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lookingforhobi · 1 month ago

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Stick Shift

pairing: hoseok x reader

genre: street racing au, rivals to lovers, slow burn

summary: they call you ghost. you call him sunshine. you’re gasoline and gold. he’s grit and fire. you meet where engines snarl and neon flickers, where flirting tastes like violence and victory smells like smoke. no one really wins here. not without bleeding for it. but god, you both keep trying.

warnings: street racing, competition kink, jealousy, fighting, bloodly knuckles, a little toxic, a lot feral, they hate how bad they want each other, rough sex, public sex, backseat sex, oral f!recieving, fingering, light choking, impact play, possessive/obsessive behavior, overstimulation, creampie, masturbation m & f, mentions of marijuana

word count: 7,708

The first time Hoseok sees you, it’s from across the lot. Hip cocked against your matte black Nissan Silvia like the car’s just another extension of your body. You’re licking sugar off your thumb from a ring pop someone must’ve handed you, but your eyes are scanning.

It’s just past midnight, and the air is thick with the smell of gasoline, rubber, cigarette smoke, and basslines that bleed through every inch of the abandoned lot. Overhead, floodlights cast uneven pools of white across cracked concrete and slick car hoods.

The low thrum of engines pulses like a heartbeat beneath it all.

You’re parked under the far end of a rusted awning, half in shadow, half caught in the neon pink light of a food truck sign blinking behind you. It flickers once, twice, and then steadies, framing you in electric haze like something out of a dream.

Or a warning.

Your eyes trail from hood to hood, driver to driver, pausing for no one. He can tell you’re not looking to be seen. You’re looking for a challenge.

But you’re not racing tonight.

You’re just watching.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

You’re not burning rubber or taking corners. Not running the line or coasting the edge. You’re simply there, standing still, and somehow more dangerous than anyone strapped behind a wheel.

He drags his gaze away with effort and exhales through his nose. He palms a lighter from his pocket and flicks it once, twice, like muscle memory, but doesn’t light the cigarette already tucked behind his ear. His other hand slides across the warm metal of his hood.

“Who’s she?” he murmurs without turning, voice low and rough, seeking answers from the man beside him.

Jin’s half buried in the guts of his RX-7, elbows deep in a cluster of wires, his headset crackling with ghost voices from the other side of the lot. He doesn’t look up—just keeps tightening something near the throttle body with slow, methodical precision.

“New,” Jin replies evenly. “Name’s still floatin’. Crewless. Roams around. Races once in a while, just enough to stay myth. Keeps her win ratio clean, though. Never seen her lose.”

Hoseok hums, eyes drifting back to you. Your ring pop’s gone now, sucked down to the stem, and you’re wiping your fingers on the hem of your shirt. The way your mouth curves has an edge to it, like you’re already in on the joke before the punchline lands.

“Her real name?”

“No one knows,” Jin replies. “She’s got half the lot calling her Ghost.”

“Ghost…why?”

At that, Jin straightens. Rolls his neck until it pops, then finally looks up, glancing past Hoseok toward the spot you’ve claimed as your own.

His mouth curls into a knowing smirk.

“’Cause she’ll flirt. She’ll touch. She’ll smile—and then she’s gone.” He shrugs, wiping his hands on a rag before slinging it over his shoulder. “Leaves behind smoke, tire marks, and half a dozen sorry bastards wondering what the fuck just happened.”

Hoseok scoffs under his breath but doesn’t deny how easily the image forms in his mind. You in the rearview, tail lights blinking once before disappearing completely. The Sylvia’s engine roaring like thunder as it kisses the apex.

“She’s bad news. Which means—” Jin glances sideways, arching a brow, “—you’re probably already interested.”

Hoseok doesn’t answer.

Because right then, you glance over.

You don’t soften, don’t blink, don’t tilt your head like the others do when they want to be noticed. You just look, like you’ve already seen everything you need to know.

And then you smile.

It’s the kind of smile that unravels men. The kind that makes you feel like you’re already too late.

Something behind Hoseok’s ribs shifts.

You hold his gaze for three long seconds. Then you turn away and vanish into the swell of bodies and smoke like you were never there.

Like a ghost.

Weeks pass.

And He tells himself he doesn’t care.

He tells himself this while tuning his suspension, while torching the city streets at 3AM just to burn off the static under his skin. He tells himself this while tightening the gloves around his fingers and sliding behind the wheel like he has something to prove.

You only show up when you want to.

No rhythm, no schedule.

Some nights you’re nowhere, just whispers trailing in your place. Other nights, you materialize out of the shadows like you’d never left, sliding between crews and chaos with that same unreadable calm.

He tells himself it doesn’t bother him. That he doesn’t scan the crowd every time he pulls up. That he doesn’t hold his breath when an engine too slick, too smooth, too you rumbles in the distance.

He tells himself you’re a ghost, and ghosts don’t matter.

But ghosts don’t win.

And you never lose.

Even when you’re behind—especially when you’re behind.

You race like you’re chasing something only you can see. Like speed isn’t a tool, it’s a language. Like you were born to bend gravity and defy timing. You don’t race to prove something.

You race to remind people.

And that engine of yours? It sounds like a war cry. Hoseok hears it before he sees you. A guttural snarl that splits the night like thunder and leaves people craning their necks to see who’s behind the wheel.

It’s always you.

And you always make it look easy.

Your car floats through corners like it’s skimming the edge of a dream. Hoseok’s seen seasoned racers white knuckled and breathless trying to keep up with you. And when you finally do step out of the car, there’s always a smirk playing at the edge of your mouth. Like the win was nothing more than a flex of your fingers.

Your nails are always painted metallic gold.

That’s something he noticed early, before he let himself admit he was noticing anything at all. It’s not even a shade people wear, but you wear it like it’s tradition. Like trophies dipped in lacquer. Like each coat is another body you’ve buried beneath your tires.

You’re not touchy. Not soft. You never let a man get close, never long enough for it to mean anything. If someone’s lucky, they might get to light your blunt. If they’re brave, they might try a joke, a brush of fingers, a lean too close.

They never get far.

You laugh it off. You twist out of it. You vanish.

And your laugh, fuck, your laugh. It drips from your lips like honey over broken glass. The kind of laugh that makes men want to try harder just to hear it again.

He’s only heard it a handful of times, always from a distance, but it lingers in his head longer than the echo of his engine.

Longer than any finish line. Longer than any cheer.

Some nights, it follows him home. He’ll be washing grease off his hands in his kitchen sink or leaning against his balcony railing while the city drones below, and it hits him.

He doesn’t even know what your mouth tastes like.

He tells himself he doesn’t care.

He says it every time your name drips out of someone else’s mouth. Every time a rookie asks who the hell you are, and the older heads just shake their heads and say, Ghost.

But Hoseok’s a liar.

And you?

You’re not just a ghost.

You’re his ghost.

The kind that leaves fingerprints on his steering wheel. The kind that curls in the smoke of his exhaust. The kind that lingers in his chest long after the streets have emptied and the night has gone quiet.

It isn’t until a rainy night in late August that you finally race each other.

Not at some overhyped city lot with drones overhead and influencers angling for footage. Not under the floodlights of a downtown grid or with half of Seoul screaming bets over each other.

No, this is quieter.

A hush hush meet tucked under the rusted bones of Magnolia Bridge. The kind of race whispered about only hours before it happens, organized through burner phones and back channels.

The sky is dark and overcast, fat clouds bleeding rain into cracked asphalt. Every car there is idling low and hungry, headlights glowing through the curtain of rain like wolves watching from the dark.

Hoseok’s already there.

His Mazda purrs like a beast held on a leash, idling at the line with steam rising in tendrils from the hood, engine heat kissing the cool rain. His gloved hands rest firm on the wheel, jaw tight as he eyes the empty lane beside him.

Then the thunder of your engine rolls in, low and seductive.

The crowd parts like smoke.

Your Silvia appears in full matte black glory, drops of rain crawling over its surface like they’re afraid to linger. It prowls up beside him, slowing to a stop so smooth it’s more like a whisper than a halt. The windows are tinted darker than sin.

Yours is cracked though, just enough for him to see your smirk.

A curl of smoke escapes the gap, twisting like a ribbon from your lips. You’re leaned back, one hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other holding a half lit blunt between ringed fingers. Hair slicked from the humidity. Mouth glossed from whatever glosses a mouth like yours.

You don’t speak at first.

Just look over. Hold him there with nothing more than a glance, like you’re already bored of the game you’re about to win.

“Took you long enough.” he calls across, voice low but clear enough to carry through the rain.

A slow exhale.

You blow another puff of smoke out the gap and tilt your head slightly.

“You were the one hiding from me, sunshine.”

His knuckles tighten on the wheel. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t return the flirt.

Instead, he presses his foot down gently—just enough to make the Mazda growl.

It’s the only response you get.

The starter steps between you both, eyes flicking from one car to the other. Hands raised. Engine growls swell across the lot like thunder layered under thunder.

Hoseok hears your car shifting, feels the power coiled behind you like something alive.

His heart thuds once.

Twice.

The flag drops.

And then…

Violence.

Pure, distilled chaos.

Rubber screams as you launch into the street like a shot of lightning. Your cars tear through the course, tires skimming puddles, splashing grit into the air. Water blasts in every direction as engines roar and bodies whip around turns like physics are nothing more than polite suggestions.

You’re fast.

You’re so fast.

Hoseok’s used to being the ghost other people chase. Used to being the one who carves the wind and leaves the rest in smoke. But you? You match him. You match him and pull ahead. Not with brute force, but with precision, with grace. Like your car isn’t made of metal but instinct.

At the second bend, your back tire skids just a little too far.

He gains on you.

You recover in a heartbeat, drift so tight you graze the edge of the barricade and leave sparks in your wake.

You’re toying with him.

The rain slicks the road to glass. Streetlights blur. Wind claws through half open windows. Hoseok’s jaw is clenched so tight it aches, his breath short, heart slamming as he fights to stay level, to take the inside lane, to find one weakness in your rhythm.

But there isn’t one.

Not until the last turn.

It’s sharp. Dirty. Already carved from the last heat—patchy pavement, oil sheen glinting through the downpour.

You both slide.

Your bumpers kiss, just for a heartbeat.

Metal against metal.

The crowd roars behind you, swallowed by the wind.

And then…you cross the finish.

Less than a quarter inch ahead.

The silence inside Hoseok’s car when he slams the brakes is deafening. His chest is heaving. Palms slick with sweat and rain. Eyes locked ahead, processing.

You beat him.

By a whisper.

He should be pissed.

Should be punching the steering wheel.

But he’s staring at you instead.

Your door swings open. You swing your legs out, slow and sharp, the gleam of someone’s headlights slicing across the wet gloss of your thighs. You’re not even breathing hard. Not even flushed. You toss your keys without looking, some friend catching them midair as you shoulder through the crowd like a queen through her court.

No victory lap.

No bow.

No backward glance.

But Hoseok watches.

Watches the way your jacket clings to your waist, water making it shine like latex. Watches the way you reach for someone’s blunt and take a slow drag without asking. Watches the way your laugh pierces through the heavy bass rolling out of someone’s trunk.

You’re untouchable.

Unbothered.

And Hoseok?

Still behind the wheel.

Still watching.

Still burning.

That’s when it starts.

The game.

It isn’t spoken aloud. No rules exchanged. No challenge issued. Just the unspoken knowledge that something’s been set in motion between you and Hoseok. Something winding, coiled, and taut with tension.

You race three more times. Each one faster, riskier, more electric than the last. Each one with more money on the line. Bigger crowds. Hungrier eyes.

Each one where Hoseok comes close.

So close.

But never close enough.

Your finishes are razor thin, sometimes only the width of a finger between you. Your engines scream in sync. Your cars dance along the line like twin wolves trying to outrun each other’s teeth. And every time, Hoseok thinks maybe. Maybe this time. Maybe you’ll stumble, maybe you’ll look back, maybe he’ll catch the ghost.

But you never do.

You vanish after each win.

Always.

Sometimes it’s right after you park, keys still in hand, walking off before the crowd finishes roaring. Sometimes you linger just long enough to collect your cash, snag someone’s cup or blunt or phone charger, then disappear into the neon lit sprawl of the lot.

Each time, Hoseok watches you leave.

Each time, something in his chest coils tighter.

You haunt the space you abandon.

And he keeps chasing.

Keeps telling himself it’s just competition. Just pride. Just unfinished business. Keeps pretending the way his hands shake after each race is about adrenaline, not obsession. Not the weight of your laugh. Not the gleam of your lip gloss caught in his headlights. Not the gold of your nails tapping against the car roof as you wait for the flag to drop.

He lies.

Again.

Because by the third race, it’s not just about the win anymore. It’s about you.

It’s always been about you.

—

The crowd’s thick that night. It’s the biggest race yet. Half the regulars are already drunk. A few local legends showed up, tossing cash and lighting blunts, crowding the starting line for a better view. The air’s sticky with liquor, smoke, and sweat. Hoseok can barely hear his thoughts over the music pounding out of a modded Civic’s trunk.

You beat him by a nose.

Again.

He doesn’t even fight it this time, doesn’t slam his fist into the wheel or bark at his crew. He just steps out, jaw locked, heart hammering, gaze locked onto the path you’ve taken through the sea of bodies.

You’re laughing with someone. A stranger. Tall, flashy. Drenched in designer gear that screams money, not muscle.

You’ve got one hand curled around a drink, body turned halfway toward the conversation, hips cocked at that lazy angle you always fall into when you’re bored. Half listening, half looking for an excuse to ghost out early.

Then he does it.

The guy.

His hand snakes around your waist.

Too rough. Too sure of itself.

And then lower.

He cups your ass. Firm, greedy, like he owns it.

You flinch.

Try to play it cool, your eyes darting sideways as you shift your weight and casually start to slide out of his grip, already queuing up the usual disappearing act. Smile, slip, vanish.

But he tightens his hold.

Yanks you back.

His breath is hot at your ear. “Where you goin’, pretty girl?”

You freeze.

And that’s when Hoseok sees it.

His jaw goes slack for half a second, stunned still.

Then it’s like a fuse snaps.

No warning. No words.

Just movement.

Hoseok doesn’t think.

Doesn’t blink.

He just moves.

The crowd doesn’t even register what’s happening until the first punch lands.

He lunges.

The first punch cracks through the noise like a gunshot. Clean, brutal, knuckle to cheekbone. The guy reels, stumbling into the side of a parked car, blood already smearing his lips.

But Hoseok doesn’t stop.

He hits him again.

And again and again.

Teeth go skittering across asphalt like loose change. The guy screams or maybe that’s someone else. A girl gasps. Someone yells for someone to do something. People scatter.

But Hoseok’s still swinging.

Still snarling like something feral and gone.

By the time Jin and Namjoon crash through the chaos, he’s shaking from the force of his own fury, fists dripping, chest heaving.

“Hoseok!” Jin grabs his shoulders, trying to pry him off.

“Bro—fuckin’ stop!” Namjoon snarls, yanking him back by the collar of his jacket.

The guy is curled up now, whimpering, nose crushed and leaking. His designer chain lies twisted in the dirt, snapped clean in half, glittering like it was never worth a damn in the first place.

But Hoseok doesn’t hear them.

Doesn’t see them.

All he sees is you.

And the hand that had no right.

All he hears is the pulse in his ears. All he sees is the way you’re standing there, calm as ever, eyes locked on him.

You haven’t moved.

You haven’t spoken.

Not a single word.

But your gaze slices cleaner than any shout.

You’re not wide eyed. Not grateful. Not flustered.

You’re unreadable.

And it cuts deeper than anything else.

Because that look?

That tilt of your chin, the bare arch of one brow, the way your lips part—not in shock, not in awe, but with cool calculation?

That look says everything.

You didn’t do it for me. You did it for you.

And you’re not wrong.

You turn away before Jin finishes yelling. Walk off without waiting to see if Hoseok follows.

You don’t thank him.

You don’t touch him.

You don’t even pause.

Just vanish, again. Your shoulders straight, jacket slung halfway down one arm, leaving nothing behind but smoke and silence and the ragged shape of Hoseok’s breathing.

That’s the night he realizes you’re more dangerous than he thought.

Because you don’t need anyone to save you.

Because you don’t owe anyone your softness.

Because he didn’t get under your skin.

You got under his.

The steering wheel still smells like blood.

Or maybe that’s just in his head.

Hoseok drives with one hand loose on the wheel, the other draped over the gearshift, knuckles bruised and raw beneath the leather gloves he hasn’t bothered to take off. The Mazda rumbles beneath him—lowered, tuned, familiar. The engine purrs like it’s trying to soothe him, but his pulse stays sharp.

The city hums around him.

It’s late.

Later than late.

The kind of hour where most of the streets are empty and the stoplights flicker on timers, running red to no one. Neon halos paint the asphalt, and rain from earlier clings to the gutters, reflecting pink and blue and gold like broken glass.

His jaw aches. He hasn’t said a word since he and Jin parted ways with a heavy silence and a heavier stare.

You didn’t even flinch.

You didn’t thank him.

Didn’t call him off.

Didn’t look away when he split the guy’s lip open and dragged him through the gravel like trash.

You just stood there.

Like you were watching the weather.

Like none of it mattered.

He presses the gas a little harder than necessary, engine revving as he slips through a yellow light with no one else in sight. No destination in mind. Just movement. Just distance. Just a desperate attempt to shake you from the corners of his skull.

But you’re still there.

In the rearview. In the hum of his tires. In the sticky drag of memory replaying that look on your face like a glitch he can’t fix.

You didn’t do it for me. You did it for you.

And fuck, maybe he did.

Maybe he’d do it again.

He turns onto a quieter road, the city giving way to a neighborhood of 24 hour diners and flickering signage. A convenience store glows ahead. The front windows fogged from the cooler air inside.

The light turns red.

He slows.

And there you are.

You slip out from between two aisles and drift toward the counter like you’ve done it a hundred times. Still dressed down in the aftermath of the race. Your jacket hanging loose off one shoulder, gold polish catching the fluorescent light as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

You’re smiling.

Not the sharp, knowing smile you use on the lot.

Not the slow, dangerous one you toss Hoseok like a warning.

This one’s real.

You’re talking to the cashier. An older woman with kind eyes and a tired smile. You lean over the counter, laughing softly at something she says.

Like you’ve done this before.

Like this place means something to you.

You reach across the counter, arms looped loosely around her shoulders, and pull her in for a gentle hug. Your cheek presses to her hair. You kiss the crown of her head without a second thought.

The light turns green.

Hoseok doesn’t linger.

Doesn’t tap the brake. Doesn’t twist for another look.

He just eases forward with the rest of the night, like he didn’t see a thing.

Like he didn’t feel something twist inside his ribs.

Like he didn’t just witness the most intimate thing you’ve done since the day you showed up on the scene.

—

You don’t remember the drive home.

The city passed in streaks, headlights bleeding like wounds across the windshield. Your hands stayed steady on the wheel, but your mind was nowhere near the lane markers. It was still back there.

Still locked in that moment.

Still with him.

Hosaeok.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t even feel this much. But the sound of bone cracking against skin—the pure, violent music of it—still echoes in your ears. His voice, ragged and rough, splitting through the chaos. His eyes, wild and hot, right before Jin yanked him away. That was the look of a man who didn’t just want to fight.

He wanted to destroy.

And the fucked up thing?

It wasn’t fear that settled in your belly after.

It was fire.

Because the guy who grabbed you? The one who tried to claim your body like it was something he paid for?

Already forgotten.

But Hoseok?

Hoseok scorched you.

—

The apartment is dark when you walk in. You lock the door behind you without thinking, flicking the bolt with the same muscle memory you use to lie. I’m fine. It’s nothing.

But tonight?

Nothing about this is fine.

You shrug off your jacket. Dump your keys. Your skin prickles from the inside out. You move through your routine on autopilot, shower, wash your face, brush your teeth, avoid your reflection. You don’t want to see how flushed you still are, how restless.

Your bed swallows you whole when you crawl in. The sheets feel cold. Too cold. You breathe in deep and exhale slow, but your lungs still feel tight. You close your eyes. Try to force your mind somewhere else.

But it doesn’t listen.

You see his hands first. Gloved, and still streaked with someone else’s blood. You imagine those same hands gripping your hips, tugging you to the edge of a mattress, shoving your knees apart with no intention of being gentle.

You exhale a soft moan and lift your tank top to your ribs.

But that’s not enough.

You sit up just long enough to peel it off and toss it to the side, bare skin meeting cool air, nipples tightening instantly. You cup your breasts with both hands, fingers teasing the sensitive peaks, gasping when your own touch makes your back arch.

“Hoseok,” you whisper into the stillness. “Fuck…”

You slide your other hand beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, past the cotton, past the heat, to the ache that’s been throbbing since the second he threw that first punch. You’re already soaked. It’s ridiculous. You don’t even care.

You moan again, louder this time, head rolling back into the pillow as your fingertips find your clit, circling slow.

You picture his mouth next. That barely leashed fury poured into every bite, every kiss. The kind of mouth that would kiss you just to shut you up, then ruin you because you didn’t stay quiet.

Your breath catches.

You pinch one nipple, a needy whimper breaking in your throat.

He wouldn’t ask for permission. He wouldn’t need to. Not with the way you’d be trembling under him, slick and begging and already his.

“Ah fuck—please,” you pant, grinding against your own hand now, chasing the shape of him in your mind. “Please…”

You think about how he’d sound, whispering in your ear while he fucked you open.

“Look at you. So wet for me. You like that, don’t you? Being mine.”

Your legs start to shake.

You tease your pussy, slipping two fingers inside, groaning at the stretch. Your other hand is still on your breast, twisting, playing, desperate for more sensation.

You imagine his weight pinning you down. His hips pressed hard into yours. The rhythm of him, deep and ruthless.

You moan again, sharp and broken.

The pressure builds fast. Too fast.

Your thighs tremble. Your breath stutters.

The orgasm crashes over you like a wave made of flame. Spine bowing, mouth open in a cry, your body jerking with the force of it. Your fingers fuck you through it, curling, coaxing, milking every last tremor.

When it’s over, you collapse.

Chest heaving. Hand still between your legs. The room smells like sweat and skin and sex, like something he should’ve been here to witness. To cause.

You drag your fingers out slowly, absently wipe them on the sheets, eyes half lidded.

He doesn’t even know what he did to you.

The party’s too loud.

Too many bodies, too much smoke, too much bass rattling the floor beneath his boots. Hoseok leans against the bar, a half-empty glass of whiskey sweating between his fingers, his jaw tight. He’s buzzed but not gone. Not yet. Just riding that edge of fucked up where everything feels hazy except for you.

Always you.

He hasn’t seen you since the fight.

He told himself to forget, to move the fuck on, but every time he closes his eyes, he sees your face. The way your body arched when the guy grabbed you. The way your eyes found his through the crowd like you knew exactly what he’d do next, and didn’t try to stop him.

You didn’t run from it.

You welcomed it.

You liked it.

“Hobi.”

He doesn’t turn at first. Not until the voice sounds again, sweeter this time.

“Hobi…?”

He looks up.

And blinks.

She’s pretty. Hair similar to yours. Lips painted in the same shade you always wear. She even smells like you—a little too much cherry though.

But it’s not you.

Still… he’s drunk.

Lonely.

And hard.

And she’s looking at him like she wants to be used.

So he lets her.

—

The door barely clicks shut behind them before he’s on her. Her laugh is breathy and high-pitched as he pins her to the wall, mouth crashing over hers with too much tongue, too much desperation. She tastes wrong, sweeter than you, less sharp, less sure. Her hands tug at his shirt like she’s trying to find something inside him worth keeping.

But Hoseok doesn’t want to be kept.

He wants to forget.

He flips her onto the bed and drags her jeans down her thighs. His movements are rough, impersonal. She gasps like she thinks it’s passion, but it isn’t.

It’s just need.

The room is dim. The only light comes from a cracked window and the streetlamp beyond. He can barely see her face.

Good.

He closes his eyes.

And imagines you.

The way you’d arch for him. The way your breath would stutter when he licks a stripe up your neck. The way you’d grab his hair and drag his mouth where you want it.

He mouths down her chest and pretends her skin is yours—soft and sweat slick, quivering under his tongue. When she moans, he pictures your voice—low, strained, that little gasp you let out when you want more but won’t say it.

He slips on a condom and pushes inside her biting down a groan.

Not because it feels good, but because it doesn’t.

She’s too wet, too open, too eager.

You’d fight him first.

You’d make him earn it.

His hips stutter.

Your name nearly slips out.

He bites his lip until he tastes blood.

The girl whines beneath him. Moans some name he doesn’t hear. She scratches his back like she’s trying to leave proof.

But the only thing Hoseok wants carved into him is you.

He fucks her like he’s punishing you for not being here. Like maybe if he moves fast enough, hard enough, deep enough, he can outrun the fact that he knows…

Knows this isn’t what he wants.

Knows it’s not even close.

Knows he could make you cum with just a look. Just a whisper. Just his fingers in your hair and his mouth at your ear, saying things he’s only ever dreamed of telling you.

He groans.

Buries his face in the crook of her neck and pretends it smells like you.

The orgasm that hits him is ugly. Fast. Hollow.

A curse under his breath. A fist in the sheets.

And then, emptiness.

Nothing but sweat and silence and the sick twist of regret in his gut.

His cock’s gone soft, his skin still humming, and all he can think is…she’s not you.

She never was.

And he hates himself for pretending.

—

He doesn’t stay long.

The girl falls asleep fast. Her head tucked against his shoulder like she belongs there, and Hoseok barely resists the urge to peel her off like a too warm blanket. The moment her breathing evens out, he slips from the bed, pulls on his jeans, grabs his jacket, and leaves.

His boots echo on the stairwell. The night outside is cold enough to bite, but he doesn’t light a cigarette, doesn’t call a car. Just walks.

He tells himself the fresh air will clear his head.

It doesn’t.

Because your face is still there.

Like a watermark behind his eyes.

The way you looked that night, cheeks flushed, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like you were seconds from saying his name.

He imagines you now.

Imagines you bent over the hood of his car, dress shoved up, panties forgotten. One hand braced on the windshield, the other tangled in his hair while he eats you from behind like he’s starving.

His jaw flexes.

Or maybe you’d be laid out on his bed. Thighs parted, eyes glassy, whispering his name with that breathy lilt that ruins him. Maybe you’d beg. Or maybe you’d just look at him like you own him, and that’d be enough.

By the time he’s home, he’s hard again.

—

The apartment is silent. Moonlight spills across the floor through the half open blinds. Hoseok drops his keys on the counter and doesn’t even bother turning on a light. He shrugs off his jacket, kicks off his boots, and heads straight to the bathroom.

The girl from earlier is already a fading smear in his mind. Her voice, her hands, her skin, none of it stuck. None of it felt like you.

He turns on the shower.

Steam rolls up from the tile like breath from a beast. He steps inside and lets the heat scald the tension out of his shoulders, but it doesn’t help. He’s still aching and half hard. Imagining the scratch of your nails against his ribs, the press of your tits against his chest, the way you’d look riding him slow, lazy, like you had all night to ruin him.

His hand drifts down.

Wraps around his cock—hard now, painfully so—and he hisses through his teeth at the contact.

He strokes slow at first.

Leans back against the cool tile and closes his eyes.

You’re there again. Smirking. Kneeling between his legs with your fingers tugging his waistband down, your mouth slick and greedy as you sink onto him, no hesitation.

“Fuck,” he mutters, biting his lip. His hand moves faster now, tight and wet with the slick of soap and water. His hips jerk into the motion.

He pictures your mouth, lips red and tongue teasing, your gaze locked on his like you dare him to cum without permission.

He pumps harder.

Now you’re on all fours, back arched, begging for more in a voice he’s never heard but knows instinctively. His other hand braces on the wall, knuckles white.

“Say my name,” he groans, head tipping back. “Say it. Let me hear you fucking say it, baby—”

In his head, you do.

Over and over.

Hoseok. Hoseok. Hoseok.

Your moans echo in the space between his ribs, tightening the coil in his gut until it’s unbearable.

He comes with a guttural sound. Half curse, half prayer, thrusting into his hand like he can bury himself inside the illusion of you.

His knees nearly give out.

Ropes of cum streaks the shower wall. Water pelts his skin. His heart thunders against his chest.

And still.

Still.

He’s not satisfied.

Because you weren’t really there.

And now that he’s spent, shaking and raw, the ache has only deepened.

You haunt him worse than any ghost ever could.

After that, the tension changes.

It’s subtle at first.

A glance that lasts a breath too long. A half smile traded across a crowded lot. The way Hoseok’s hand hovers just slightly behind you when you pass each other in a tight space, like he’s always almost touching you. Like he’s daring himself not to.

Every encounter becomes a dare.

One of you always pushes.

The other always pulls away.

You show up to a race in heels once. Actual stilettos, five inches, patent leather, the kind that click like gunfire against the concrete when you walk. No one expects you to drive in them. Some of the guys laugh. One of them bets double against you, loud and cocky, claiming you’re more style than speed.

Hoseok doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just watches.

Watches as you slide into your Silvia like the car was made to wrap around you. Watches the way your hands rest easy on the wheel, your fingers tapping against the leather in rhythm with the music still bleeding out of someone’s speakers nearby.

And then he watches you destroy the track.

You eat the course alive.

You pass four men like they’re standing still, heels never coming off, eyes never flinching. Your engine roars through the night like it’s feeding on ego. You drift so close to the barricades it makes even the seasoned ones flinch. And when you hit the finish, it’s not even close.

You don’t brake hard. You don’t screech to a stop.

You glide. Like speed is your natural state and stillness is the illusion.

The crowd goes wild.

But your eyes?

They’re already locked on him.

You step out of the car and the second you spot Hoseok leaning against his Mazda across the lot, you smile.

Like you’ve been looking for him all night.

You cross the distance without hesitation. He straightens before he can stop himself, shoulders tensing, cock stirring behind his jeans. You come close, too close,and reach out, your fingers just barely brushing the chain that sits against the hollow of his throat.

“Cute shirt, sunshine,” you murmur, tugging lightly on the necklace instead, voice low enough only he can hear.

You don’t wait for a reaction.

You just turn away, the click of your heels swallowed by the cheers behind you.

And then you’re gone again, melting into the sea of bodies, laughing at something a girl in red leather whispers in your ear. You steal a sip from her bottle. Tug on her belt loop. Dance in the glow of a streetlight like no one else exists.

You don’t look at him again.

Not once.

But Hoseok doesn’t stop watching.

Not for a second.

That night, when he finally gets home, shirt still damp with sweat, knuckles still tight from how hard he’d been gripping the wheel, he can still feel the ghost of your fingers brushing his collarbone.

He falls asleep to the sound of your voice echoing in his head.

—

The next race is different.

The kind they only run once every couple months. Just outside the city, through the backroads and hills, no lights, no rails, barely enough road to hold the speed.

It’s an open call, but only the real ones show up.

Too dangerous for ego. Too long for luck.

By the halfway point, the pretenders are gone.

And only you and Hoseok are left at the front, locked side by side, engines snarling, exhaust spewing into the mist like breath from beasts.

He keeps trying to edge you out. You keep taking the inside turns. There’s something almost rhythmic about the way your cars fight. Like a dance neither of you planned, but both of you know by instinct.

He’s about to cut in—tight curve, hairpin bend, one he’s memorized from late night test runs with Jin and Joon—when it happens.

Someone behind you loses control.

A rookie in a borrowed car, too fast, too nervous, tires too bald for this kind of speed.

They skid out.

Overcorrect.

Chain reaction.

Metal shrieks.

Lights flash.

Something crashes behind him—he doesn’t even look.

He swerves.

Instinct.

But your car is right there.

He clips your rear quarter, hard.

And time—time breaks.

Your tail spins out, just a hair.

Your grip falters.

Your body jerks.

He sees you, really sees you, for half a second. Your hands white knuckled on the wheel, mouth drawn tight in concentration, a flicker of fear in your eyes.

You catch it.

Snapping the car back like magic. Hoseok barely manages to regain his own line, tires fighting for grip, gravel screaming beneath his chassis.

Neither of you win.

Neither of you care about the loss.

—

Afterward, the lot buzzes with aftermath.

No sirens. No medics. Just exhaust thick in the air and the sound of someone revving too loud in the distance like they’re trying to fill the silence with something that isn’t shame or blood or adrenaline.

Hoseok doesn’t give a shit about the winner.

Didn’t even look.

Because the second his car skidded past the final turn, tires screaming and heart in his throat, you weren’t where you were supposed to be.

Not near your car.

Not with the crowd.

Not with the firelight licking up your legs like it always does when you stand too close, smirking like you were born to be envied.

You’d vanished.

And that’s all that matters.

His boots crunch over gravel as he cuts through the maze of old storage units and loading crates stacked like a half built kingdom. People thin out here. Lights don’t quite reach. But he finds you anyway.

He always does.

You’re leaning against a crate like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Boot braced behind you, one arm crossed tight over your stomach, the other hanging loose with a blunt still burning down between your fingers. Your lip is split. There’s a slice just below your temple, blood already drying in a line that carves down the curve of your cheek.

And your face?

Unbothered.

If anything, annoyed.

“Damn,” he mutters, stopping a few feet from you. “You look like shit.”

You flick ash to the side. “That’s rich coming from a guy who just tried to turn someone’s skull inside out.”

He exhales hard. “You didn’t like him touching you.”

“It’s not the first time someone got a little too excited.”

“Don’t joke.”

“Don’t worry.”

The silence is sharp. Not comfortable. Just tolerable because neither of you knows what to do with softness when it’s real.

He drags a hand through his hair, eyes raking over you. “You could’ve been hurt.”

You snort. “You’re the one out there driving like you’ve got a death wish.”

“At least I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, right. Mr. Precision.” You push off the crate with a wince you try to hide. “Tell me—was it part of the plan to run me off the road or lose your shit and nearly beat a man to death in front of everyone?”

“That was an accident, and he touched you.”

“So?” you throw back. “It’s not like you’ve never seen it happen before.”

“Yeah,” he growls, stepping forward, “but it’s the first time I wanted to kill someone for it.”

That stops you.

You blink—once, slow. Like your brain has to buffer just to process it. But then you scoff again, less sure this time. You try to move past him, but he shifts to block you, his body a wall, jaw tight.

Your voice dips. “Don’t make this a thing.”

“It’s already a thing,” he snaps. “You think I do this shit for fun? You think I walk around with bruised knuckles and a goddamn temper because I don’t care?”

“You don’t know what you care about,” you fire back. “You just get off on feeling needed.”

His mouth twitches—something caught between a laugh and a snarl. “You think that’s what this is? Some fucked up savior complex?”

You shrug, but there’s a tremble in it. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

He’s on you before you can look away.

Not touching. Just there.

So close you feel the heat radiating off his chest. His breath fans across your cheek. His eyes search yours like he’s looking for proof of something he’s too afraid to ask for out loud.

“I don’t want to save you,” he says, voice low. “I want to keep you.”

The words land heavy.

And for a second, you don’t say anything.

“That’s worse.”

You don’t mean it.

He knows you don’t.

But neither of you can handle what comes next, so you sidestep it the only way you know how.

He pulls a bandana from his back pocket and lifts it toward your face. You tense at first, but he doesn’t back off. Just presses the cloth gently to the cut on your temple.

“You always this gentle with girls you threaten to kill for?”

He exhales through his nose, unamused. “You always this mouthy when you’re concussed?”

You snort. “Takes more than a few knocks to the head to keep me quiet.”

“God help me.”

“Please. You’d be bored if I was sweet.”

His fingers twitch. Not from the blood. From you.

“I’m already losing my mind.”

You go quiet again.

Not because you’re scared.

Because it’s too loud inside you now.

Because you know what this is.

And you’re not ready.

Neither is he.

So you let him press the cloth to your skin.

Let him breathe you in like a man who’s drowning.

And when you finally speak, your voice is softer.

Still sharp. But slower. Almost sad.

“You’ve got a thing for me, sunshine?”

He doesn’t flinch.

Just says, “It’s a secret.”

You huff a laugh.

Then fall quiet again.

His hand lingers at your cheek. Your eyes don’t move. And the moment stretches. Like if either of you shifted an inch, the whole world would tilt.

Your breath mingles with his now—hot, shallow and close.

The bandana slips from Hoseok’s fingers entirely, but neither of you notice. It falls between your boots like it doesn’t matter, like nothing matters except this quiet war crackling in the air between you.

His hand doesn’t drop.

It moves barely.

Fingertips trail from your temple down to the curve of your jaw, slow enough to make your pulse stutter. He’s watching you like he’s afraid to blink, like he’ll miss the moment if he does. His thumb ghosts across your cheekbone, catching a bead of blood before it can fall.

You let him.

For the first time since this whole thing started, since your first glance, your first race, your first win, you let him see you. No smirk. No armor. No game.

Just you.

And maybe that’s what makes him lean in, slowly, like he’s giving you time to move. To stop him.

Time to change your mind.

But you don’t.

You tilt your chin up just slightly, mouth parting, lashes lowering as your eyes flick to his lips. His hand rises to your waist, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt.

Your lips just barely graze each others, so light you think you might’ve imagined it.

“Yo, Hobi—!”

You both jerk back, snapped out of it like a broken spell. Hoseok turns his head toward the noise, jaw clenched tight, expression sharp with something that isn’t quite anger but definitely isn’t patience.

It’s Jungwoo, wide eyed, standing halfway across the gravel, waving like he doesn’t realize what he’s just interrupted.

“Jin said to tell you your rear axle’s bent and the tie rods are gonna need to be realigned before you drive that thing anywhere again. Wants you to take a look.”

Hoseok doesn’t respond.

Just stands there, exhaling through his nose, eyes still locked on the space where your body used to be. You’ve already shifted your weight, straightened up, pulled your jacket back into place.

The mask slides back on.

“That your cue?” you murmur, dry.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look at Jungwoo. Just looks at you.

“I’ll come find you after.”

You raise a brow. “No, you won’t.”

And then you’re gone again. Slipping into the shadows like you were never there, leaving him standing alone under the floodlight with blood on his hands and your phantom kiss burning on his lips.

two | masterlist

dividers courtesy of @uzmacchiato

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lookingforhobi · 2 months ago

Text

✧˖°. my library .°˖✧

🌷͙֒ my smut library

a compilation of spicy fics for you enjoyement, sorted by yours truly, enjoy!!

🌷͙֒ individual recs (the spicy version!)

smut fics sorted by member, enjoy!!

🌷͙֒ multi-member recs (spicy!)

ৎ˚⟡ double trouble (3some m.list)

566 notes · View notes

lookingforhobi · 3 months ago

Text

look down on me like that - 5 (explicit)

genre: slow burn enemies to lovers hatefucking coworkers au, smut (w some eventual angst)

pairing: yoongi x reader

summary: your asshole coworker min yoongi has made it his personal mission to ruin your life.

word count: 11.4k (you're welcome 😌)

contains: ~explicit sexual content~ !! *deep breath in* YES THERE IS ACTUAL FUCKING HAPPENING - EVERYONE REMAIN CALM. also i promise this is the most unhinged reader gets lmao. alright let's go: one night stand/stranger sex, semi-public sex (bathroom of a bar), fingering, spanking, a truly gratuitous blowjob, orgasm denial, a smidge of dirty talk/namecalling, finger sucking?, protected sex, semi-awkward sex lmao, the hatefucking is HERE 🙌🏻 plenty of alcohol mentions as always,, so much alcohol. this chapter also features a couple fun cameos - kihyun of monsta x and wonho 💜

A/N: hope y'all enjoy this absolute CHAOS!! i have so many lovely friends who cheered me on while i was writing this, far too many to name, but i fucking adore you all 🥺🥺 and i do want to specifically shoutout @kiestrokes because the ~spicy twist~ in this chapter would not be HALF as good if it wasn't for her and her big beautiful brain. srsly she took a half-baked idea i had and made it insane. god i love that woman. ALRIGHT ENOUGH BABBLING - ENJOY!!!!!

read on AO3!

chapter four | masterlist | chapter six

~*~

“Try this.” Jimin yanks an emerald green dress off the hanger and chucks it over his shoulder, nearly hitting you.

“Ugh, I hate this one,” you groan as you hold the offending item up for inspection, pinched between index finger and thumb. “The fabric is so itchy.”

Your best friend whips around, hands on hips, when you question his taste. “I’m sorry, did I just hear you going back on our agreement? Is that what this is?”

You groan, flopping over onto your bedspread, doing your best not to mess up your hair. Jimin had, understandably, been pissed when you’d called him immediately upon leaving the office last night, hands still shaking as you cradled the phone against your cheek. You think you have permanent hearing damage from the anguished wails your best friend made as you finally admitted everything you hadn’t told him. And you certainly could have done without the appreciative noises he made after he forced you to describe Suga’s dick in explicit detail.

It’s not like you aren’t constantly thinking about it, anyway.

Especially now that Yoongi has specifically told you everything, everything he wants to do to you. The words swim back to you in pieces whenever you aren’t actively trying to suppress the memory. Finger that tight little pussy. Spank you until you bruise. Fuck you like the slut you so clearly are.

God. You’ve been horny for 24 hours straight. This can’t be good for your health.

Jimin had nearly disowned you for letting secrecy infiltrate your friendship for the first time in over a decade, but then he’d realized how truly distraught you were as you just kept babbling into the phone about Suga, too far gone to make any sense.

“Jesus fucking christ, it’s not the end of the world!” He’d finally interrupted with a frustrated groan. “You really think Suga is the only man in the world who can fuck you senseless? He was probably overselling it anyway. Having a pretty dick doesn’t guarantee he knows what to do with it.”

At this point you’d stumbled onto the bus home, and you remember smacking your forehead against the cold glass of the window with a whine at the words pretty dick, your mind already departing on another Yoongi spiral.

Jimin’s peal of laughter rang in your ears. “I’ve never heard you down this bad in my life, good god girl! We just need to get you laid so your fucking brain can work right again.”

“Please,” you’d grunted.

“Alright, I’m coming over tomorrow, and we’re going out.” He’d paused then, and you knew there was more even before he continued. It was like you could hear his evil smile. “And I get to pick your outfit.”

You’re snapped out of the memory as a second dress is tossed your way, this one hitting you square in the face.

“Either the green or this one. You’re still in the doghouse, ma’am,” Jimin reminds you.

You pull the second option up to examine it, already grateful for the softer feel of the material. Jimin loves to put you in shit that you’d never wear— usually dresses that he bought for you, or bullied you into buying. You think you already dress pretty racy when you go out, but Jimin likes to take it to another level, always encouraging you to show more skin, more tits, more ass. He’s definitely responsible for this number even being in your closet: dark burgundy in color, it’s tight, short, and the cutouts leave very little to the imagination.

You whine softly despite yourself. “Do I have to? I’m going to freeze to death.”

Jimin has already moved to sit at your desk, examining his hair in the mirror you use to do your makeup. He’s in one of his favorite going-out shirts, one he claims “makes even the straight boys look twice”, a blue and white striped button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He doesn’t even bother making eye contact with you as he peers at his reflection, fiddling with the silver hoops in his ears. “I dunno. Depends on whether or not you value my friendship.”

You roll your eyes at his dramatics. “I can’t stand you.”

“Will you shut up and put your damn freakum dress on already?” He rummages through your makeup bag without asking until he finds what he’s looking for, a tube of Fenty gloss that he dabs in the center of his bottom lip.

“That is not what freakum dress means,” you say with a laugh as you stand to strip out of your sweats, but he’s already reaching for his phone that’s connected to your Bluetooth speaker, another requirement for the evening in order to keep your friendship intact. Beyoncé starts to blast as you pull your shirt over your head and suck in for dear life.

“So, what exactly is the plan?” You ask as soon as you swallow down another shot, nearly shouting to be heard over the noise of the bar. Jimin made you do a couple in your kitchen before you left, and though you haven’t even been out for an hour, you’re already straddling the line between tipsy and drunk.

He shoots you a look. “Don’t act so innocent, like I haven’t personally seen you go home with random dudes.”

Your gaze flits over the mass of bodies out on the dance floor. “I mean, yeah, but…” You shrug, grimacing slightly. “I don’t know, it’s been a while. And we’re not in college anymore.”

“What about him?” You look back at Jimin and he nods his head behind you. You do your best to be subtle as you glance over your shoulder to see two guys a couple of tables away.

“Which one?”

Jimin makes a face like it’s obvious. “Are you kidding me? The absolutely built daddy with the red hair?”

You examine them more closely, scrunching your nose up a little. He’s cute, big as hell, and you certainly notice his bubble butt in those tight pants. But it just doesn’t feel right. “I don’t know that he’s my type.” When your gaze lands on his friend, dressed in all black, dark hair skimming over his eyes as he leans in to say something, your heart flips in your chest. Now that could work.

Turning back to Jimin to say as much, you realize that he’s already brushing past you. “Well I’m not stupid,” he scoffs, and you scramble to follow after him as he stalks confidently across the room.

He’s already talking to them when you catch up. “Hi boys. Care for some company?”

They glance at each other, and you can tell Jimin’s presence is clearly unexpected but not unwelcome. He wasn’t wrong: nobody can resist him in that damn shirt.

“Sure,” red-haired daddy says with a shy giggle, and you have to bite back a smile. You were not expecting a guy that built to react so softly, and you already know your best friend is going feral on the inside. There is nothing Jimin loves more than a man he can fluster. Especially one who can make him pay for it.

His friend flags down a server and orders a round of shots for the table, then gives you a small wave as Jimin takes the liberty of giving his name and yours. “I’m Kihyun.”

“Hoseok,” Jimin's target is clearly squirming under his intense gaze. “But my friends call me Wonho.”

“Can I be your friend?” Jimin purrs. You’re nearly laughing at how quickly he lost the plot of trying to get you laid, but he’s also such an intense flirt that it nearly works as a wingman maneuver, in its own weird way.

You scoot a little closer to Kihyun as Jimin and Wonho disappear into their own conversation. Up close you can really admire how attractive he is, full lips and a wickedly sharp jawline.

“Hi,” you say with a smile, surprised to find yourself slightly nervous despite the alcohol coursing through your system.

“Hi,” he says back, and he looks like he’s about to say more when the server reappears with a tray of four shots.

“Thanks again for these,” you say as you reach for one, and he waves it off. You glance over at Jimin and Wonho, assuming they might want to toast as a group, but Jimin is already hooking his elbow around Wonho’s ridiculous bicep and making a not-at-all-subtle comment about how big he is, intertwining their arms before they each throw the shot back.

You look at Kihyun again, who is biting his lip nervously, and you can feel your face heat up. You’re no Jimin, so you settle for gently tapping your shot glass against his. “Cheers.”

He echoes the sentiment and you down your drinks simultaneously. You shiver a little as you swallow, but you’ve had enough that you don’t even feel the burn of the alcohol.

“So,” Kihyun’s eyes flit over to Jimin, then return to you. “Do you two come here a lot?”

You shrug. “We rotate. Jimin likes this place more than I do. You?”

He laughs softly. “Not really. Honestly, we’re both homebodies, but we try to get out every so often. Always nice to meet new people.” It’s so quick you nearly miss it, but you swear his eyes jump down your figure and back up again.

You try to ignore the little voice in your head reminding you of another pair of eyes; dark, calculating, wandering over your body. Not now.

“I couldn’t agree more,” you say, because it’s true: a new person is definitely what you need in this moment.

Before you can ask a follow-up question, you hear Jimin, talking loudly so that he’s audible over the music. “Your thighs look so good in those pants!” You have to resist the urge to smack your head against the table when you look over to see him attempting— and absolutely failing— to wrap his small hands around the circumference of Wonho’s leg, who is giggling like a schoolgirl.

You glance back at Kihyun, who is equally enraptured. “I’m so sorry,” you say quietly. “He is unfortunately always like this.”

“You know where else those thighs would look good?” Jimin’s voice lowers as he asks the question, and you watch Kihyun’s eyes go wide.

“Do you want to dance?” You say quickly, and he nods so fast you think his head might fall off. You start to break away from the group, his hand slipping to your waist, when Jimin smacks the table so loud that it makes you jump.

“Hey!” He yells, and you turn back, but he’s pointing at Kihyun, who instantly looks terrified. He leans in, as if to divulge confidential information, and Kihyun takes a tentative step towards him.

“Just so you’re aware,” Jimin starts, and you know it’s going to be bad. “She needs to get dicked down. Severely. Hope you’re ready.”

You close your hand around Kihyun’s wrist and drag him towards the dance floor, eager for a distraction to keep you from murdering your best friend.

Now that you’re actually in motion, you can feel the last couple of shots quickly catching up to you, the room blurring slightly at the edges. At the center of the dance floor, the thudding bass is loud enough to make it hard to think, which is exactly what you need right now.

You’re grateful not to have to force any more conversation, both of Kihyun’s hands slipping to your hips as you start to move in time to the music. It gives you free reign to admire him up close, and damn, he really is gorgeous. He’s only a little taller than you in your heels— probably about the same height as Yoongi, though his frame is slighter, smaller. You watch as his dark hair falls into his eyes again and he reaches up to sweep it off his forehead— Yoongi’s hair is a little longer, and he certainly has much better hands, but other than that—

You have to squeeze your eyes shut when you realize what the fuck you're doing. The whole point of this encounter is to stop thinking about Yoongi. Not pick apart this absolute stranger in comparison to him.

You desperately wish you could get another drink, but you know that would push you all the way into “drunk” territory. As much as you hate admitting it, Jimin was right: you really need to be able to consent to sex tonight. You’re gonna have to get through this the old-fashioned way, with sheer fucking willpower.

“Are you okay?”

Your eyes flutter open to meet Kihyun’s concerned gaze. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. Just, uh. Thinking about work.” Not a complete lie.

“Well, don’t,” he says with a soft laugh. “It’s the weekend. You should enjoy it.” His hands press a little tighter, pulling you close until your body is flush with his. His breath ghosts over your neck as you hear his voice in your ear. “That dress looks really good on you.”

A different voice echoes in your mind before you can stop it. Spread your legs for me. Show me what’s under that dress. You can’t help but wonder if this is what it feels like to literally go insane, and then you grab Kihyun’s face with both hands and kiss him in a desperate attempt to not think anymore.

You can feel him freeze, clearly not expecting it, but after a second his mouth starts to move against yours. His hands slip further down towards your ass, and fuck, it occurs to you that you are still incredibly horny. You need this to happen as soon as possible.

Pulling away and sliding your hands to Kihyun’s shoulders, you tilt up to speak into his ear. “Do you live near here?”

His eyes go wide for at least the third time tonight. “Y-yeah, not far.” You see his tongue dart out to lick his lips.

“I don’t know how to say this politely,” you admit with an embarrassed smile. “But my friend wasn’t wrong. About… what I need.”

He pauses for a moment, and your stomach twists as you prepare for rejection, the reasonable reaction considering you basically jumped this man like a crazy person. But then he smiles, leaning into you so he can keep his tone soft. “Come on, then.”

You follow Kihyun as he guides you towards the exit, keeping one hand pressed to the small of your back. It’s hard to miss the other half of your group making their way through the crowd— Wonho is large enough that people quickly shrink to get out of his way, but his gaze is entirely transfixed on Jimin’s ass in front of him. You nod in their direction and Kihyun follows as you push past bodies to reunite.

“Are you leaving?!” Jimin asks, and you can only nod. His eyes jump to Kihyun. “I told you, you better give it to her!” He shouts it so loudly that people standing behind him glance over their shoulders, but he is fully unfazed, now brandishing his cellphone. “And I always have her location on, so if you murder her, I will come find you!”

With a roll of your eyes, you lean across the circle so that Wonho can hear you. “Take good care of him, okay?” When you pull away, you swear he’s blushing as red as his hair, and he nods sheepishly.

You turn back to Kihyun. “Ready?”

The door to Kihyun’s apartment barely has time to close behind you before you find his lips with yours again. He presses you up against the wall of the entryway, and you waste no time in moving your hands over his body. His shirt and pants hit the floor in quick succession.

When he reaches for the hem of your dress, you cover his hands with yours to stop him. “Do you— is it okay if I keep it on?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, breathless. “Yeah, okay.”

He kisses you again and you let him guide you backwards through an open door into his bedroom until you feel the mattress hit the backs of your knees. You perch on the edge of the bed and glance around the room, taking it in. It’s clean, if minimally furnished, and your stomach flips when you see a nondescript work desk tucked into one corner.

You look at Kihyun when you feel his hand gently rub your thigh, encouraging you to spread your legs.

“Kihyun?”

“Yeah?”

Your gaze jumps to his desk, then back to him. “Do— uh… Do you think you could bend me over your desk?”

He seems a little dumbfounded, and takes a second to find words. “Wh— I— yeah, yes, I can do that. I just—” he clears his throat. “Do you need, like, foreplay, or…?”

You stand up again, knees shaking slightly. “I’ll tell you what to do, does that work?”

It must, because he kisses you, eventually starting to move towards the desk. When you’ve gotten far enough, you feel him tug at your hips, encouraging you to spin around so your back is flush with his chest. His hand slides up to your shoulders to gently press you forward, and you brace your forearms on the desk, already breathless.

“P-pull my dress up,” you manage to instruct. His hands caress over your thighs, then move to the hem of your dress, pushing up until your ass is fully exposed for him.

Get a good look at that ass you were tempting me with, the voice in your head finishes for you. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus on this moment, this man. Not any others.

You look back at Kihyun over your shoulder in an attempt to stay present, spreading your legs a little wider. “Touch me.”

He slowly moves a hand from your thigh up towards your core, and you feel his fingers just barely brush over the fabric of your underwear. The rush of contact after so much anticipation is enough to make you shiver slightly, but his touch is so light, so gentle.

Gentle is not what you need right now.

Keeping yourself held up on one arm, you reach the other behind you to forcefully tug your panties to the side. “Your fingers, Kihyun,” you hiss.

You tip your head forward and swallow down a whine of relief as he presses a digit into you and starts to rub circles. “How’s that?” His voice purrs in your ear, and you whimper as you nod.

It feels good, especially when he adds a second finger, but it’s not enough. He’s too soft, too tentative.

You look back at him again. “Can you spank me?”

You’ve officially lost count of the number of times you’ve surprised this man tonight. “I— what?”

“Like, smack my ass?”

“Like this?” He asks, but you barely feel it when he brings his hand down over your ass.

“Harder,” you say almost instantly, realizing after the fact that you could probably stand to be a little nicer to this random stranger. “Please.”

Kihyun’s second attempt is better, enough to make you groan softly as the sensation of the sting mixes with the movements of his fingers pressing against your front wall. He does it again, harder still, and you wiggle your ass back towards him— you need more, more than his hands can give.

“Kihyun,” you gasp, “want you to fuck me.”

“Yeah? I’ll fuck you right here,” he grunts. At least he seems to be genuinely into it, you think to yourself gratefully. He smacks your ass a final time and you bite down on your lip as he withdraws his fingers. “One second.”

You hear the sound of him opening a drawer somewhere in his room and retrieving a condom, and you let your eyes flutter closed until his hands brush over your hips again.

“Ready?”

“Yes, Kihyun, please,” you beg, your head dropping down onto your forearms. “Please fuck me.” Desire is wound up so tight inside you that you can’t think about anything else; you need this so fucking badly.

He makes a strangled whine as he presses into you, and you move your hips back onto him, gasping slightly at the stretch. “Fuck.”

“God, you feel so fucking good,” Kihyun groans, and he starts to roll into you with steady thrusts that brush the head of his cock right over your g-spot. You push backwards, matching his rhythm, and he’s not wrong: it feels good.

But it’s not enough.

“Harder,” you groan, your voice muffled in the crook of your elbow, and you hear Kihyun grunt as he picks up the pace, hips snapping against your ass. Better, but somehow still not what you need.

“Please, Kihyun,” you encourage again. “Fuck me like a slut.”

“Jesus,” he breathes, and for a second, you wonder if you’ve finally broken him. But then his hand cracks over your ass, hard enough to take you by surprise, and he starts to thrust even faster.

“Is this what you want?” He asks, and his voice is tense, almost angry; something about it makes your walls start to flutter. Your orgasm is so frustratingly close, yet somehow beyond your grasp.

And then you hear that all-too familiar voice in your head. I want to make you come so hard that your legs shake. Before you can help it, you moan a little at the memory. The way Yoongi leveled his gaze on you as he spoke so calmly, in a way that had you believing every single word. You can feel your core starting to tighten at the very thought, and once your brain realizes that’s what will get you there, it’s like the fucking floodgates open.

“Oh fuck,” you groan, and you can hear him grunt in agreement, like he’s close, too.

You’re helpless to stop it now, too desperate to come. Yoongi’s voice, his face, his tongue, his hands, his cock. It’s all you can think of. You gasp as everything inside you tightens and starts to pulse.

“Shit, shit, I’m gonna come,” you whine. So hard that you have no choice but to scream my name as I wreck you, the voice in your head finishes, and you dig your nails into the desk beneath you as you reach your climax.

Your back arches, pleasure washing over you, and you cry out. “Yes, Yoongi, yes!”

There’s a moment where his hips stutter, and then he pushes all the way into you one last time with a grunt of effort as he comes, too. Your heartbeat starts to slow.

And then it occurs to you that the man fucking you is absolutely not named Yoongi, and you smack a hand over your mouth.

“Oh my god,” you say softly, voice muffled, and you remove your hand as you start to straighten up. You can hear Kihyun still breathing heavily behind you, but he’s otherwise silent as he releases his grip on your hips and slides out of you.

“Kihyun,” you turn to watch him cross the room to the en-suite bathroom, where he briefly disappears to dispose of the condom. Face burning with embarrassment, you awkwardly maneuver to readjust your underwear and pull your dress back down over your ass.

When he reappears in the doorway, you try again. “Kihyun, I am so sorry. I—I don’t—” you fumble for what to say, knowing full well you don’t have a good explanation. At least not one that doesn’t make you sound insane.

“It’s cool,” he says, but he’s clearly uncomfortable. “I mean, you know. Shit happens.”

You glance around nervously for your phone before realizing it’s back on the table in the entryway where you tossed it in the throes of passion. You shoot Kihyun a weak smile. “I should— let me call Jimin. I can get a ride home.”

Kihyun laughs dryly. “Yeah, I’m gonna take a wild guess that he might be a little busy. I can take you home. It’s not a big deal.”

As much as your pride wants to refuse, you don’t exactly have a backup plan. “I would really appreciate that,” you murmur.

The drive is silent and painfully awkward, Kihyun turning up the music just loud enough that you get the indication that he doesn’t want to talk. As the lights of the city stream by, you can’t help but wonder how everything got so fucked up.

When Kihyun pulls up to your apartment complex, you indicate where he can drop you off, and he reaches over you as the car slows to a stop to politely open the door.

“Have a good night,” he says firmly, and you can barely manage a word of thanks before you slip out of his car and head up the stairs to die of embarrassment.

Jimin shows up at your door late Sunday afternoon, a takeout bag of haejangguk tucked under one arm, gushing incessantly about the various ways Wonho threw him around all night. It feels like he babbles for an hour, until he finally takes a break to sip from his own container of soup, and prompts you with a raise of his eyebrows.

“Your turn. Was your mission successful?”

You keep your gaze firmly planted on the floor as you recount what happened.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

~*~

Jimin decides that you’ll try again next weekend, promising he’ll be less distracted. You’re not positive you’ll survive that long. You preemptively text Jungkook asking to take the week off from boxing class - your stomach is such a fucking bundle of nerves that you barely sleep at all Sunday night, and you know the next five days spent in constant fear of running into Yoongi is only going to make it worse.

Those same nerves creep up into your throat when you unlock the doors Monday morning, Jungkook waiting patiently behind you with his hands wrapped around the straps of his backpack.

Dread blooms inside of you as you move to place your purse on your desk, and then you make a split-second decision, spinning back to face Jungkook.

“Hey, JK?” The nickname is unplanned, just sort of comes out, but you see him visibly brighten. “Are there any open desks on your side of the office? I think I need a change of scenery.”

He nods, eyes wide. “Yeah! I’m actually all by myself right now. Sunye is on maternity leave for the rest of the month. You can use her desk.”

You gesture for him to lead the way and he does, heading past the break room and walking backwards down the hallway to keep talking to you. “Is there something wrong with your normal desk? We can always put in a work order.”

“Uh, no,” you scramble, trying to find a good excuse. “It can just be a little distracting, you know. People coming in and out all day. I’ve got a lot of stuff I need to be heads-down on this week.”

The excuse sounds flimsy and false to you, but he seems to buy it. “Yeah, makes sense! I’ll try not to distract you too much.”

He does a full 360-degree spin on his heels as you turn the corner at the end of the hall, and it’s enough to make you laugh softly despite yourself. There’s a small alcove with a desk pressed against either wall, and you don’t even have to ask which one is Jungkook’s. The standing desk is dotted with tell-tale signs of Baby Star Candy: an empty shaker cup, a mini tub of protein powder, several fidget toys tucked beneath his monitor. A small collage of polaroids is taped to the wall where you see him smiling with friends, throwing up a peace sign in nearly every single one.

Sunye’s desk is mostly empty, save for a few framed photos of her with her husband and two young kids. You drop your purse down and take a seat as Jungkook chucks his backpack under his desk, both of you reaching to retrieve your laptops.

Outlook hasn’t even loaded before he’s turned around and talking to you again. “So how was your weekend?”

You grimace reflexively at memories you’d rather forget, and Jungkook misinterprets the look. “Oh, sorry, no distractions. I’ll be quiet.”

“No, no,” you shake your head. “It’s not you. My weekend was fine. What about yours?”

He laughs, looking a little embarrassed. “I mean, honestly? I’m super addicted to this new mobile game that just came out. I feel like I blinked and lost two days.” He’s already reaching for his cellphone. “Want to see?” You roll your chair across to his side of the room as Jungkook leans over to show you the little island world he’s nearly 500 levels into. After a few minutes, he seems to remember himself.

“Shit, you specifically said you came here to focus. I’m sorry, I really will leave you alone now.”

You bite down on your bottom lip. “No, it’s okay, JK. I— honestly, I wasn’t being entirely truthful when I said that. I don’t mind the distraction at all, actually. It’s kind of complicated, but… it would be nice if I could hide out here for the foreseeable future.”

He looks at you, clearly surprised. “Of course. Whatever you need. Is everything okay?”

You wince a little, with no idea how to answer that question.

His voice drops. “Is it Suga?”

“It’s complicated.” You repeat with a sigh.

An unfamiliar emotion flashes in Jungkook’s eyes. You’ve never seen him angry before, but you’d guess this is what it looks like. “Hey, seriously, if he’s being aggressive with you, we should do something about it. Report it or something.”

You have to suppress the urge to laugh in his face. Like Yoongi being aggressive with you isn’t exactly what you’ve been fantasizing about for days.

“No, it’s not like that,” you reassure him. “I think we’re just two people who are better off kept apart from each other. That’s all.”

Jungkook nods slowly, and it’s clear from his expression that he wants to pry more, but is forcing himself not to. “Okay.”

There’s a heaviness of unasked and unanswered questions in the air, but the two of you manage to lapse into corporate smalltalk as you roll back over to your desk and dive into your workday.

Jungkook eventually has to peel off for a few virtual meetings, and watching him work is its own source of entertainment. If it’s a meeting that requires his focus, you can tell because he leans in close to his monitor, staring at spreadsheets or data visualizations with a look on his face like he’s using every single brain cell he owns.

You can also tell when he’s put on calls where he clearly isn’t needed, because he’ll spin in a full circle at his desk with a glazed over look in his eye. There are even a few times where you glance up to see him silently doing what you vaguely recognize as TikTok dances, and you have to clap a hand over your mouth to keep from outright laughing.

The day rolls on, and you’re neck deep in drafting a communication when Jungkook’s voice breaks your concentration. “Do you like ramyeon?”

Your head snaps up to see him lean down under his desk to grab his backpack. He unzips it to retrieve two containers of instant noodles, and when he offers one to you, you give an approving nod. “I usually bring two in case I get extra hungry. I’ll make it, come meet me in the break room when you finish what you’re doing.”

You genuinely believe him on the first day, but when he just so happens to bring a second lunch on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, you start to get a little suspicious.

Friday has you stuck on a working session straight through your usual lunch hour, and Jungkook disappears without a word, returning as you’re pulling your headset off with two to-go salads in a plastic bag.

“I ordered one, and they gave me two. Crazy, right?”

You quirk an eyebrow at him to signal that you don’t believe a damn word, but you still thank him as you follow him down the hall to the break room.

“You’re coming out tonight, right?” He asks over lunch, and it takes you a second to remember the planned happy hour your boss has scheduled for the office. You’re torn between never wanting to see the inside of a bar again, and the overwhelming desire to drink as much as you can on the company’s dime. Ideally enough to obliterate the brain cells that store your memories of last weekend.

In the end, your cheapness wins out. Plus, given that it’s a social work event, you’d bet your entire salary that Yoongi will be nowhere to be found. You figure it might actually prove to be a good distraction. “Sure, yeah. At least for a couple drinks.”

“Cool,” Jungkook smiles a little as he spears a piece of chicken on his plastic fork. “Let me know when you’re done for the day, we can head over together.”

As much as you’d like to blow off early, a phone call that was supposed to take fifteen minutes ends up lasting over an hour. You mute your headset briefly to give a loud sigh, and shoot Jungkook a silent pout in apology when he meets your gaze, but he just flips his phone around to show you the progress he’s making on his island. At least he’s good at keeping himself entertained, you think with a smile.

Finally the person leading the call seems to come to the extremely delayed realization that no one is going to make any more progress on the issue after 5 PM on a Friday, and things wrap up pretty quickly after that. You and Jungkook gather your things and head for the front, and the office is a ghost town.

Your eyes drift down the opposite hallway towards the Genius Lab, your pulse quickening a little. You’ve checked the lab every evening this week and have luckily only found it empty, but you’re nearly an hour ahead of schedule today. And you don’t exactly have a great track record with Yoongi when it comes to Fridays.

“I should probably…”

“I can do it,” Jungkook cuts in softly. You’re hit with the automatic urge to say no, to shield him from this chaos in any way you can. But it would be really nice to not have to deal with Yoongi for one fucking day.

“I would appreciate that,” you reply, and Jungkook is already striding down the hall. You pretend to busy yourself on your phone as you hear a knock, then the electronic beeps of him punching the code into the door lock. When you glance up, you see him push the door open and stick his head inside, then promptly close it again.

“He’s gone. Let’s get out of here.”

The bar your boss has chosen is only a few blocks away from the office, and Jungkook holds the door open for you to enter first when you arrive. You don’t see your group right when you first walk in, and you have to round a bend in the layout of the building before you spot the long table of familiar faces.

You move to take a step forward, but Jungkook nearly imperceptibly brings a hand to your elbow to stop you. He says nothing, which is unlike him, and you start to ask a question.

“Wh—” the words die in your mouth when you see Yoongi smiling politely into a glass of whiskey, seated at the table next to your boss. His gaze flickers up to meet yours. Your stomach twists as you watch the smile immediately drop off his face.

“We can go,” Jungkook says quickly, but you know you can’t give him the satisfaction.

“It’s fine,” you say, and it comes out a little more harsh than you mean it to. “We don’t have to sit near him.” Jungkook follows your lead to the opposite end of the table. When you take your seats, he almost immediately gets sucked into a conversation with some of the audio engineers. You do your best to at least act like you’re following along, but it feels like the room is spinning despite the fact that you’re entirely sober.

That absolutely needs to change, you quickly determine. You’re sitting at the corner of the table, so it’s easy enough to slip out and get to your feet. Jungkook glances up when you do.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, and your tone must be direct enough that he doesn’t ask any follow-up questions or offer his company. Which is fine, you think to yourself as you cross the room. You’re perfectly capable of walking to the bar and ordering a drink on your own.

At least it feels that way until you sweep your gaze across the room, waiting on a bartender to acknowledge your presence, and realize Yoongi is headed straight towards you, empty glass in hand.

Fuck fuck fuck.

You set your jaw, determined not to let him smell your fear, and renew your conviction to flag someone down and get a drink as fast as possible. When Yoongi takes a seat at the barstool next to you, you will your face not to react. But you’re not quite fast enough to remember to tell your mouth to stay shut, too.

“What are you doing here?” You snap, refusing to look him in the eye.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says, voice even, and you blink hard. You don’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t that. “I figured an event with free alcohol was a good place to start. Let’s hope no one wore their good shoes tonight.”

Setting your jaw has turned into fully gritting your teeth, and you’ve never been more grateful to see a bartender when one approaches. You order quickly, and see Yoongi silently lift his empty glass as a request in your periphery.

“What do you want, Yoongi?”

When he hums and doesn’t respond right away, you glance over to see him running a finger around the rim of his finished drink. Just his fucking hand is enough to send a shiver up your spine, and you tear your gaze away.

“Well, for one, I honestly have to say I was surprised when HR didn’t personally escort me out of the building Monday morning.”

Your head snaps up to look at him again as you parse out his meaning. “Really?”

Yoongi’s gaze meets yours, his brows slightly pinching together as if he’s surprised that you’re surprised. “Uh, yeah.”

You’re so shocked it takes you a minute to form words. “I— I mean, it’s not like it was unprovoked.”

He makes a face as if he’s considering it, shrugging a little. “I suppose.”

As you drop your gaze to the wood grain of the bar, you can’t help but wonder if that was meant to be an apology. You barely have time to process that thought before the bartender returns, setting your drinks down, and you reach for yours like a woman dehydrated. When you take a sip, it’s strong— exactly what you need in this moment.

You’re already halfway off the barstool, very ready to get back to your seat at the table, when Yoongi speaks up again.

“Do you want to hear a funny story?” Something in his tone makes you pause, and he keeps going.

“I heard from an old friend a few days ago. We used to be really close, but lately I don’t think we’ve talked in…” He shakes his head in disbelief, like he’s trying to think. “God, probably years. I’ve been so focused on work. You know how I get.”

You physically recoil at his strange candor, how comfortable he suddenly is with implying that you know him. Your stomach is already starting to turn, though you can’t put a finger on why. It just feels like he’s playing with you.

Yoongi rolls his glass between his palms as he continues. “So you know, we catch up, ask how life is going, all the usual shit. And then my friend— Kihyun, that’s his name— Kih starts telling me about this crazy hookup he had last weekend.”

You nearly drop your drink as your blood runs cold. Yoongi continues the charade, pretending like he’s telling you something you don’t already know first-hand.

“He said he got approached by this super hot girl out of nowhere, and that she was fucking desperate for it. Barely said two words to him before she was asking him to take her home. And once he did, he said the sex was wild. I mean, it definitely sounded great to me when he gave me the play-by-play.” He pauses for a moment, and when he speaks again, there’s a new tone to his voice, almost aggressive. “Straight out of one of my own fantasies, really.”

You take a nervous gulp of your drink in hopes that it might help cool down your burning face— whether it’s from shame or rage, you can’t tell.

“And get this.” Yoongi’s voice is grave now, all pretense of telling a funny story gone as he turns to fully face you. “You’re never gonna believe whose name she cried out when she came. Because it sure wasn’t Kih’s.”

The shock of his words, at the fact that he knows this, is enough to freeze you where you stand. You’re nearly shaking with the chaotic storm of emotions swirling in your brain, and it takes every ounce of willpower you can muster to keep your voice steady as you fix him in your gaze. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business who or how I fuck, Yoongi.”

“Oh, I think it’s absolutely my business when you’re calling them my fucking name. And I don’t understand why you’d settle for imitation when you could have the real thing.” Despite how livid you are, you don’t miss the way your pussy flutters at the smug look on his face.

“Maybe it’s because your friend doesn’t come with all the strings attached that you do.”

“Strings?” He quirks an eyebrow. “I wasn’t planning on dating you, sweetheart.”

You can’t believe how dense he is, and you slam your drink down on the bar. “No, Yoongi, but you’re my fucking coworker. Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘don’t shit where you eat’?” He chuckles dryly into the rim of his glass. “It’s a bad fucking idea.”

He examines you as he takes a sip of whiskey, then finally speaks again. “Here’s the way I see it. We are both sane, consenting adults, very capable of being rational about this.” You scoff in disbelief at how calmly he can say such a thing as you take another long pull from your drink. “There’s obviously a lot of pent-up feelings going on. I’m not saying we have to be friends. Hell, we don’t even have to like each other. Sometimes it’s more fun when you don’t.”

Not expecting that commentary, you nearly choke on the ice in your glass. Yoongi gives you a moment to recover before continuing.

“It seems to me like we could establish something that would be mutually beneficial. Get some of that energy out. If anything, I think it might help both of us actually focus on our work, and that would in turn benefit everyone. It’d certainly be a lot better than the two of us running around like a couple of horny teenagers the way we have been lately. It’s not a purely selfish thing.”

You hate that his stupid logical argument makes sense to you. You hate it so much that you finish your drink in one swallow.

“Look, I’ll make it easy for you,” he says, eyes locked on you, his voice dropping into a lower register. The tone immediately takes you back to the last time you were in his lab. The things he said to you. The things he wanted to do to you. Heat pools in your belly before you can tell it not to.

“I’m going to head back to the group. You get yourself another drink, come join us, and take some time to think about it.”

He leans in to speak the next part directly into your ear, his voice quiet. Every nerve ending in your body lights up at the feeling of his breath against your neck. “Then I’m going to get up and go to the restroom. I’ll give you three minutes to discreetly excuse yourself and join me. If you don’t show, I’ll drop all of this and leave you alone. Promise.”

Yoongi pulls away, shooting you that trademark smirk, knowing full well that he doesn’t have to explain what will happen if you do decide to join him. He already has. Then he slips off the barstool, glass of whiskey in hand, and strides back towards the table.

When you order the next round, you ask for a double.

You do your best to act like the world isn’t ending as you return to your seat at the table. The conversation continues around you, without you; you can only stare dumbly at the empty space between two of your coworkers as you take a long swig of your drink. You’re vaguely aware of discussions of upcoming mixtapes and the Grammy’s, but your brain can’t process anything over the roaring in your ears, the pounding of your heartbeat in your gut— and a little lower.

You feel insane, enraged, and deliriously aroused.

You have no concept of how quickly time is passing, no clue if it’s been an instant or an hour when you see movement from the other end of the table out of the corner of your eye. There’s no self-control left in your system to keep your jaw from going slack, to keep you from unabashedly watching as Yoongi gets up from the table and strides confidently across the bar toward the restroom. He doesn’t so much as glance in your direction.

“Are you alright?”

You whip around at Jungkook’s voice, having completely forgotten there was anyone else in the room. It takes a second for you to snap your mouth shut, and then you realize you have to open it to answer his question.

“I— uh—” You can barely string a sentence together. “My drink is really strong.”

“Do you need some water?”

When you nod, he’s up in a flash, heading towards the bar, and you realize as you watch him disappear that it might have been a bad idea to let yourself be left alone. Because now you have no distraction from the way every cell in your body is screaming at you.

It’s obvious that there is a right choice and a wrong choice here. And you’ve tried so hard, for so long, to be smart. To deny the truth, to say no and go home, to channel the energy out in any other way. But none of it has worked. You still want this terrible man to do terrible things to you, maybe now more than ever. And you’re so fucking tired of making the right choice.

So tonight, you resolve with a final sip of your drink, you’ll make the wrong one. Fuck it.

You slip away from the table before Jungkook returns, following the same path Yoongi did towards the back of the bar. When you reach for the handle of the restroom door, your pulse is racing, enough that you nearly jump out of your skin when the door swings open before you can even touch it. You glance up to find yourself face-to-face with an equally shocked looking Yoongi.

“Your three minutes are up,” he says dryly. Rather than bother with a response, you bring your hand to his chest and firmly shove him back inside the single stall room. You hear him laugh a little as you follow after, pulling the knob and turning the lock into place behind you.

When he takes a step toward you, there’s nowhere for you to go except flush against the door. You watch his eyes drop down your body and back up, taking his time, shameless. His gaze lingers on your mouth.

“Didn’t think you’d really do it,” he murmurs, eyes glinting.

“Call it a lapse in judgment.”

There’s something about the situation that makes you feel like Yoongi has the upper hand— like he expects every part of this to go according to his plan. That, you decide, simply will not do. And then you drop to your knees in front of him.

“Oh my god,” Yoongi breathes, taking a small step back to give you room. “You’re a whore.”

You do your best to shoot a death glare up at him. “I don’t have to do this.”

He smirks. “I meant it as a compliment, honestly. Respectfully.”

That’s it. You’re determined to suck that smug fucking look off his face. “Hands to yourself,” you say firmly. “If you touch me, this all ends.”

Yoongi’s eyes widen, as if he wasn’t expecting you to be giving any orders. But then he nods, raising both hands in the air as if to indicate compliance. You lower your gaze and realize he’s already straining against the fabric of his joggers, which do nothing to hide how hard he is, the thin material clinging to every inch.

In one swift motion, you tug both his pants and boxers down his hips, and you have to actively suppress a soft sigh of appreciation. Yoongi’s ego doesn’t need any more feeding, but damn, his dick is even better up close: long, pale, and pretty.

Glancing back up at him, you maintain eye contact as you lean forward to teasingly trace your tongue along one of the prominent veins that runs the length of his shaft. His eyes are dark with lust as he watches you. Despite being on your knees, a thrill of sheer power runs through you when you see him swallow hard, his Adam’s apple jerking in his throat.

It occurs to you that you are extremely ready to torture this man.

When you reach the tip, you just barely slide your lips over it in an open-mouthed kiss to the head of his cock, your tongue swirling in sloppy circles. You can hear Yoongi breathing now, clearly trying and failing to suppress his shaky exhales at your work.

Tilting your head to find the right angle, you take more of him into your mouth, then bring a hand to his shaft to guide the head of his dick to one side. You don’t miss the quiet groan you elicit from him as you let him press against the soft wall of your cheek to create a bulge. He makes the same sound again, louder, when you rub your tongue firmly along the underside of his shaft while you do it.

His hips jerk under your touch as you start to move the hand wrapped around him in slow, deliberate strokes. You recenter him in your mouth and bob your head along his length in time, now sucking firmly. Yoongi’s breath catches on a moan as you keep your tongue pressed tight to his shaft and match the movement of your head to the deliciously slow pace of your hand.

The sound only encourages you, and you lean forward to take even more of him until his cock briefly brushes against the back of your throat. You hold him there for a second, then swallow.

“Fuck,” Yoongi hisses. You can feel him twitch a little in your mouth, taste it as he leaks precum onto your tongue. You tip back for a few more shallow thrusts, just tormenting him, then repeat the action, humming this time as he hits your throat. His knees nearly buckle.

You glance up at Yoongi as you pull back again, lashes fluttering, and you have to keep yourself from laughing around his cock at the look of pure distress on his face. Now that you’re watching him, you realize his hands are flexing desperately at his sides— it’s clearly taking everything in his power to follow your no touching policy.

Good, you think, and then you lean forward to swallow him down and keep him there, taking as much as you can until your nose is nearly flush with his pelvis. You bob your head, guiding him up and down your throat, choking slightly but too determined to stop even as your eyes start to water.

“Oh my god,” you hear him groan, and your eyebrows raise at the sound of a loud smack. When you look up, still working him in your throat, you realize that he’s helplessly banged a fist on the bathroom door and is now bracing himself against it. You watch as he rakes his other hand through his hair, his head tipping back with a gasp as you increase your pace in response. His hips shudder as he starts to buck softly into your mouth. “Y-yeah, keep doing that, oh fuck, fuck—”

At what feels like the last possible second, you pull off his cock with a soft, wet pop, swallowing down the precum in your mouth. You wipe at the corners of your lips before getting to your feet, legs shaking a little more than you’d like from how long you’ve been on your knees. As you meet his gaze, now at eye-level, it seems you’ve certainly achieved your mission: Yoongi’s usual smug appearance has been replaced with a look of frustrated desperation, courtesy of one denied orgasm.

“Why should I let you get off that easy?” You ask simply, and he makes a noise low in his throat, something between a groan and a laugh.

“Fuck, you are such a bitch.” He advances towards you, and you find yourself backing up, this time until your ass is pressed against the countertop of the bathroom sink. He’s staring at your mouth again, looking at it with what seems to be a little more reverence now that he knows what it’s capable of.

“Am I allowed to touch you yet?” His voice is so low, his mouth so close to yours, that it makes your core ache. The noises you sucked out of him have unfortunately only turned you on even more. “Or are you going to make me beg?”

As much as you’d love to see that, the desperate throb that’s been steadily building between your legs has now overtaken your desire to tease. “Yes, Yoongi, you can touch me.”

The words have barely left your mouth and his hands are already on your hips, firmly spinning you around. You have to clutch the edge of the countertop just to stay upright, but you only feel yourself getting that much wetter at the rough way he handles you. You shiver as he shoves the hem of your dress up to expose your ass, and you can’t help yourself, leaning forward to give him the best possible angle, too desperate for anything less.

“Fuck,” Yoongi breathes, and you’d swear he almost sounds appreciative.

You don’t even have time to process that thought before his hand cracks down over your ass, so hard that it nearly knocks all the breath out of your lungs. You inhale a shaky gasp, your mind reeling in its attempt to catch up, but Yoongi is already pulling your panties to the side, perfect fingers sliding between your folds. There’s no hiding how drenched you are; your upper thighs are starting to stick together with arousal.

Without warning, he presses two fingers firmly into you, and it’s enough to make your jaw go slack. You outright moan when they find purchase against your g-spot, rubbing in tight, expert circles. He could make you come right now if he wanted to.

“You’re so wet for me,” Yoongi’s voice is low and smug, and you don’t need to see his expression to know that cocky smirk has returned to his face. “Been ready for it all night, huh?” You whimper a noise that isn’t disagreement.

“Good,” he says firmly, pairing the word with another smack to your ass. You’re too far gone to try and hold it back now, not with the way his fingers are working inside you, and you moan again. “Because we can’t take too long,” Yoongi continues. “Don’t want anyone getting suspicious. Which is really a damn shame, because there’s so much I want to do to you.”

When he smacks your ass one more time, even harder, and couples it with an insistent press of his fingers against your front wall, you have to grip the edge of the sink for dear life. Your cunt squeezes around him; the noise you make is practically a sob.

He huffs a laugh as he withdraws his fingers, and you glance up to see him retrieving a condom from his pocket and tearing it open. “Wrecked already? And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You try to compose yourself, but just watching the way his hands work as he rolls the condom over his leaking cock has you aching, clenching around nothing. You really are fucking wrecked— nothing has ever come close to this.

Yoongi’s hands come to your hips, pads of his fingers digging into your skin, and you feel the head of his cock against your entrance, sliding lazily through your folds but purposefully not pressing into you.

“Yoongi,” you whine. You’re too far gone for this teasing.

“You have to tell me what you want,” he says, his voice dark.

You can barely even think a sentence, and you try to push back on him instead, but he keeps you held firmly in place, hands squeezing into the flesh of your hips. “Tell me,” he insists.

“I want you to fuck me,” you manage, and you look up to meet his gaze in the bathroom mirror.

He licks his lips, and you realize that he’s having just as hard a time restraining himself. “That much is obvious,” he says, and you can hear the unsteadiness in his voice now. “How would you like to get fucked?”

You’ve had enough alcohol to brazenly tell the truth. “Like you hate me.”

It may be the first genuine smile of his you’ve ever seen.

“Gladly,” he replies, and then he thrusts all of himself into you at once. You collapse forward on the countertop, crying out at the feeling.

“Yeah,” Yoongi grunts, a little breathless. “You like that?” He pulls nearly all the way out and slams into you one more time, pressing his hips flush with your ass until you feel overwhelmingly full. Then he starts to properly thrust, moving at a pace that can only be described as ruthless.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head dropping down as you scramble to brace yourself against the counter. You practically yelp when his hand cracks over your ass again.

He leans forward; you can feel his chest graze over your back, his hips still snapping into you as he grabs your jaw with one hand and forces your gaze up to look at him in the mirror again. You watch as he runs two fingers along your bottom lip in an unasked question. You let your jaw go slack to allow him to slip into your mouth.

When your lips close around his fingers, you find yourself a little grateful to have something to keep you grounded to reality. Your eyes flit up to Yoongi’s face, and his gaze is piercing, eyes totally fixed on you.

“You look so good like this.” His voice is hoarse, strained from effort, and he continues to drive into you, never slowing. Your own hip bones dig into the bathroom counter, shocks of pleasure-pain rippling through you with each thrust. Little moans and whimpers spill out from your mouth around his fingers at the sensation, and you can feel your climax starting to build.

Yoongi withdraws from your mouth, that same hand moving down your body to slip into your panties and circle your clit, earning a gasp from you. His other hand keeps a death grip on your hip as he thrusts, and he straightens up again, the head of his cock now rubbing so perfectly over your g-spot that you hiss.

“Did Kihyun fuck you like this?”

The question catches you off-guard. “N-no,” you gasp, and the hot coil of your arousal tightens in your core. Yoongi’s cock stroking into you, his hand working your clit, the feeling is overwhelming, dizzying. “Oh, god.” Your head presses into your forearm as you give yourself over to the pleasure. You can only distantly hear Yoongi’s voice continue, somewhere between coaxing and demanding.

“I didn’t fucking think so. So why don’t you say it? Tell me who fucks you right. Tell me who you fucking hate.”

The fingers on your clit are unrelenting now, and your edge approaches fast and hard.

“Y-Yoongi,” you breathe, and it feels too good to say his name and mean it. “Yoongi, fuck, Yoongi.” A loud moan rips through you as your legs start to shake. “Oh fuck,” you gasp, “I’m coming, fuck, yes—” You nearly sob as your climax hits you hard, and your walls flutter around Yoongi’s cock over and over in what feels like an endless orgasm.

The pleasure rolls through you, and you look up in the mirror to see Yoongi grit his teeth as he picks up the pace of his hips. A look of desperation paints his face, not unlike the way he looked when you were blowing him, and you know he must be close.

“God fucking damnit,” he grunts, each word punctuated with a thrust, and then he tips his head back and pushes all the way into you with a moan as he comes.

For a moment he pauses like that, gazing up at the ceiling, chest heaving with effort as his dick twitches inside of you. “Holy shit,” he breathes, and then he starts to laugh softly in what appears to be disbelief. “Fuuuuck.”

You haven’t fully recovered, so you can only watch, still gripping the countertop for dear life, as he slips the condom off, chucks it into the trash can, and pulls his boxers and pants up. He gives his reflection a once-over in the mirror, running a hand through his hair, and you’re amazed at how quickly he’s put himself back together. The only indication that he was literally just railing you is the way he’s breathing heavily.

Yoongi notices you watching him and gives your ass one more firm slap, hard enough that you flinch a little.

“Wait a minute or two before you head out,” he instructs, and you nod dumbly. He crosses the room, opens the door, and slips out, all before you can even so much as think a coherent thought.

It takes several more minutes for you to get your shit together, but you eventually manage to readjust your underwear and smooth your dress down, though your legs are certainly still unsteady when you make your way back to the table. You can’t help but shoot a glance over at Yoongi as you pass, and you’re shocked to see him laughing and chatting it up with the group of coworkers seated around him. You see clear expressions of surprise on their faces, too— because he’s never like this. Except, apparently, mere minutes after fucking you.

You don’t even bother to sit down, instead grabbing your purse off the table and slinging the straps over your shoulder.

“Wow, there you are,” Jungkook’s voice drags you out of your thoughts, and the look of concern on his face just makes your stomach turn. You genuinely have no idea how long you were gone for. “Are you okay? Your face looks flushed.”

You don’t know how to answer his question, so you don't. “I think I’m gonna go home.”

“Do you need a ride?”

You shake your head quickly. “I’ll call a friend.”

Perched on the curb outside, you clutch your phone for dear life as you pull up Jimin’s contact to call him. The line rings and you realize you’re shivering; you don’t think it has anything to do with the weather.

You don’t even give him a chance to say hello when the call connects. “Can you come get me?”

He groans on the other end of the line. “Why? I already took my pants off for the night.”

“Baby mochi, please.” You whine, but you know only the full explanation will get him out of bed. You drop your voice a little. “I just hatefucked Suga in the bathroom at the company happy hour. I need you to come pick me up immediately.”

Jimin’s apartment is a ten minute drive away, but you swear he makes it in five.

“Well, well, well,” Your best friend’s voice is smug as you slide into his passenger seat. “If it isn’t the company whore.”

“Shut the fuck up, Jimin.”

~*~

Come Monday morning, you’re racing down the hallway to the conference room, quietly cursing yourself for being late. You’d seen the email from your boss moving the usual Tuesday pull-up to first-thing Monday, but then you’d gotten so tied up with other projects you’d forgotten about it entirely. It was only once you were in the break room, trying to get your caffeine fix in, that you’d glanced up at the wall clock and realized it was already ten after.

Focused as you are on getting to the meeting quickly— and just as importantly, not spilling any of your coffee— you’re completely unaware of your surroundings until it’s too late. You nearly smack directly into Yoongi as you approach the conference room simultaneously.

He smirks as you jump back in surprise. “We have got to stop meeting like this.”

It’s the first time you’ve seen him since Friday; you’ve been hiding out in Baby Star Candy’s corner all morning. “We’re late,” you say, flustered enough to state the obvious, and he shrugs like he can’t disagree.

“I got distracted.”

Yoongi must notice the way your eyes start to widen. “With work,” he clarifies quickly. He reaches around you to place a hand on the conference room door, and you hear his voice low in your ear. “Amazing how much easier it is to focus today, huh?”

Straightening up to put some space between you, he pushes the door open and gestures for you to go first. You swallow hard and try to keep your composure as you enter the room, briefly apologizing for being late. Yoongi follows behind you silently, slumping into the open seat across the table. You take a sip of your coffee to settle your nerves, which turns out to be a horrible idea when your boss speaks.

“There they are, perfect timing. You’re the very two people my next announcement concerns.”

You just barely manage to keep your drink in your mouth. When your gaze flits to Yoongi across from you, he looks similarly shell-shocked. You can’t help but wonder if you’re about to get fired in front of the entire team.

“We’ve managed to secure funding for the Grammy’s at the end of the month,” your boss says brightly. “We’ll be flying Suga out to do a press circuit as well as attend the award show and surrounding events in-person. We think it will be a great opportunity to network with American artists, try to get his name out there and work on our international appeal.”

“And of course,” your boss’ gaze lands on you, “we all know that our Suga isn’t the most extroverted, or good with schedules, for that matter. We figured he needs a wrangler, and who better than our very own admin?”

You swear your heart stops beating. Your boss keeps going, reminding the team to connect with you about temporarily taking back any deliverables you’ve been handling while you’ll be out of pocket for Grammy’s weekend and subsequent travel time, but you barely process a word. This can’t be happening.

An entire weekend of forced professionalism, in Los Angeles, with the man you just hatefucked in a bathroom. What could possibly go wrong?

chapter four | masterlist | chapter six

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lookingforhobi · 3 months ago

Text

Title: Suck It Part 2

Pairing: Reader/Jung Hoseok

Summary: What starts as lingering glances and offhand touches turns into something neither of you can ignore. You're not supposed to fall for someone on tour, especially not him. But between stolen moments and rising tension, it's only a matter of time before everything changes.

Word Count: 18.7k

Part 1

You leave the next morning and fly straight to San Antonio. You link up with the rest of the dancers at the hotel, and Yunjin is as bubbly as ever, telling you about her friend’s dog and the late-night tacos they found near their place.

It’s almost comforting, how normal everything seems.

Until show day.

You spot Hoseok again in the chaos of the arena. His hair is done, outfit already set for act one. He’s standing across the room when you walk in, adjusting an earpiece. For a second, you think maybe, just maybe, he’ll say something.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even look at you.

Backstage buzzes with pre-show energy, and no one seems to notice the space between you. You smile when you’re supposed to. Laugh when someone tells a dumb joke, but your stomach churns every time he walks by without a word.

And when it’s time for your duet, the difference is impossible to ignore.

Your bodies move in perfect sync, like they always have, but something’s shifted. There's no eye contact. No spark. Just precise movement and silence. It’s technically flawless, maybe even breathtaking, but it feels hollow. Like a beautiful shell with the soul scooped out.

The crowd doesn’t notice. They scream just the same. But you do, and when the lights go down and the applause echoes, it’s not adrenaline you’re feeling.

It’s heartbreak.

You’re backstage, towel pressed to your neck, still catching your breath from the final number. Everyone around you is glowing with cheeks flushed, laughing, buzzing from the high of another successful show.

But you feel…muted.

You walk through the corridors of the arena with your head down, avoiding the spot where you and Hoseok usually high-five after the duet. He’s not there anyway. You’re not sure he even waited. Maybe he slipped away as soon as the curtain closed.

In the dressing room, you sit on the floor near your bag, trying to convince yourself that you're being dramatic. It was just a kiss. One kiss. People kiss all the time. People make mistakes all the time. It shouldn’t be this heavy. But the problem is, it didn’t feel like a mistake. Not when it was happening.

You close your eyes, forehead pressing against your knees, and you can still feel the warmth of his hand on your back. The way he tilted your chin. The breath you both shared just before everything tilted into something electric.

It was real. You know it was real.

His hand had trembled. Just slightly. You hadn’t imagined that.

And the things he said, you're so pretty, and funny, and smart, those hadn’t felt like some throwaway excuse. They’d felt honest. Emotional. Like they’d been building up in him for a while and just finally cracked the surface.

You sigh. Hard. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe you are just another dancer to him. Maybe he panicked and backpedaled because he realized he’d crossed a line. But then why look at you like that? Why kiss you like he didn’t want it to end?

You blink quickly, throat tightening as you hear laughter echo down the hallway from the others.

You’re not new to crushes. You’ve had your share of infatuations. But this…this is different. It feels different. It felt like something blooming, and now it's just silence.

You whisper to yourself, “God, I’m so stupid.”

But deep down, a voice you can't silence murmurs, No. You’re not. Because that kiss meant something.

A security guard appears in the hallway just as you're zipping up your warmup jacket. You're still reeling from the performance which was technically solid, but emotionally dull. Something’s missing, or rather, someone.

“Come with me,” the guard says, voice low.

You frown, confused, especially when the rest of the dancers glance your way with subtle side-eyes. You feel the heat of their curiosity even after you fall into step behind the guard. You open your mouth to ask where you're going, but he doesn’t answer until you’re a good distance away from the others.

“Hoseok’s dressing room,” he finally says under his breath.

Your heart trips over itself. You don’t say anything, just nod and try to keep your face neutral, though your thoughts are anything but. Is he going to pretend the kiss never happened again? Is this damage control?

The security guard knocks twice and then opens the door, gesturing you in. Hoseok is already inside. He’s alone, sitting on a couch, bent over with his elbows on his knees and his hands tangled in his hair. He looks up when you enter, eyes bloodshot and heavy, like he hasn’t slept.

He stands quickly. “Thanks,” he mutters to the guard, who nods once and pulls the door shut behind you.

Silence stretches, tense and uncertain. You stand there awkwardly, trying to read his expression. He’s not smiling. He’s not even looking directly at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, voice rough. “For kissing you.”

You flinch. That stings more than it should.

But then he adds, “Kissing you was not a mistake. But it was inappropriate.”

You blink at him, mouth slightly open.

He runs a hand through his hair again. “I wanted to kiss you. God, I wanted to—but I shouldn’t have. Not with the power dynamics. Not when we were both a little buzzed. I’m your boss, and that was out of line. Especially in the middle of a tour.”

You stare at him, stunned. Not just by the words, but by how much it seems to be tearing him up.

“That’s it?” you say softly. “You wanted to kiss me, but now it’s just…what, buried?”

“I don’t want this to affect the rest of the tour,” he says, voice gentle now, almost pleading. His eyebrows are knitted together. “You’ve worked too hard. I’ve worked too hard. We can’t let a kiss throw all of that off course.”

Your chest tightens. “But it wasn’t just a kiss. It meant something. At least…it did to me.”

His face twists like that hurts him, and you keep going before you lose your nerve.

“I wanted to kiss you too, Hoseok. That wasn’t just you getting carried away. That kiss…it made me feel something I haven’t felt in a really long time. It made me feel good. Alive.” You step forward. “And I want to do it again.”

He looks like he’s caught between wanting to bolt and wanting to reach for you.

And then you add, voice a whisper, “Do you?”

His lips part like he’s about to argue again. “That doesn’t make it right. Just because we both wanted it doesn’t mean—” He stops short when you slowly cross the room and sit beside him on the couch.

Close, but not quite touching.

He turns his head toward you, and you see the war in his eyes. The way his jaw tightens like he’s trying to hold the boundary in place with sheer willpower. But you also see the hesitation crack under the weight of how much he wants to just give in.

He tries again, quieter this time, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. “I’m supposed to set an example. There’s a line—”

You tilt your head and meet his gaze. “I think you’ve been setting one. You’ve been kind. You’ve been professional. You’ve taken care to make sure I’m comfortable. Even when I was bleeding under my costume.”

He swallows hard at that.

“I’m not asking for anything dramatic,” you say. “I’m just saying…you kissed me, I kissed you back, and neither of us regretted it. That doesn’t have to ruin everything.”

Hoseok exhales shakily and looks down at his hands, like he’s trying to anchor himself.

“I’m terrified,” he murmurs.

You blink. “Of what?”

He finally looks up again, voice barely above a whisper. “That I already care more than I should.”

Your breath catches.

There’s silence for a moment as your heart thuds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. Then, slowly, gently, you reach over and cover his hand with yours. Neither of you speaks. He doesn't pull away, and you can feel the exact second he stops resisting the pull between you.

He turns his hand over and threads his fingers through yours.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The green room is buzzing with the usual pre-show energy, laughter, final stretches, a couple dancers running counts in the mirror. You’re finishing your warmup near the benches, tying the last lace on your sneakers when it happens.

Mina walks by, just close enough to catch your foot with hers. You stumble forward with a sharp gasp and catch yourself on your hands, the thud of your body hitting the floor cutting through the noise in the room.

Everything goes quiet for a beat. People freeze mid-stretch, mid-laugh.

Then Mina has the audacity to scoff. “God, you’re such a klutz,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Still not sure how you ended up on this team.”

You push yourself up slowly, heart pounding. Not from the fall, but from the humiliation blooming hot and fast under your skin, but before you can say anything, a low voice cuts through the room like a blade.

“Mina,” Hoseok says.

Everyone turns.

He’s standing by the door with a water bottle in one hand, his jaw locked tight, eyes burning. There’s a tense silence as he walks into the room, the shift in energy is immediately charged.

“I’ve overlooked your attitude for weeks because I wanted to believe you could rise to the occasion,” he says, his tone cool, measured, but unmistakably angry. “But this?” He gestures slightly toward where you’re still crouched on the floor. “I saw you. You tripped her on purpose. Just like I know you’re the one who dug your nails into her during the Mexico City show.”

Mina opens her mouth, probably to deny it, but he doesn’t give her the chance.

“I’m not interested in excuses,” he says, now fully standing between the two of you, shielding you without even touching you. “This isn’t just unprofessional. It’s dangerous. You could’ve seriously injured another member of this team.”

There’s a sharp inhale from someone nearby, and Mina’s face drains of color.

“If you think getting her out of the way would earn you the duet, you’re wrong,” Hoseok continues, voice hard. “Even if she were gone, you wouldn’t be next. You are not talented enough to be acting like this.”

The silence is deafening.

“Please leave,” he says. “And pack your things.”

Mina stares at him, stunned, her face flashing through disbelief, anger, then something that almost looks like embarrassment. She waits for someone, anyone, to step in on her behalf.

No one does. Finally, she huffs and storms out, slamming the door behind her. The green room stays quiet for a long beat. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until Hoseok looks down at you, expression softening instantly. He crouches beside you, voice much quieter now.

“You okay?” he asks, gently.

You nod, slowly. Still stunned. Still reeling. But okay.

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, you feel safe.

The show that night feels like flight.

From the second the lights dim and the roar of the crowd rolls through the arena like a wave, something inside you unknots. You aren’t looking over your shoulder. You’re not bracing yourself for a stray elbow or a bruising grip disguised as part of the routine. You don’t have to shrink yourself to avoid drama, you just get to dance.

The stage is yours.

Every movement flows smoother than it ever has, like your body finally trusts the space it occupies. The dancers move together in tight synchronicity, and for once, no one’s energy is off. No side-eyes. No petty tension dragging things down. Just pure rhythm and trust.

When the crowd screams during your first formation, your pulse spikes with something electric, not anxiety, not dread, joy. You smile without thinking, and when you glance at Yunjin, she grins back like hell yeah. You feed off that, let it power you.

By the time you hit the duet, you're flying.

The opening notes cue in, and Hoseok appears beside you in the wings. Just his presence is enough to ground you and set your blood humming. He gives you the briefest glance, not quite a smile, but something almost more intimate. Like a promise.

You take the stage together, and it’s magic.

No missed beats. No second-guessing. Every touch, every shift in weight, every perfectly-timed breath is effortless. When he spins you and catches you again, his hand rests just below your ribs, close to where the wounds once were but not close enough to hurt. Just enough to feel. The crowd eats it up. The screams swell louder with every pass and lift, the flashing lights painting the moment in glittering gold. It’s not just that the show is good, it’s that you feel alive. Untethered and whole.

When the final pose hits and the lights cut to black, you’re breathing hard, grinning through the sweat, your chest heaving. Hoseok’s palm is still pressed against your back, steadying you. You don’t even look at him, but the warmth of his hand is enough.

The crowd roars.

And for the first time since the tour began, you know exactly who you are up there, you, not someone tiptoeing around someone else’s bitterness. Just a dancer. Just you.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The hotel room is quiet except for the soft shuffle of Yunjin rifling through her suitcase. She’s dressed to the nines in heels, leather pants, glitter along her cheekbones. She looks incredible and she knows it.

"You’re seriously not coming?" she asks, turning to face you with one hand on her hip. "We just got rid of the drama queen. You’re telling me you don’t want to celebrate a little?”

You laugh, flopping back onto the bed with an exaggerated groan. “Yunjin, my feet are screaming. I just want to sit in silence, drink water, and maybe cry about how good that show felt.”

She sighs dramatically. “Fine. But you owe me tomorrow night. I expect glitter, heels, and tequila.”

“I promise,” you say, holding up a tired pinky. “Have fun tonight, though. Be chaotic in my honor.”

She grabs her purse, gives you an air kiss, and heads out the door, calling, “Don’t fall asleep in your makeup again!”

You're halfway through digging through your bag, looking for your charger, maybe a snack, who knows, when you see it: a folded square of paper tucked between your spare hair ties and a travel-sized lint roller.

It’s his handwriting. You’d recognize it anywhere after seeing him scribble choreography notes a hundred times.

Text me sometime. - H. xxx-xxx-xxxx

Your heart skips like a scratched CD.

For a few seconds, you just stare at it. Then, with a deep breath and fingers that don't feel entirely your own, you type out a message.

you: hey. it’s me, yn.

The read receipt pops up immediately. Then the typing bubble. Then—

hoseok: hey you wanna come over?

You blink. Your stomach flips.

Your thumbs hover over your screen as you glance toward the door, waiting to make sure Yunjin is really gone. You give it a few minutes just in case she forgot something.

Only after the silence stretches long and certain do you type out:

you: yeah. give me 15

Fifteen minutes of chaos ensue. You brush your hair, freshen up your face, change into something casual but…strategic. A thin tank top that hugs your curves and soft short shorts that ride just a little higher than necessary. You swap out your regular underwear for the nice pair. Not lingerie, but close enough. You glance in the mirror. Presentable. Chill. Not trying too hard.

Totally trying hard.

Your heart pounds the entire walk to his room. When you knock, there’s a beat of silence, and then the door swings open. Hoseok stands there in nothing but a hotel robe, collarbone still glistening. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, flicking down your frame and back up again.

"Hey," he says, soft and slightly breathless, like maybe he wasn’t expecting you to actually show.

Your breath catches.

“Hey,” you say back, trying not to stare.

Then he steps aside, holding the door open a little wider. “Come in.”

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, the hotel robe tied loosely at his waist, revealing a smooth stretch of his collarbone and just a hint of his chest. His hair is damp, like he’s recently showered, and it curls slightly at the ends. The lighting is soft, gold and low, the bedside lamp casting gentle shadows over his features.

You step inside and let the door shut softly behind you, the click oddly loud in the quiet. Hoseok’s room is warm, quiet, and carries the faint scent of his cologne and whatever fabric softener the hotel uses. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, the hotel robe tied loosely at his waist, revealing a smooth stretch of his collarbone and just a hint of his chest. His hair is damp, like he’s recently showered, and it curls slightly at the ends. The lighting is soft, gold and low, the bedside lamp casting gentle shadows over his features.

“I wasn’t sure you’d find the note,” he says, his voice barely above a murmur, like he's not sure if this moment is real. “I felt silly writing it. Kept rewriting the same line, over and over.”

You smile, stepping forward with the easy confidence of someone who’s nervous but determined not to show it. “Of course I found it. You have very recognizable handwriting.” You pause, giving him a once-over, your gaze deliberately slow and teasing. “And I mean…I couldn’t just ignore a personal invitation from someone who looks this good in a bathrobe.”

That earns a soft laugh from him, his eyes crinkling a little at the corners. But then his expression softens, the amusement fading into something a little more vulnerable. “You’re beautiful,” he says, and it feels like more than just a compliment. It lands somewhere deeper. “I’ve been trying not to say that all tour.”

He reaches out and takes your hand, his fingers warm against yours. When you let him guide you, he pulls you gently between his legs, his knees parting so you’re standing right in front of him. The height difference is stark like this, and he tilts his head slightly to look up at you, his eyes tracing your face, your lips, the line of your neck.

For a moment, he just rests his hands on your waist, thumbs brushing along the hem of your tank top, like he’s grounding himself. Then slowly, with almost reverent intent, he leans in and presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is soft at first, exploratory. His mouth moves against yours like a question, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away, but you don’t. Instead, your hands settle on his shoulders, and you press in closer.

He exhales through his nose, deepening the kiss, one of his hands sliding up your spine and the other resting at the small of your back, fingers splayed wide. He pulls you in until your hips are flush against his legs, and the robe parts slightly where your thighs meet his knees. His hand trails down from your spine, skimming the soft fabric of your shorts before curving around to rest again at your waist.

Your body responds instinctively. Melting into him, craving the warmth of his skin, the way his lips shift between gentle and hungry. His other hand leaves your back to tuck a few strands of your hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your cheek in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

He breaks the kiss only to mouth along your jaw, then down to your neck, and the soft sounds you let out seem to spur him on. But still, it’s unhurried like he’s taking his time, like he wants to memorize you.

“God, you feel so good,” he breathes against your collarbone, his voice hoarse and low. “I’ve wanted this for longer than I should admit.”

Your fingers curl into the loose fabric of his robe, pulling him closer, and he responds immediately, one arm wrapping firmly around your waist, the other sliding under your tank top, his hand warm against your skin, splayed out over your back like he’s trying to hold you in place. You feel him press a kiss just below your ear, then rests his forehead against yours.

When he kisses you again his lips move against yours with slow, deliberate care, but there's a quiet urgency beneath it, too like he’s been holding back for too long and now that he has you here, he doesn’t want to waste a second. You melt into the kiss, fingers curling loosely around the collar of his robe, and when your bodies touch more fully, there’s an electric awareness that crackles just beneath your skin.

His hands trace the curve of your waist, a path he’s followed before on stage, adjusting you during a lift, steadying you mid-turn. But here in the hush of the room, without choreography or lights or a thousand watching eyes, the same touch feels charged. Possessive, even. There’s no need to act like it means nothing anymore.

You gasp softly when his thumb brushes the edge of your shorts, his hand skimming the bare skin of your hip. That’s where he’s held you in rehearsals before, fingers firm, guiding your body into alignment. But this? This is slower. Softer. His fingertips dip beneath the fabric like he’s searching for something sacred there. “Familiar,” he murmurs against your jaw, his lips grazing your skin with each word, “but…different.”

You nod without thinking, breath stuttering as he kisses a line down your throat. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

He hums against your skin, his mouth curving into a smile. “Of course you were. We’re always in sync, huh?”

You laugh, but it’s breathless and unsteady because his hands are already moving again, sliding up your sides, fingers brushing the swell of your chest through the thin fabric of your tank top. He’s careful, almost reverent, but every touch burns. Your whole body aches with the difference between the person who’s caught you mid-air, who’s held you through complex choreography, and the man touching you now with such quiet desire.

“You’ve had your hands on me a hundred times,” you whisper, eyes locking with his, “but it’s never felt like this.”

His lips return to yours, firmer now, more certain. You can feel the moment something shifts in him. The way he deepens the kiss, the way his fingers tighten just a little on your waist, pulling you closer so you’re flush against him. The fabric of his robe parts slightly, and your hands slide beneath it, finding the bare skin of his chest.

You trace the lines of muscle you’ve seen only in glimpses before, during rehearsals, and backstage costume changes, but now, you touch without hesitation, without boundaries. His breath hitches at your touch, and when you glance up at him, his pupils are blown wide, dark and wanting.

He leans his forehead against yours, voice husky. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

You smile, fingers drifting lower down his stomach. “Good.”

He laughs, a soft, husky sound, and kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands wandering, retracing the paths of muscle and memory. The tension between you winds tighter with every slow, deliberate brush of skin. It’s not hurried. It’s not messy. It’s two people who’ve touched a thousand times under the guise of professionalism, finally learning what it means to really touch.

And it’s the most alive you’ve ever felt.

His robe slips lower on his shoulders as you tug gently, palms flat against the warm, bare skin of his chest. The tension hums low and hot between you, and Hoseok’s breath brushes your lips as he breaks the kiss just enough to look at you.

“Still feels a little like a dream,” he murmurs, fingertips ghosting along your spine beneath your tank top, sending shivers through you.

You smile, a little breathless, running your hand slowly down his arm. “Then don’t wake up yet.”

That earns you a crooked smile, boyish and beautiful in a way that makes your stomach flutter. He kisses you again, slow and deep, but his hands move with more confidence now, like he’s no longer asking permission with every pass of his fingers, just learning and memorizing. When he skims the edge of your shorts again, this time it’s with the intention of pulling you closer, pressing you fully between his knees. Your thighs bracket his as his hands slip under your top, feeling the skin he’s only ever glimpsed when costuming ran late or rehearsal left you in a sweat.

He exhales softly, forehead resting against your chest for a moment, his voice muffled as he says, “You’re so soft. So warm. I don’t know how I kept my hands to myself for this long.”

You tilt his chin up, forcing him to meet your eyes. “You were professional,” you whisper, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “But you don’t have to be right now.”

His gaze darkens, hands tightening slightly on your waist. “Don’t tempt me.”

“I think I already have.”

He kisses you again, more eagerly this time, like your words gave him permission to let go, just a little. His hands explore with purpose now, sliding under your top fully, dragging upward along your ribs. The sensation is dizzying. His palms rough from years of dancing, his touch familiar and brand new all at once.

You gasp softly when his thumbs skim just under the swell of your breasts, not quite touching , just teasing. “Hobi,” you breathe, and he lets out a shaky exhale like the sound of his name from your lips does something to him he wasn’t ready for.

“This okay?” he asks, voice thick, lips brushing the corner of your mouth.

You nod, fingers tangling in the open edges of his robe. “Yes. Please.”

That’s all it takes and his mouth is back on yours, hungry now, and you match his pace, letting him tip you back slightly as he shifts higher on the bed, your bodies aligned and pressed close in all the right places. His hands finally cup your chest, drawing a soft whimper from you, and he kisses the sound from your lips, swallowing every sigh like a promise.

Every touch is a contrast. Where he used to be precise and calculated, here he’s bold and greedy. Where his hands used to steady your center of gravity in a spin, now they explore like he wants to find your edges, and where his body used to move with yours in perfect timing for the audience, now it moves for you and only you.

It’s messy. It’s sweet. It’s slow but burning.

And when he finally pulls back for air, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen from kissing, he whispers, “You’ve always been art. I just never thought I’d get to trace the lines this way.”

Your heart stutters. You press your forehead to his and whisper back, “Then don’t stop.”

His breath hitches at your words, not just from the way you say them, soft and sure, but from the way your hands frame his face like he’s something precious. He swallows hard, his eyes flickering over yours like he’s searching for doubt and finding none.

“I won’t,” he murmurs, and then he kisses you again. Deeper this time, not in a rush, but with that same aching certainty that you both feel thrumming beneath your skin.

The kiss grows, building slowly, like a rhythm only the two of you know. His hands trace every dip and curve of your body, familiar landmarks from choreography but now explored with reverence and curiosity. Where his grip once corrected your alignment or steadied your turns, now it’s a slow slide down your back, the press of his palm on the small of your waist drawing you in closer, until there’s no space left at all.

You shift slightly, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his legs, straddling him with ease, your fingers slipping beneath the robe to rest on his bare shoulders. He’s warm beneath your touch, and you lean into it, noses brushing, foreheads nearly touching again.

“This feels… different,” you say quietly, heart pounding.

His thumb brushes over the skin just above the waistband of your shorts. “Because it is.”

He doesn’t say more, but he doesn’t have to. You can feel it in the way he holds you, like he’s afraid this might slip through his fingers if he rushes it. You tilt his face up again, kissing the corner of his mouth, then just below his jaw, and when he exhales, it comes out shaky, his hands fisting lightly in the fabric of your tank top like he’s grounding himself in the moment.

Your lips find him again, slower this time, testing, tasting, and he responds with equal care. Like he’s learning you, not just touching you. His hands roam again, but never in a way that feels rushed or impatient. They settle on your hips, tugging you gently into a deeper kiss that leaves you gasping, flush with want and warmth.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he murmurs into your mouth, words barely there. Are you leaving him so speechless that’s all he can say? Hoseok the incredible lyricist?

You smile against his lips, catching his bottom one gently between your teeth before letting go. “Good.”

He laughs under his breath, soft, breathy, a little disbelieving. “You’ve been driving me crazy since rehearsal one.”

You tilt your head, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Since the first rehearsal, huh?”

He nods, eyes dropping to your lips again. “You walked in like you weren’t even trying to impress anyone. And then you danced like you had nothing to prove. That confidence?” He presses a kiss just beneath your ear. “It wrecked me.”

Your breath catches, and you lean into him, fingers threading through his hair. “You hid it really well.”

He chuckles, hands gripping your hips a little tighter. “Did I? Because I was struggling.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, full and warm and he kisses you again like he wants to capture that sound, that spark between you. It's intimate in a way that makes your pulse race, not just because of the nearness or the tension. But because for the first time, you're seeing Hoseok not just as the dancer, the choreographer, the professional, but as a man who wants you. Who sees you.

Your fingers drift down, slipping beneath the edge of his robe as your mouth trails after them. You press a kiss to the hollow of his throat, then another just above his collarbone. His breathing deepens, one hand sliding to your thigh, the other threading lightly into your hair.

You pull the robe apart a little more, exposing the smooth plane of his chest, the curve of muscle beneath warm, flushed skin. You kiss along his collar, slow and teasing, until you reach the center of his chest. You feel his heart racing beneath your lips.

His hand tightens gently in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself as your mouth moves lower. You shift slightly in his lap, your tongue flicking against the skin just below his sternum. His head tips back a little, jaw tense, a low sound catching in his throat.

“This okay?” you murmur against his skin, voice breathy but sure.

He nods without hesitation, his voice rough when he says, “Yeah. Yeah, it’s more than okay.”

You continue, slow and unhurried, kissing your way down the defined lines of his torso. Your lips trail lower, slow and deliberate. His skin is warm beneath your mouth, smooth and slightly tense like he’s holding himself back. You smile against him, exhaling softly as you kiss just above the line where his robe parts.

He shifts beneath you, his breath hitching when your fingers ghost along the edges of the fabric, following the trail of faint hair that disappears beneath the soft tie at his waist. Your lips press to that line, just below his navel, feeling the way he twitches at the contact, the way his hand tightens lightly in the bedsheets beside him.

You glance up, catching the dazed look in his eyes. “Still okay?” you ask, your voice a whisper.

He nods, his voice low and rough. “Yeah. You’re…driving me crazy.”

With slow fingers, you untie the knot of his robe, easing it open. He lets you, lifting slightly so you can slip it off completely. Beneath it he is wearing…nothing.

The robe pools at his sides and your eyes take him in, heart hammering at the sight of him laid out for you like this so open, so bare. You kiss along the line of his happy trail, teasing, not rushing, letting him feel the heat of your breath and the care in your touch.

You let your hands explore him with slow confidence, tracing the lines of his hips and the curve of his thighs as if you’re memorizing him by touch alone. He leans back on his elbows, eyes heavy-lidded, watching you with a look that’s equal parts wonder and heat. You’ve danced with him, felt his body move against yours night after night, but this is different. This isn’t choreography, it’s instinct. It’s want.

The gasp that leaves his mouth when you finally wrap your fingers around his cock is truly music to your ears. Your lips follow your hands, pressing soft kisses across his skin, taking your time. The way he breathes, shallow, and uneven, lets you know just how much he’s feeling every light stroke. You test the waters trailing your fingers across his thigh while you add slight pressure to your grip on his girthy length. You’re attentive, learning what makes him gasp, and what makes him whisper your name like it’s a secret too sacred to speak too loud.

You sink to your knees between his legs. He is beautiful like this, unguarded and flushed, his lips slightly parted, and his eyes burning with something that feels like awe. You meet his gaze as you lean in, letting your lips ghost over the sensitive skin of his lower stomach, closer, lower, until you hear the smallest hitch in his breath.

When your mouth finally wraps around him, his whole body jerks despite his effort to relax. His hands fly out gripping the sheets. You take your time, slow and attentive, letting every flick of your tongue, every hollow of your cheeks, every soft hum say what you can’t out loud: that you want him to feel good, to feel cared for, to feel wanted.

One of his hands finds your hair and he doesn’t push, just holds on grounding himself. With ease, despite his size, you take his entire length in your mouth. Hoseok throws his head back against the bed when his tip touches the back of your throat. You sink down further swallowing around his tip until you can feel he’s nearing his peak.

With quick movements you work your mouth up and down his length, his fingers tightening in your hair. His hips lift off the mattress accompanied by a slew of grunts and breathy moans.

“YN, I’m so close. Suck it, please!” He whines, as you continue sucking his cock.

Hoseok tenses as his high approaches and it only takes one more expert hollow of your cheeks before he’s spilling into your mouth. You swallow every drop without a thought making sure he’s looking into your eyes as you do so.

After everything settles, the room feels warmer, quieter. The hum of the city outside is muffled, and the only sounds are the soft breaths you both take. Hoseok’s hand is resting gently on your side, his fingers tracing light, absent patterns on your skin. You both lie there, side by side, the weight of everything that’s passed hanging in the air but not needing to be said.

You feel the heat of his body beside yours, the closeness, the tenderness of the moment. Hoseok shifts a little, pulling you closer, his arm wrapping around you protectively as he tucks you against his chest. It feels easy, natural, like this is where you both are meant to be, even if the world outside might be a little more complicated.

“I wasn’t sure how to do this,” he admits softly, his voice still thick with emotion. “I wasn’t sure if it was the right time, or if you’d even want to...but I couldn’t help it. Being around you, it just feels different.”

You smile gently, resting your head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart against your ear making everything feel so much more real. “I get it,” you whisper back, your fingers lightly tracing the outline of his hand on your skin. “Sometimes, it’s hard to know when the right moment is. But this…this feels right.”

His breath hitches slightly, and he squeezes you just a little tighter. The way he holds you, it’s not just out of physical desire. It’s soft, like he wants to protect you, keep you safe in this quiet bubble of understanding.

“I’m glad,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to mess things up. I don’t want to make things weird between us.”

“You haven’t,” you say quickly, lifting your head to meet his eyes. The vulnerability in them makes your heart flutter. “We’re good, Hobi. Whatever this is, it’s good.”

His lips curl into a smile, the relief obvious in his eyes. “You’re something else, you know that?” His voice is light now, teasing but with an underlying affection that’s impossible to ignore.

You chuckle softly, resting your hand on his chest. “I’m just being honest,” you reply with a playful smile, tracing a small patch of skin near his collarbone. “But...I’m glad you feel the same way. We don’t have to rush anything.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, his thumb brushing gently over your arm. “No rush.”

The two of you stay like that for a while, the intimacy between you speaking volumes in the silence. There’s no pressure, no expectation, just the warmth of the moment and the comfort of being together.

Hoseok tilts his head, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m happy you’re here,” he whispers.

You smile, your heart feeling fuller than it has in a long time. “Me too, Hobi. Me too.”

The quiet stretches on, peaceful and warm, until the soft glow of the TV catches your eye.

“Is that…Run BTS?” you ask with a laugh, glancing at the paused screen. Hoseok grins sheepishly.

“I was watching it before you came over. Helps me unwind.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Watching yourself unwind helps you unwind?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, reaching for the remote. “It’s not like that. I like the chaos, and the editing always surprises me. Want to watch?”

You nod, shifting so your head rests more comfortably on his chest, legs tangled beneath the blankets. He presses play, and the familiar jingle rings out, drawing an immediate smile from both of you. It’s one of the older episodes—something chaotic involving fruit, blindfolds, and Seokjin’s scream echoing in the background.

You’re both laughing within minutes.

Hoseok pauses the show every so often to add commentary, who was actually terrified, what didn’t make the cut, the ridiculous inside jokes that carried on for weeks afterward. You soak up each detail, loving the way he lights up with every memory.

At one point, you’re laughing so hard you have to cover your face with the blanket, and Hoseok just watches you, totally enchanted. He doesn’t even try to hide it. When the episode ends and the screen fades to black, the room softens again, quiet and intimate.

You’re lying face-to-face now, close enough to share breath. The way he looks at you, soft, unguarded, pulls the air from your lungs.

“I was thinking…” he begins, voice quiet. He hesitates, then exhales, brushing his fingers along your wrist.

“What?”

“Come to Oakland early. With me.”

You blink. “Early?”

“Yeah. The others aren’t flying in for a few days, but I have a window. I know a house we can rent, somewhere quiet. Just us. We don’t have to hide or explain anything to anyone for a little while.”

You stare at him, stunned, but not in a bad way. Just trying to catch up with how fast your heart is racing.

“Just us?” you ask softly.

He nods, the corner of his mouth pulling into a hopeful smile. “Just us.”

The idea settles in your chest like sunlight through a window, warm, daring, and unfamiliar in the best kind of way.

You nod. “Okay. Let’s go.”

He lets out a breath you didn’t realize he was holding and threads your fingers together. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, over and over again, like he can’t believe you’re really saying yes.

“Okay,” he echoes, quieter this time. “Then it’s a plan.”

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in each other and something that feels dangerously close to hope. The TV glows quietly in the background, but you’re already dreaming of something more.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You slip quietly into your hotel room in San Antonio, trying not to make any noise, but Yunjin’s already wide awake, sitting cross-legged on the bed in her pajamas, arms crossed.

“Where the hell have you been?” she asks, her tone a perfect mix of concern and suspicion.

You freeze, a bit caught off guard, but keep your cool. “I ran into an old friend,” you lie smoothly, setting your bag down by your suitcase. “They realized I was in San Antonio, so we met up.”

Yunjin narrows her eyes, skeptical. “An old friend?”

You nod too quickly. “Yep.”

She stares at you, her brow arching higher when she spots you opening your suitcase and starting to pack. “Okay, and why are you packing? We’re not leaving for like, three more days.”

“I am,” you say, tossing a few shirts in. “I’m flying out early. Gonna spend a couple days with my cousin Soobin in the Bay before we hit Oakland.”

Yunjin’s eyes light up. “Wait—hot cousin Soobin?”

You groan out loud. “Why does everyone call him that?”

“Because he’s hot,” she says plainly, flopping back into the pillows. “Also tall. Didn’t he model for that skincare brand one time?”

“Briefly,” you mutter, trying to keep a straight face while stuffing a pair of jeans into your duffel.

She props herself up on one elbow and watches you for a beat. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You so are, and don’t think I didn’t notice how you didn’t answer any of my texts last night.”

“I was catching up. Lost track of time.”

Yunjin doesn’t press, but her knowing smile lingers. “Fine. Go see Hot Soobin, but if you fall in love with your cousin, I’m not helping you sort through that emotional damage.”

You throw a sock at her.

She cackles and waves you off. “Have fun, don’t get sunburned, and text me if you’re coming back with a whole secret boyfriend.”

You just smile, a little too tight, and zip up your bag. “I’ll let you know.”

As you walk out the door, heart hammering, all you can think about is Hoseok, Oakland, and how you’re suddenly living a secret in plain sight.

You take separate cars to the airport, just like he asked, low-key, no attention, no reason for anyone to suspect anything. The sun is barely up, the horizon still soft with the color of sleep as your rides pull up on opposite ends of a small private terminal just outside of San Antonio.

You clutch your overnight bag a little tighter as you step onto the tarmac. Then you see him. Hoseok, standing just outside the sleek jet with sunglasses on and a coffee in hand, looking like he’s walked straight out of a daydream. The wind tousles his hair a little, and he grins when he sees you, flashing a dimple like a secret meant just for you.

Your steps slow as you take it all in, the shine of the jet, the gentle hum of the engines, the flight crew giving polite nods and treating you like you belong here. You’ve never flown like this before. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to it.

Hoseok meets you halfway, offering his hand to help you up the stairs. “Good timing,” he says. “We’ll be in the air before the rest of the city’s even awake.”

You glance back over your shoulder at the runway stretching out behind you, still trying to ground yourself in the moment. “This is...wow.”

He squeezes your fingers. “It’s just a plane.”

You shoot him a look. “You say that like it’s a taxi.”

He chuckles and leads you up into the jet, stepping aside so you can get the full view.

It’s pristine. Minimalist luxury. Soft cream leather seats, dark wood paneling, warm lights dimmed to a golden glow. Everything feels quiet. Private. Safe.

There’s no one else aboard, just you, Hoseok, and the pilots, tucked away behind a closed door with frosted windows. It hits you then: this is intentional. This is his way of giving you space, time, and privacy.

You turn slowly, drinking it all in, and when you meet his eyes again, he’s watching you like he’s trying to memorize this moment too.

“Just us?” you ask.

“Just us,” he confirms softly, voice low, warm.

You walk to the plush bench-style seating along the side, setting your bag down and sitting. He follows, sliding in beside you, his knee brushing yours. There’s no press, no rush, just the slow awareness settling in your chest that for the next few hours, it’s only you and him in the sky.

You look out the small oval window, then back at him. “Is it always this quiet?”

“Not always,” he says. “But I wanted this one to be.”

You smile, heart thudding in your throat. “I like it.”

His fingers brush over yours again, gentle, unspoken, and your pulse spikes all over again.

The plane begins to taxi, a soft rumble underfoot as the engines build to a quiet roar. You feel the subtle shift of momentum as it lifts off the runway, climbing into the sky. Hoseok reaches for your hand as the pressure kicks in, fingers intertwining with yours naturally, like they’ve done it a hundred times before.

You glance over and catch him looking at you, his eyes dipping briefly to your neckline before flicking up again with a soft, guilty smile. The air between you grows warmer despite the cool hum of the cabin’s climate control. You settle in beside him on the wide bench, legs curling beneath you slightly, and his arm comes to rest along the back, fingers brushing the top of your shoulder.

“Comfy?” he asks, voice low and full of a private sort of amusement.

You smirk. “Very.”

It’s quiet for a beat. The low hum of the jet, the occasional ding from the cockpit, the softest sound of your breathing.

Then Hoseok shifts a little closer, his thigh pressed to yours now, warm and solid through your skirt. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this relaxed on a flight,” he murmurs, turning toward you more fully. His fingers move to your shoulder, tracing down your arm in a light touch that leaves goosebumps in its wake.

Your breath hitches slightly. “Guess I have that effect.”

He laughs quietly, a rich sound, and then his hand stills just above your knee. “You really do.”

The touch is familiar and new all at once, like the memory of his hands on your waist during rehearsals, guiding your movements with careful precision, except now it’s different. Now there’s no audience. No choreography. Just curiosity and want.

You look at him, caught in the warmth of his gaze and the gentle pull between you. “This isn’t like rehearsal,” you say, voice soft.

“No,” he agrees, his thumb brushing slow circles against your bare thigh. “It’s not.”

He leans in, just slightly, close enough for you to feel the breath of his words on your skin. You tilt your head and your noses nearly brush, the tension stretching and coiling sweetly between you. When his lips finally touch yours, it’s soft and lingering, a slow exploration that deepens by degrees.

The kiss is unhurried but full of promise. His hand slips behind your neck, anchoring you gently as your fingers slide up the front of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his chest beneath. Every inch you touch earns you a quiet, contented sigh that rumbles low in his throat.

You shift a little closer, fitting against him as his other hand traces the outside of your thigh, slow and reverent, like he’s still memorizing the shape of you. When you part again, barely, your foreheads rest together as you catch your breath.

“I could get used to this,” he whispers.

You smile. “We’ve got a few hours.”

You curl in a bit closer to him, your legs draped gently across his lap now, and his arm loops behind your waist like it’s meant to be there. The plane hums steadily around you, but up here, everything feels suspended, like time has slowed just for the two of you.

Hoseok brushes his lips against your forehead and then rests his chin atop your head for a beat. “I don’t think I’ve ever done anything like this before,” he admits quietly.

You glance up at him, curious. “You mean flying a girl out?”

He chuckles softly. “I mean…this. Being this impulsive. Letting myself have something I want.”

Your heart trips a little. “Sooo you wanted this?”

He turns his head slightly so your eyes meet again, and the answer is all over his face before he even speaks. “I’ve wanted you for a while,” he says, voice low and sincere. “But I didn’t know if I was allowed to.”

There’s a slight ache in your chest, something tender and fluttery. You lift a hand to brush your fingers through the hair at his temple. “And now?”

His smile is slow, but sure. “Now I’m trying not to think about rules. Just…what feels right.”

You nod, letting his words settle between you, your fingers tracing lazy patterns across his collarbone. “I’ve never done anything like this either,” you admit softly. “Running off with someone. Especially someone like you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Someone like me?”

You smirk. “Charming. Famous. A little too good at body rolls.”

That earns a bright laugh from him, full and warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I swear I wasn’t body rolling to seduce you.”

“Mmm, I beg to differ.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “You’re dangerous.”

You lean up, brushing your lips against his again, slow and teasing. “Takes one to know one.”

His hand tightens a little at your hip, grounding you. There’s something unspoken in the air, something bigger than desire. You both feel it. For a long moment, you just sit there like that, tangled up in each other, the outside world forgotten. No stylists. No tour. No rehearsals. Just skin and breath and softness.

Then he murmurs, almost absently, “What do you want this to be?”

You pull back just enough to really look at him, surprised by the question.

“I mean,” he continues, his thumb brushing soothingly against your side, “we don’t have to define it now. I just..want to know how to show up for you.”

Your chest feels tight again, but in a good way this time. Full. Warm.

“I don’t know yet,” you admit honestly. “But I want to find out.”

His smile is quiet but bright. “Yeah. Me too.”

And with that, he pulls you in again, your laughter muffled by another kiss, his hands skimming your back like he’s trying to memorize every curve, every breath. His other hand moves to your thigh, tracing slowly, reverently, until he reaches the edge of your skirt.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your own gaze, a quiet answer, a soft yes. You take his hand and guide it gently beneath the hem of your skirt, skin warming everywhere he touches. Then, with a whisper of a smile, you kiss him again. Deeper this time, needier.

His fingers slide higher, finding the lacy edge of your panties. A sharp exhale leaves his lips against yours when he feels how soft you are. He squeezes the curve of your hip, then your ass, drawing you forward until your chest is flush against his, the heat between you undeniable.

You gasp softly at the pressure, your arms wrapping tighter around his neck, your lips never quite leaving his. Hoseok slips a hand between you quickly dipping his hand into your panties. You grasp his shoulder, sighing against his neck, as his fingers find where you so desperately want him to touch.

He takes his time shifting his touch, not rushed, but exploratory, learning you by feeling alone. Every breath you take turns heavier, every quiet sound you make draws him in further, like he’s intoxicated by the way your body responds to him. Hoseok’s name escapes your lips in a whisper, as he slips long fingers inside of you. His free hand finds the back of your head, stroking your hair, all while continuing to kiss you.

Your breath stutters when at the same moment his lips trail down your jaw, his thumb finds your clit drawing soft, slow circles. You bury your face in his shoulder, and he leans in closer, his hot breath against your ear.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, his voice rough. “You feel like a dream.”

His fingers continue to trace delicate circles that make your body arch instinctively toward him, and his hand slides down to your shoulder blade gripping you just slightly tighter.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he murmurs between soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, your neck. “Every time you look at me like that, every time you move with me onstage, I swear I almost forget the choreography.”

You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you, your heart clenching at the mix of heat and sweetness in his voice. He grips your hip encouraging you to ride his fingers. Of course, you would do anything for him. You roll your hips forward and he makes an appreciative sound.

“I’ve wanted this,” he admits, almost like a confession. “You. Just like this. For longer than I’ll ever admit out loud.”

Your eyes meet, breathless and warm. You lean in to kiss him again and he hums against your lips, deep and content. Losing yourself in the feeling of his fingers deep inside you is easy. You can’t help the soft noises that fall from your lips encouraging him to keep going. The pleasure is building much quicker than you thought it would. It usually takes your partners quiet some time but with him even looking in his direction makes you feel as if you could—

“God, you’re incredible,” he breathes.

Hoseok lifts your shirt exposing your breasts so he can lay soft kisses on them. He continues this in tandem with his never relenting fingers building and building and building your pleasure. After several minutes he sucks a dark purple mark low on your breast and the absolutely delicious feeling sends you over the edge. Shaking, and whimpering from just how good he feels, Hoseok holds you against his chest. He pats your head and whispers how beautiful you are and that you are so good.

The cabin is quiet except for the low hum of the plane and the muffled sound of your heartbeat still echoing in your ears. You press one last kiss to Hoseok’s jaw before slipping off his lap, smoothing your skirt down with shaky hands. He watches you with a soft, contented smile, one that lingers even as you murmur something about needing the bathroom and disappear behind the narrow door.

Inside, the overhead light is too bright. You stare at your reflection for a long moment, cheeks flushed, hair slightly mussed, lips kiss-bitten. You look…different. Like you’ve crossed some invisible line you can’t uncross. You turn on the faucet, cupping cool water in your palms, pressing it gently to your face. The cold sting helps, but only a little. It doesn’t stop the thoughts from creeping in.

Why you?

It’s not the first time you’ve wondered. Hoseok is well, Hoseok. World-famous. Charismatic. Effortlessly talented. Gorgeous in that infuriating, unfair way. Yet he kisses you like you are the only person who has ever mattered. Touches you like you are something rare.

But the doubt digs in anyway.

Maybe it is just a moment. Maybe it didn’t mean what you want it to mean. Maybe he is just caught up in the tension of the tour, the thrill of secrecy. Maybe this is just another city, another stop—and you’re just part of the scenery.

You grip the edge of the small sink tighter.

No, you think, forcing yourself to breathe. He looked at you like he meant it. He asked what you wanted this to be. He brought you here.

But still…the questions simmer beneath the surface.

What if you get hurt? What if this is temporary for him? What if you're just the distraction?

You dry your hands slowly, your heartbeat steadier now but your chest still heavy. When you finally open the bathroom door, you find Hoseok waiting, already looking up.

“Hey,” he says softly, and there’s something in his voice that makes your pulse trip again. “You okay?”

You nod, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Just…needed a second.”

His brow furrows, just slightly. “You sure?”

You hesitate.

Do you tell him? Or do you keep pretending it’s nothing?

You manage a small smile and nod again, this time more gently. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Hoseok doesn’t press. He just reaches out a hand and tugs you back toward the plush couch, guiding you to sit beside him again. You curl into his side, your cheek resting against the familiar warmth of his chest. His arm wraps around your shoulders, easy and natural, like he was always meant to hold you like this.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The low rumble of the plane is steady, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat in the background. You feel his fingers stroke absently along your arm, tracing lazy shapes that make your skin hum. He smells like something faintly spicy and clean, and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to smell it again without thinking of this exact moment.

Still, your thoughts won’t quiet down.

His thumb grazes your shoulder, and you think, Why me?

You’ve been asking yourself since the moment his mouth first met yours. Since the moment he looked at you like he was seeing something precious.

He could have anyone. Absolutely anyone. People throw themselves at him. Beautiful, glamorous, famous people. And yet…here you are. On his private plane. Wrapped in his arms. Feeling like the luckiest person in the world and the most uncertain one at the same time.

You close your eyes, trying to memorize the weight of his arm around you, the steadiness of his breath against your temple. Part of you wants to sink into it completely, to let yourself believe this could be real, that it could mean something. But another part stays curled up inside your chest, tight with the fear that maybe you’re just temporary.

He doesn’t say anything and just holds you closer, brushing his lips against the top of your head so softly it feels like a question. You don’t answer. Not yet. You just breathe him in and try not to get too lost in what it feels like to be chosen…and wonder why it’s so hard to believe you deserve it.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The car pulls up to a small house nestled in a quiet neighborhood just outside Oakland, the kind of place with winding roads and wildflowers sprouting through the cracks in the pavement. It’s unassuming, painted in soft earth tones with a wide front porch and ivy curling along the railings, but there’s something comforting about it. Hidden. Safe. Like the world can’t touch you here.

As soon as the driver opens the trunk, you’re reaching for your suitcase when suddenly—

“Hey!” you squeal, laughing as Hoseok sweeps you into his arms.

He’s already halfway up the steps by the time you protest. “Hobi, seriously! Put me down.”

“Nope,” he grins. “I’m making a memory.”

“You’re being dramatic!”

“I’m being romantic,” he corrects with a wink, nudging open the front door with his hip before stepping inside. “There’s a difference.”

The inside is just as cozy as the outside promised, light wood floors, soft neutral walls, and wide windows that let the golden late-afternoon light spill through. The air smells faintly like lavender and something clean, like freshly laundered sheets.

Hoseok carries you straight to the couch and lowers you gently onto the cushions with a little flourish. “Your chariot has arrived, my lady.”

You laugh again, breathless, as he dashes back out to grab your bags. While he’s gone, you kick off your shoes, pull a throw blanket over your lap, and flip through the streaming options until you land on a movie that’s easy and warm, something nostalgic. By the time he returns, lugging both your suitcase and his into the primary bedroom, you’ve already curled up with a pillow and settled in.

He reappears a few minutes later, a little tousled from the effort, his hoodie slouchy and his hair flopping into his eyes. There’s no makeup, no stylist, no flash or stage lighting—just him. And somehow, it makes your breath catch a little. This is a version of Hoseok the world rarely gets to see. Softer. Gentler.

He drops onto the couch beside you, then shifts so his head lands easily in your lap, one hand reaching for the blanket to tug it over both of you.

“Comfy?” you ask, threading your fingers through his hair.

He hums, low and content. “Mmhmm. You make it comfy.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest warms anyway. His eyes are half-lidded as he watches the screen, but every now and then, you catch him glancing up at you instead. Just watching. Like he still can’t believe you’re really here.

And even with all the noise still stirring in the back of your mind, wondering what this means, you let yourself smile and run your fingers gently through his hair again.

Later you are in the kitchen, which is small but charming, with terracotta tile floors and wooden shelves lined with mismatched mugs and little jar of herbs. You both settle easily into the rhythm of cooking, moving around each other, bumping hips in the narrow space, laughing when Hoseok fumbles with the garlic press like it’s a foreign object.

“You don’t cook much, do you?” you tease, nudging his elbow as he squints down at a recipe on his phone.

“I cook!” he defends, brandishing a wooden spoon. “I just…delegate garlic duty.”

You giggle and reach for the cloves, brushing your fingers against his in the process. He doesn’t pull away. In fact, he lets his hand linger just a second too long. You feel the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth again. He’s not subtle about the way his eyes slide down your neck when you lean forward to stir the pasta, or how he rests a hand on your waist as he steps around you to reach for the olive oil.

It’s warm. Easy. Intimate.

Dinner turns out surprisingly good, cacio e pepe with a simple salad, and you carry your plates to the small round table by the window. There’s soft music playing from his phone, and the sky outside has dimmed into that dusky shade of blue that always feels a little like magic.

You’re halfway through your plate when the lightness starts to unravel inside you. That nagging thread of doubt that’s been tugging at your chest ever since the plane.

Hoseok looks up when you go quiet, chewing slowly. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

“Hey,” he says gently, setting his fork down. “You’re not fine.”

You sit there a moment, twisting your napkin in your lap. Then, before you can stop yourself—

“I just…” Your voice falters. “I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what I am to you. I know you said we’d figure it out but…”

He doesn’t speak right away, and that makes your stomach twist harder.

You press on, needing to let it out. “I can’t keep pretending everything’s perfect when part of me is scared you’re just…using me. That I’m some tour fling. That you’ve done this a million times before and I’m just…convenient.”

Silence.

Then, softly, he stands and moves around the table, pulling his chair closer until his knees touch yours. He takes your hands in his, eyes steady and open.

“If all I wanted was sex,” he says slowly, “I could’ve had that in Mexico City. You were right there. We were alone. No one would’ve known.”

Your breath catches, but he squeezes your fingers gently.

“But when I kissed you that night…” He exhales a quiet laugh, almost disbelieving. “I swear to god, it took my breath away. I didn’t expect it to feel like that. And right after I knew, one kiss wasn’t going to be enough. Not with you.”

Your throat tightens.

He leans forward, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “I didn’t fly you out here so we could hook up in a rental house. I did it because I wanted time with you. Away from everything. I care about you. Really care about you. I admire how passionate you are, how hard you work, how you move when you dance. I see how everyone on tour looks at you, how they light up because you’re around.”

You blink fast, trying not to cry.

“I haven’t done this a million times,” he adds, voice softer now. “I’ve never done this before.”

The words hit you like a weight and a balm all at once. He could’ve gotten upset at what you suggested but instead he wiped away any worry plaguing your brain.

Slowly, you reach for his face, cradling his jaw as you lean in. He closes his eyes at your touch, like he’s savoring it.

“I don’t want to be scared anymore,” you whisper.

“Then don’t,” he says. “We’ll figure it out together.”

He pulls you into a hug. It’s tight, grounding, real, and in his arms, the knot in your chest finally begins to loosen.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

After dinner, the kitchen is left in a charming disarray, plates in the sink, a few pasta shells on the counter, and a bottle of wine half-finished beside the stove. You both say you’ll clean up later, but neither of you moves.

Instead, you wander into the living room together, where the couch is still warm from earlier and the movie you put on before dinner is paused on the title screen. Hoseok grabs a blanket from the back of the couch, tossing it over the two of you as you settle in.

He lets you curl up beside him first, and then gently shifts so his head rests in your lap again, just like before. You run your fingers lightly through his hair as the movie begins to play, but your attention never really settles on the screen.

It’s on him. On the way his lashes fan against his cheeks. On the way he hums in contentment when you scratch lightly behind his ear. On the way he looks up at you like you’ve hung the stars.

“You’re staring,” he says eventually, cracking one eye open with a teasing smile.

You smile back. “So are you.”

He grins, then shifts to sit upright, sliding an arm around your waist to bring you closer. You both sit there, curled into each other, the quiet hum of the film in the background and the soft rhythm of your breathing syncing up.

You talk about small things. Favorite comfort foods. Embarrassing stories from rehearsals. The time he almost face-planted during a dance break and saved it with a dramatic spin. You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

Later now tangled up on the couch, legs across his lap, your fingers absentmindedly thread through his hair as a soft song plays low from his phone speaker. The world feels far away.

He shifts beneath you, one hand gliding along the bare skin of your thigh, just beneath the hem of your oversized sleep shirt. His thumb moves in slow, teasing circles.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, voice low, gaze on your face like he’s reading every thought.

You hesitate. “Just thinking.”

He waits. Doesn’t press. Just touches you, light as air, patient.

“I guess…” You draw in a breath. “I’m wondering, why me? I mean—” your voice falters as his fingers skim a little higher, “—you could have anyone.”

Hoseok's brows knit together. He shifts so you’re facing him more directly, his hand settling at your waist. “Don’t say that.”

“No,” he says firmly, leaning in, his nose brushing yours. “If I just wanted sex, I wouldn’t have waited. I wouldn’t have brought you here.”

His hand slips under your shirt, splaying warm over your lower back.

“When I kissed you in Mexico City…” His voice drops, almost reverent. “It did something to me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.”

Your breath catches, your body already reacting to his words, to the heat in his eyes.

“I flew you here because I wanted you, not a moment. Not a fling. Just…you.” he reassures you.

He kisses you then. It is slow, deliberate, claiming. His mouth moves with aching sweetness against yours, and it makes you dizzy. You shift in his lap instinctively, needing more of him, and his hands tighten on your hips.

Your shirt rides up as he pulls you closer, his lips finding the curve of your jaw, then down your neck. He murmurs against your skin, “You’re beautiful. You’re everything.”

You whimper as he mouths over your collarbone, one of his hands sliding higher beneath your shirt, fingers tracing the edge of your bra, teasing but not rushing.

“You’re not just anyone,” he says, voice rough. “You’re the one I can’t stop wanting.”

And in the way he touches you, slow and reverent, in the way his breath hitches when your hips roll into his, it feels true. Real. Like something neither of you expected but are both terrified to lose.

Your fingers curl into Hoseok’s shirt as his mouth returns to yours, this time more urgent, more intent. The kind of kiss that says I’ve wanted this all day. His hands roam with purpose now, one tracing your thigh while the other cradles the back of your neck, pulling you even closer.

He stands, lifting you with him like it’s nothing, and you gasp against his lips. “Hobi—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. “Come here.”

You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to him as he carries you toward the bedroom. You’re breathless, laughing softly against his neck until—

You both freeze in the doorway.

Dangling from one side of the headboard are fuzzy pink handcuffs.

You blink. “Um…do your rental people always provide accessories?”

Hoseok sets you down gently on your feet, eyes wide with mock offense. “Absolutely not. I did not tell them to put those there.”

You smirk, reaching out to give one a little tug. “Mmhmm. Sure you didn’t.”

His hands find your waist again. “I didn’t!”

You glance over your shoulder, giving him a playful smile. “Well…I wouldn’t mind using them.”

His eyes darken instantly, hands tightening on your hips. “Is that so?”

You turn back, wiggling your brows, but before you can say another word, he smacks your ass, firm, fast, and just sharp enough to make you gasp.

“Hey!” you laugh, spinning to face him again.

He just grins. “Keep teasing me like that and you’ll find out exactly how serious I am.”

Your heart skips a beat. The air between you goes molten.

You back toward the bed slowly, never breaking eye contact. “Then maybe you should come show me.”

His mouth twitches, trying not to smile, but it’s hopeless. He steps closer, backing you until your knees hit the mattress and you fall back onto it with a little bounce. You pull him down with you, and the next kiss is nothing like the ones before.

It’s heat and hunger and hands everywhere, his fingers tugging your shirt over your head, your hands sliding beneath the hem of his. You’re both stripping off layers, skin meeting skin, the weight of him pressing into you as he settles between your legs. He leaves momentarily to put on protection then returns.

You gasp into his mouth as his hips settle fully between yours, the heat of him radiating through every place your bodies touch. Seeing him before is nothing compared to the feeling of him against you. His hand slips under the curve of your back, pulling you even closer until there’s not an inch of space left. Kissing him alone has turned you on so much that he slips inside of you easily.

“You feel so good,” he groans against your neck. “So perfect.”

You arch into him, nails dragging along his back. “Don’t stop…”

“I won’t,” he promises, kissing you again—slow and deep, like he’s trying to write it into your bones. “Not tonight.”

The world has narrowed to this bed, this moment and his breath hot against your neck, the rasp of his voice sending shivers down your spine.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your collarbone. The motion of his hips is slow, he is letting you feel every inch without needing to rush. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been thinking about this? About you?”

Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips trail down your chest, pausing to look up at you, his eyes darker now, pupils blown wide with heat. He looks down watching himself push in and out of you before he tilts his head back closing his eyes as he relishes in the feel of you. You bite your bottom lip, already hot from the tension strung tight between you.

“I think about you all the time,” he says, voice low and rough. “The way you laugh. The way you move. That little smirk when you know you’re getting under my skin…”

He thrusts harder and you arch against him involuntarily, and he groans, mouth dragging back up to yours like he can’t stand to be apart for even a second. He feels so good.

“Hobi,” you whisper, trembling under the weight of everything he’s making you feel. “I want this. I want you.”

His hand slides up your thigh again, slowly, memorizing the way your skin feels under his touch.

“You have me,” he says simply. “You’ve had me since the first time you looked at me like you saw something more.”

Hoseok sits up gripping your thighs as he quickens the pace of his strokes pulling sweet moans from your lips. His face is full of expressions you’ve never seen before. Facial expressions that are just for you. His hands wander exploring the beautiful curves of your body.

After several minutes you speak up knowing if you don’t you might not get all that you want. You grip his biceps until he looks into your eyes, halting his motion.

“Please handcuff me to the bed.”

His expression shifts in an instant. His eyes lock on yours, his jaw tightening a bit.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, squeezing your thigh absentmindedly.

You nod, your voice steady. “Please. I trust you.”

His lips curve into something wicked and sweet all at once. Hoseok slips out of you, leaving you with an empty feeling. “Lie back, baby.”

You lie back slowly, heart pounding with anticipation as Hoseok rises from the bed to unclip the handcuffs from the bedpost. The sound of the metal clinking lightly in his hands sends a thrill through your chest. He arranges the pillow around you for support.

He returns to your side, eyes locked on yours with a seriousness that makes your breath catch.

“If anything feels off, you tell me. Right away,” he says, voice low but firm, his fingers brushing your cheek in a way that makes you melt.

You nod, unable to speak just yet, so overwhelmed by the moment, by him. “I will.”

His expression softens just a little. “Good.”

Then his hands are guiding your wrists above your head, the fur-lined cuffs cool against your skin. He fastens them with care, double-checking the fit, and kisses the inside of each wrist as he does.

“You look so good like this,” he murmurs, running a hand down your side, slow and deliberate. “Completely mine.”

You gasp softly, your body arching toward him on instinct, craving more of his touch, his weight, his warmth.

His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly, followed by a trail of kisses. One hand strokes your hip, the other braced near your shoulder like he’s anchoring you both.

Every look, every movement, is full of reverence but there’s fire in it too, restrained only by his iron self-control. And even though you’re the one restrained, you don’t feel powerless. You feel wanted and craved, adored, devoured by his gaze alone. He ducks between your thighs pushing them against the side of his head for a moment before he licks a bold strip along your folds. Your thighs involuntarily squeeze and he moans against your pussy.

His tongue flicks your most sensitive area and he holds you down, stopping you from arching off the bed. You tug against the cuff wanting to pull his hair but having no way to do so. Being completely at his will is lighting a fire deep inside you. Hoseok licks, kisses and sucks you like it’s his favorite thing he’s ever done.

You shift beneath him, trying to get closer, but your arms don’t budge, caught in the gentle hold of the cuffs. The sensation only heightens your need, every touch, every breath shared between you feeling more intense, more intimate.

He slides back up, settling his weight over you, forearms braced on either side of your head. His nose brushes yours as he whispers, “Tell me what you want.”

You part your lips to answer, but he steals the breath from you with another kiss, deep and slow and consuming, leaving you gasping when he finally pulls back.

“Say it,” he urges, voice rough, “and it’s yours.”

“Make me cum with your mouth, please.”

He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before doing as you so nicely asked. He comes back with a new vigor, letting you arch off the bed into his face. Hoseok lets you rub your pussy across his tongue bringing you to new levels of pleasure that sends a shiver up your spine. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, squeezing your soft ass as he brings you to the brink of an orgasm. Then he chuckles looking up at you.

“Hoseok! Please, don’t stop!” You beg, batting your eyelashes at him as you struggle against your restraint. Somehow not being able to touch him is making this far more exhilarating.

He dives back in, lapping his tongue across you until you are shaking and overwhelmed. Once again, he laughs, kissing your thighs before moving beside you. His fingers graze your breasts playing with your nipple for a moment before he sits back against the headboard and unlocks your hands.

Immediately you grab his face pulling him in for a heated kiss as you straddle him, sinking down onto his waiting cock. You don’t give him a second to get acclimated rolling your hips until you earn the sounds you are so desperate to hear. Hoseok grabs your ass after a few seconds holding on while he finds the right rhythm to fuck into you.

“You feel so good.” Hoseok mumbles against your chest.

His lips skim over your chest, slow and deliberate, every kiss sending a jolt of heat spiraling through your core. The steady rhythm of your bodies moving together has you spiraling, the pleasure climbing higher than you ever expected. You’d imagined what it would feel like to be with him, late at night, alone, tangled in sheets, but nothing prepared you for this.

Every movement is purposeful. He reads your body like a language only he understands, every roll of your hips met with a low groan that rumbles in his throat. You use his shoulders for balance, adjusting your angle until you hit that perfect spot that makes your whole body hum. He notices immediately and his breath stutters, his hands tightening on your waist as he murmurs a quiet, “That’s it, just like that.”

Hoseok buries his face against your chest, arms wrapping around you to hold you close. You feel the full strength of him in every motion, every flex of muscle as he drives into you, deep and slow at first, then faster, more urgent. Your hands slide into his hair, desperate to anchor yourself to something, someone, as your breath quickens and your moans fill the air.

“That’s right, baby,” he says between heavy breaths. “You can be as loud as you want here. No one’s around. Just me. Just us.”

When he lifts you slightly, you whimper at the loss, but his eyes are locked on yours, dark and serious in a way that sends your pulse racing. “Turn around.”

You do, your body moving on instinct. Knees sinking into the mattress, you rest your head against the sheets and arch your back, presenting yourself for him without hesitation. It’s bold, it’s vulnerable, but it feels right.

His hands trail down your spine, a gentle graze that makes your breath hitch. Then his fingers slide inside you again, slow, rhythmic strokes that draw soft gasps from your lips, building you up all over again. When he finally presses into you, deeper than before, a shiver runs through your entire body.

The sensation is overwhelming in the best way. This angle hits different. Fuller. More consuming.

“God, you feel…” he doesn’t even finish the sentence, just lets out a deep, unrestrained groan that sets you alight.

“Hoseok,” you moan into the blankets, unable to hold it in. “You feel so good.”

He grips your hips tighter, his rhythm picking up, bodies crashing together in a storm of need and connection. Your breath stutters, your thoughts scatter and in that moment, there’s only this. The heat. The rhythm. The overwhelming sense that something inside you is coming undone, only to be rebuilt by his hands.

The rhythm builds, fast and relentless, until every part of you is burning. Hoseok’s grip on your hips tightens, guiding you back into every deep thrust, your bodies colliding in perfect sync. Your moans mix with his ragged breathing, the sounds echoing in the room like a shared song, raw and unfiltered.

He groans, leaning over you, his chest pressed to your back. His hand slides up your spine, slow and possessive, until he’s got a firm grip in your hair. Not pulling, just holding, grounding you both.

You arch back into him, chasing every spark he’s setting off inside you. “Don’t stop,” you gasp. “Please don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He buries himself deeper, hips snapping against yours, his mouth finding your shoulder to press kisses between quiet curses.

Then his hand slides down your stomach, between your thighs, and the way he touches you there, gentle but purposeful, pulls a strangled cry from your lips. “That’s it,” he murmurs in your ear, lips brushing your skin. “Just like that. Let me take care of you.”

The heat coils tighter, pleasure building at a blinding pace. Your whole body trembles as you near the edge, and Hoseok knows, of course he does. He can feel it in the way you tighten around him, in the way your cries get sharper, breathless.

“Come for me,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

That’s all it takes.

Your whole body seizes with pleasure, white-hot and all-consuming. You fall apart around him, and he follows, hips faltering as he groans your name against your shoulder, holding you like he never wants to let go.

When it’s over, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest, both of you still breathless, skin slick with sweat, hearts racing in unison.

Neither of you speaks at first. There’s no need. The silence between you is soft, full, peaceful in a way that makes your chest ache.

Eventually, he presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder and murmurs, “Still think this is just about sex?”

You laugh, quiet and warm, and turn your head to look at him. “Maybe just really amazing sex.”

He grins. “I’ll take it.”

You rest your forehead against his. “And maybe…something more.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, and the way he looks at you then—like you’re the only thing he wants to see—says it all.

The world feels quieter now.

Your bodies are still tangled together, limbs draped without care, his arm a heavy and comforting weight across your waist. Hoseok’s breathing evens out slowly, his chest rising and falling against your back as he presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder, then nestles in closer, like he can’t quite get enough.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, voice soft and a little hoarse.

You nod, still catching your breath. “More than okay.”

He hums, pleased, and nudges his nose into the curve of your neck. “Good.”

You lie there like that for a while, just existing in the same space, letting the buzz in your veins quiet into something calm. Your fingers trace idle patterns along his forearm, and his thumb strokes your hip under the sheet in a lazy rhythm, like he’s drawing invisible circles of reassurance.

Eventually, you roll onto your side to face him, and he shifts to accommodate you, tucking a hand beneath your cheek and brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. He looks different like this, softer in the warm lamplight, eyes heavy-lidded but shining, a little smile tugging at his lips.

“You always this cuddly after?” you tease, voice light.

He chuckles, nudging your nose with his. “Only with you.”

That makes your heart flutter. You glance down at your fingers curled against his chest, at the way his hand rests so easily on your hip. It feels like something sacred, like maybe this isn’t just a fling or a few stolen nights. It feels like something you might be able to hold onto.

“I like this,” you say quietly. “Just…us.”

His smile grows, slow and tender. “Me too.”

You nuzzle into his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. He pulls the blanket up around you both and hooks a leg around yours like he’s trying to cocoon you in. It’s safe here. It’s simple.

And as your eyes begin to flutter shut, you feel his lips press one last kiss to your temple. “Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You wake slowly, the golden morning light spilling in through the curtains. Everything smells faintly of sunshine and sleep, warm skin, fresh sheets, and something delicious drifting in from the kitchen.

You stretch, a little sore in the best way, and sit up just as the bedroom door nudges open. Hoseok walks in with a tray balanced in his hands, wearing nothing but a pair of soft grey sweats that hang low on his hips and a boyish grin.

“Morning, beautiful,” he says, setting the tray on the bed. “I didn’t know your exact coffee order, so I made three different kinds just in case.”

You blink at the mugs, the little stack of pancakes, and the cut-up fruit that looks suspiciously like he arranged it by color. “You’re insane.”

He just laughs and leans over to kiss your forehead. “I’m thorough.”

You giggle and pull him onto the bed beside you, letting your legs tangle beneath the sheets again. He feeds you a strawberry with a dramatic flourish, and you nearly snort your coffee laughing when he pretends to swoon from how cute you are.

“Berry, berry, strawberry.”

You shift the tray so it’s balanced more securely between you and Hoseok, legs tucked beneath the blankets, his thigh pressed warm against yours. He hands you a fork with a little flourish and a wink, like he's your personal chef instead of the global superstar you watched dance under stadium lights just days ago.

“Try that one,” he says, gesturing to the fluffiest stack of pancakes you’ve ever seen. “I added cinnamon and a little nutmeg. Might’ve gone a bit wild.”

You take a bite, still a little dazed by how natural this all feels. “It’s actually insane how good you are at this.”

He raises an eyebrow, grinning. “Cooking?”

“Being perfect,” you mutter around a mouthful of syrupy heaven, cheeks heating slightly.

That makes him laugh, low and warm, and he leans in to kiss the corner of your lips, syrup and all. It’s sweet in every sense. You melt into him a little, like butter under sunlight, your body still buzzing from last night but your heart stealing the show.

Hoseok’s hand slides under the blanket to find your thigh, fingers drawing gentle circles as he rests his head back against the headboard. He closes his eyes, smiling like he’s finally at peace.

“This,” he murmurs, “feels dangerous.”

You glance at him, startled. “Dangerous?”

He opens one eye and looks at you. “Yeah. Like...if I let myself want this too much, I won’t ever want to let it go.”

Your breath catches. The fork stills in your hand.

“Hobi…”

He turns toward you fully now, sitting cross-legged on the bed. The tray gets pushed aside, forgotten for the moment. His eyes are soft but steady, locked on yours.

“I know this started fast. Intense,” he says. “But I don’t want it to be temporary. Not if you don’t.”

The room goes still except for the birds outside and the hum of your own heartbeat.

“I don’t either,” you admit, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know what it looks like, but…I want more mornings like this. More of you.”

Hoseok reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the backs of his fingers brushing your cheek. “Then we’ll make it happen. One quiet, messy, beautiful morning at a time.”

Later you're curled into Hoseok’s side on the couch, your legs tangled together beneath the throw blanket, the quiet hum of the movie long forgotten. At some point, you remember your phone’s been face-down on the coffee table since you arrived and curiosity wins. You reach for it and unlock the screen.

Three missed messages from Yunjin.

Yunjin: how’s everything with your “cousin” soobin 👀 did you guys go hiking? or were you too “tired” from traveling 🤭 also, me rn (attached is a selfie—she’s glowing, with a flirty pout and a peace sign, captioned: “bored and pretty”)

You stifle a laugh, nudging your phone closer to your chest so Hoseok can’t see. “Yunjin thinks I’m visiting my cousin Soobin.”

Hoseok smirks. “Oh, right. Soobin. What a cool guy. Bet he doesn't kiss you like I do.”

You elbow him lightly, trying not to smile too wide. “Gross.”

“I’m just saying.” He leans in to press a kiss just below your ear. “You’re not fooling anyone. You look way too happy to be hanging with your cousin.”

Before you can tease him back, his phone buzzes on the table. It’s lighting up with an incoming video call: Jungkook.

Hoseok’s whole face brightens as he reaches for it. “Jungkookie!”

He answers immediately, barely giving you time to sit up a little straighter.

Jungkook’s face fills the screen with short hair, a bit flushed, military uniform visible. “HYUNG!” he yells. “Did you tell that dancer you have a crush on that you like her?”

The sound is loud enough for you to hear it crystal clear.

You freeze, mouth slightly open, and slowly turn to look at Hoseok.

He pauses for a beat, then, very calmly, tips the phone so Jungkook can see you sitting beside him.

Jungkook blinks.

Then he grins. “OOOOOH. NO WAY.”

Hoseok groans and scrubs a hand over his face. “Jungkook, why are you like this?”

“I’m just saying!” Jungkook’s practically bouncing in the frame. “You wouldn’t shut up about her after Mexico City. I was starting to think you were gonna write a love letter like it’s 2010 or something.”

You cover your mouth, giggling behind your hand. “This is kind of adorable.”

Jungkook gasps, beaming. “SHE’S COOL TOO?! Hyung, marry her.”

“Bye,” Hoseok says flatly, and hangs up with one dramatic tap.

You both burst out laughing, the tension melting away in an instant.

“So,” you say, poking at him with a smirk. “You have a crush on me?”

He turns to you, eyes soft but playful. “I think that part’s pretty obvious now.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The rest of your time at the rental house slips by like a dream, lazy mornings tangled in warm sheets, late nights filled with laughter, movies you barely finish, and takeout eaten cross-legged on the couch. You cook a few meals together, make a mess in the kitchen, steal kisses between stirring and seasoning, and somehow everything tastes better just because it’s shared.

There are countless kisses, some slow and sleepy, others heated and desperate, and sex that leaves you both breathless and grinning, limbs aching in the best way. But it’s not just the physical closeness. It’s the way Hoseok watches you when you talk, the way he pulls you into his chest during quiet moments, the way you catch yourselves smiling for no reason.

It’s comfort. It’s connection. It’s something neither of you say aloud, but it pulses between you like a secret song.

When it’s finally time to pack up and head to the hotel in Oakland, the mood shifts. You don’t want to let go of this version of yourselves. The one that exists only here, in this quiet, hidden place.

As the car pulls away, Hoseok reaches for your hand and holds it tightly, even though you both know that once you step into the hotel, the rest of the world comes rushing back in. And for now, neither of you says a word about it. You just sit there, fingers intertwined, pretending you can stretch the moment a little longer.

By the time the car pulls up to the hotel, the weight of reality settles in. Hoseok gives your hand one final squeeze before letting go, and you both wordlessly fall into your roles again.

To avoid suspicion, you head out first, slipping through the lobby with your hoodie up and sunglasses on, acting like you just got back from a walk or an errand. Hoseok stays behind to give it some time, knowing he’ll follow later through a different entrance. The shift back into secrecy is jarring. It feels colder somehow, even though the air hasn’t changed.

When you reach your room and push open the door, Yunjin is already inside, sprawled across your bed with a big bottle of iced tea and her phone in hand. The second she sees you, she bolts upright.

“There you are! Oh my god, I’ve been texting you! I thought you got kidnapped or something,” she blurts. “So? How’s Soobin?” She puts extra emphasis on the name, waggling her brows. “And what do you mean you ‘might be off-grid for a bit’? Spill!”

You force a laugh, heading toward your suitcase like you’re just tired. “It was fine,” you say casually. “I’m just exhausted, that’s all.”

But Yunjin is sharp, and you know she won’t be satisfied with vague answers for long.

You start changing into something more comfortable, peeling off your top facing her, and that’s when it happens.

“Hold up.” Her voice cuts through the air like a blade. “What is that?”

You freeze.

“What?” you ask, like you don’t know exactly what she’s talking about.

“That,” she repeats, hopping off the bed and pointing toward your chest. “On your boob! Is that a—ew, is that a hickey?!”

Your eyes widen, and you instinctively cover the mark with your hand, spinning back around. “Yunjin—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” she says, holding up her hands dramatically. “You said you were with Soobin. Your cousin. So how the hell did you end up with a love bite there?!” She squints, then fake-gags. “Oh my god, please tell me you’re not—”

“I wasn’t with Soobin,” you cut in, laughing awkwardly. “Okay? I wasn’t.”

She pauses, staring at you like she’s trying to read the truth straight off your skin. “Then where were you? And who the hell gave you that?”

You hesitate, mouth opening, then closing again.

Yunjin sighs dramatically. “Oh my god, this is so juicy and you’re not telling me anything! You’re killing me!”

You flop onto the bed with a groan, covering your face with a pillow. “I can’t tell you right now.”

She flops beside you, grinning like a cat who just caught a bird. “So you are going to tell me. Just not now.”

“Maybe.” You peek at her from under the pillow, giving her a weak smile. “I’ll let you know when I can.”

She squeals, kicking her feet. “This is so much better than your cousin. I knew something was up. I can’t believe I missed it. But whoever it is…that hickey? Respect.”

You groan again, but you're smiling. Just a little.

Because even with all the chaos, it feels good to be back and to know someone’s still in your corner, even if she doesn’t know the whole truth yet.

Rehearsal at Oakland Arena is intense, but in a good way.

The crew is buzzing with energy, eager to polish every step before showtime. Everyone’s focused, and for the first time in a while, it feels like the entire cast is moving in sync. No drama. No tension. Just the music and the movement.

Well…mostly.

Because Hoseok is different.

Not just in his dancing, which is, as always, razor-sharp and fluid, but in the way he carries himself. There’s a new lightness in him, a softened edge, as though something inside has clicked into place. He’s smiling more. Laughing more. Cracking inside jokes with backup dancers and playfully ribbing the choreographer like he’s got a secret no one else knows.

Everyone notices. You notice most of all.

And it’s torture.

You’re back to being professional, back to pretending your skin doesn’t burn every time he brushes past you. There’s no more lounging on couches or sneaking kisses in the kitchen. You can’t reach for his hand or fall asleep tangled together anymore. Now it’s just side glances and stolen seconds.

During your duet, his hand lingers at your waist just a heartbeat longer than necessary, just long enough to make your breath catch. No one comments on it, but you swear the moment is loaded with all the things you’re not allowed to say anymore.

You catch Hoseok watching you a few times throughout the run-through, his eyes soft and full of something that looks an awful lot like longing. But every time, he looks away before it becomes too obvious.

It doesn’t help that Yunjin’s watching you like a hawk either.

You don’t think she suspects the full truth, but she’s putting pieces together, closer with each passing hour.

Still, not everything is hard. Surprisingly, the mood backstage has shifted since Mina’s departure. There’s a lot less walking on eggshells, and the clique that used to trail after her now floats around with a different energy. It’s more open. Warmer.

After a water break, two of the girls, Eunchae and Yoonchae, pull you aside near the back hallway.

“Hey,” Eunchae says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We, uh…wanted to say something.”

You raise an eyebrow, unsure where this is going.

“We were kind of—” Yoonchae starts, then sighs. “No, we were total jerks before and it wasn’t cool.”

Eunchae nods. “Mina had a way of…influencing people. But that’s not an excuse.”

You’re too stunned to speak at first.

“We just wanted to say sorry,” Yoonchae finishes. “You didn’t deserve that. And honestly…we’re glad you stayed. You’re killing it out there.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in their voices. “Thanks,” you say slowly. “That means a lot.”

The two girls smile and retreat back to their spots, leaving you standing there with a mix of surprise and cautious relief blooming in your chest.

You glance across the stage where Hoseok’s already looking at you. He smiles softly, and for just a second, it feels like you’re both back in that rental house again. Untouched by the outside world.

After the rehearsal wraps up, Hoseok pulls you aside, his hand brushing lightly against your arm as he leans in with a quiet urgency. "Meet me in my room after Yunjin falls asleep," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear. There's an unmistakable intensity in his eyes, a silent promise that makes your pulse quicken. "I’ll wait for you."

You nod, your mind racing as you try to focus on the rest of the night. You’ve always had a knack for keeping things under control, but right now, everything feels a little more thrilling. The quiet anticipation in the air is enough to make your heart race in your chest. You can’t deny the pull between you two, even if it’s something neither of you has fully explored yet.

Once rehearsal is over, you head out with the rest of the dancers, keeping it casual as you chat and laugh with them. Dinner is fun, the laughter light, but your thoughts are always drifting back to Hoseok. You eat your fill, savoring the food, but it’s hard to ignore the excitement bubbling under your skin.

Later, after you've said your goodbyes and made your way back to the hotel, you slip into the bathroom for a long, calming shower. The warm water helps soothe the tension that’s built up in your muscles, but it’s not enough to wash away the anticipation. As the steam fills the bathroom, you quickly dry off, then slip into your cutest pajamas, something comfy but still just a little bit sexy.

Feeling a playful thrill, you send Hoseok a cheeky picture of yourself in your pajamas, sending a playful wink his way. It’s a small gesture, but it feels like a promise, a silent communication between the two of you.

His reply comes quickly: "Can't wait to see you."

Hoseok answers the door in a plush white robe, the soft fabric framing his collarbones and falling open just enough to tease bare skin underneath. His eyes light up the second he sees you, and before you can say a word, he pulls you inside, shutting and locking the door behind you in one swift motion.

The second the latch clicks into place, you’re against the door with his hands on your waist, his mouth finding yours like he’s been holding his breath all day just waiting for this moment. The kiss is hungry, messy, full of days of restraint unraveling all at once. His hands slide under your shirt as his lips move with purpose, like he’s trying to make up for every second he has to pretend like you are just another dancer on stage.

“I missed you,” he whispers when he finally pulls back for air, his voice husky and low against your lips.

Your breath catches, heart thudding in your chest. “We were just together this morning,” you say with a laugh, fingers curling into the collar of his robe.

He smirks, brushing his nose against yours. “Doesn’t matter. The second you walked away, I missed you. It’s pathetic.”

You’re about to tell him it’s not that you feel the same way, but he keeps going, his words tumbling out like he can’t stop them now.

“You have no idea how hard it was, watching you today and not being able to touch you. Not being able to kiss you or pull you into my lap between rehearsals. I can be professional, yeah,” he says, sliding a hand up your spine, “but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about you the entire time.”

The intensity in his gaze makes your knees weak. “What were you thinking about?” you ask, voice quiet, teasing.

A groan rumbles in his chest as he presses you harder into the door. “The way you looked in rehearsal. The way you moved with me. That moment during the duet when you smiled at me like you forgot the whole world existed. I wanted to kiss you right then and there.”

His hands grip your hips, guiding you back toward the bed, step by step, never breaking eye contact. “But I didn’t. Because I know how to behave,” he adds with a grin, leaning in to kiss along your jaw. “Even if every part of me was screaming not to.”

Your heart races as you reach for the belt of his robe, tugging gently. “What about now?”

“Now?” he repeats, voice low and rough. “Now, I don’t have to behave at all.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Every night, without fail, the two of you find your way back to each other. Whether it's slipping out after lights-out or sneaking past quiet hallways, you always end up wrapped in one another—sharing beautiful, sensual moments that leave you breathless. But it's not just physical. You talk for hours, learning the little things that make each other tick, the stories that shaped you, the hopes you’re almost too shy to say out loud.

During the day, it’s all professionalism and poise, but backstage and in quiet corners, you find ways to talk more, flirty words exchanged in passing, small touches behind curtains, kisses stolen in locked rooms when no one’s looking. It’s fun, it’s thrilling, and it’s yours. And through it all, you and Hoseok are happier than you’ve been in a long time.

After the final tour stop in LA, everyone celebrates together, the energy electric and hearts full. The night stretches into the early hours of the morning, laughter spilling out of rooms and echoing down hallways. When it’s finally just the two of you again, you end up in his hotel room, tipsy and glowing.

You dance around the room, music low and lights soft, your movements loose and joyful. Hoseok twirls you clumsily, both of you laughing until you fall into each other’s arms, dizzy with wine and everything you feel.

His arms wrap tightly around you as you stumble into him, your laughter caught between your lips as Hoseok’s mouth finds yours. The kiss is deep and unhurried, a slow burn that says everything words can’t. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the way you taste, like he doesn’t want the night to end.

Your hands wander instinctively, fingers weaving into his hair, tugging him even closer. The music hums in the background, something mellow and dreamy, but all you can hear is the sound of your breath mingling with his, the low rumble of his voice when he whispers your name between kisses.

“God, I missed this,” he murmurs against your lips. “Even when you’re right there…I miss having you like this.”

Your heart flips at the confession, raw and real. You press your forehead to his, nodding, too caught up in the heat between you to form a proper reply. Your hands slide beneath the hem of his shirt, warm skin meeting yours. He helps you pull it over his head in one smooth motion before lifting you off the floor, carrying you toward the bed with ease.

You giggle against his neck, pressing playful kisses along his jaw until he lays you down gently, hovering above you, eyes dark with adoration. His fingers trace slow patterns down your sides, lingering where your skin is most sensitive. Every touch is intentional, teasing, like he’s savoring every second.

“I really care about you,” he says softly, cupping your cheek. “So much.”

You bite your lip, warmth blooming in your chest as you look up at him. “I care about you too,” you whisper back, letting your hands roam down his back, grounding yourself in the moment.

He kisses you again, slower this time, like the words you just exchanged have shifted something between you. There's nothing rushed about the way his lips move against yours, the way his hand cradles your face like you're something precious.

Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, your bodies aligning with practiced ease. The air between you thickens, charged with everything you’ve both been holding back in public, all those moments stolen behind locked doors. His skin is warm beneath your fingertips, his breath hitching when your nails lightly trail along his spine.

“You drive me crazy,” he breathes, voice low and wrecked, brushing his nose against yours. “In rehearsals, on stage, backstage, every time I see you and can’t touch you, it makes me want you even more.”

His words light you up from the inside out. You arch up to meet him, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whisper, “Then touch me now.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His hands move over you slowly, like he’s trying to map every curve, every sigh. He slips your pajama top over your head, tossing it aside before pausing, eyes roving over you with quiet reverence. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, and it sends a rush of heat straight through you.

The next kiss is all heat, more urgent, more needy, teeth grazing lips and breath mingling in shared gasps. You lose yourselves in each other, in the slow grind of hips and the friction that makes you both tremble. Every touch stokes the fire between you, building the tension higher and higher.

But even in the heat of it all, there’s a tenderness underneath, fingers tangled, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked as though nothing else exists. He slows, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw, then to your collarbone, then your shoulder. His voice is barely above a whisper when he finally says, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

The world quiets.

You blink up at him, heart thudding. Your hand finds his cheek, thumb brushing over his skin as you whisper, “I think I already have.”

He exhales a shaky laugh, full of disbelief and something like wonder. And then he kisses you like he’s saying it again with his mouth, his hands, his whole body.

For a long moment, the only sound is the soft flutter of your combined breaths, as if the world outside has faded into a distant memory. Then, as if drawn by an unspoken promise, you both smile a soft, soulful smile filled with the secret of this precious night.

Slowly, you shift closer, your arms wrapping around him as he holds you even tighter. The heat between you transforms into a quiet, radiant glow that neither time nor distance can dim. There are no promises made aloud, no declarations to the rest of the world just the two of you, sharing a sacred space where passion meets tenderness.

In that moment, everything becomes clear: despite the miles, the rehearsals, and even the challenges of living two lives on stage and off, this connection is real. Unspoken yet undeniable, it’s the start of a love that feels both unexpected and perfectly meant to be.

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