.

Your voice cracks with emotion beneath him as he fastens further, your nails dragging rough lines on the surface of his back.

With the current sensation stirring inside him, with the way he throbs, lost deeper and deeper through every new drag - he won’t be able to stop a second time even he wanted to.

“I’m sorry, my dove.” He whispers in a rush, every breath a tremor. “Just… can’t h-help it—can’t get enough of you.” His lips brush against your cheek, catching another tear; yours or his own, he can’t tell.

He shifts backwards, his muscled back suddenly straight, flexing beneath stinging, red scratches. Both of his hands grasp onto your thighs, keeping them wide open so he can see you take his manhood. The view is wet, noisy, like you’re struggling to keep up with him, yet you don’t want to let him go as you keep leaking all over his sheets.

It’s such an impactful visual experience that not a minute later he shudders mid-thrust, like he’s been short circuited.

His head tips back, jaw going slack as euphoria passes through his whole body. The second his vision turns white, creamy arousal spilling inside you, he wonders if he’s finally reached the gates of heaven.

The thrill is intense, bringing slight overstimulation as he makes the last few pumps the exact moment your own orgasm snaps.

As the fog inside his mind dissipates, though slowly, he realises he cannot escape the staggering sensation of your climaxes clashing at the same time; he cannot recover from the fact he liked bringing you pleasure while a part of him is inside you even better.

When you curl beside him, limbs heavy, skin still humming with warmth, you rest your head against his chest and let your eyes flutter shut.

“I don’t want to stop needing you.” You admit quietly.

Maybe this is what faith is meant to look like, you think. Two people simply holding on to each other when it gets too dark.

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