Killing it Girl

by BTScollector2014

Summary:

He was the main act. You were just a backup dancer—until the choreography started feeling like foreplay.
What began as sparks on stage turns into an untouchable obsession behind locked studio doors. Every mirror reflects your secrets. Every performance pushes boundaries. And the company’s starting to notice.
But when the music stops… will he still want you offstage?

A story of sweat, seduction, and the dangerous rhythm between performance and possession.

He’s killing it on stage. You’re killing his self-control.
When the hottest dancer in the game locks eyes with his backup queen, the studio becomes a battlefield of sweat, rhythm, and filthy secrets. Every move dares the other to lose control. Every night pushes the edge between art and obsession.

You weren’t supposed to touch.
Now he can’t stop choreographing the memory of your body.

Inspired by J-Hope’s "Killing It Girl" — this is rhythm, rawness, and red-hot tension wrapped in silk and sweat.

I wrote this fanfic just for fun. If you dont like it please dont read it. I have already added relevant tags. Please keep streaming Killing it Girl

Chapter 1

You knew he’d find you.
The crowd was still roaring outside, a pulsing beast of sound muffled only slightly by the heavy walls of the green room. You were alone, the sweat from the show still clinging to your skin, mascara slightly smudged, lips still tingling from the last lyric you mouthed onstage beside him.
And then—
Click.
The door shut behind you. A low hum of approval followed.
J-Hope stood there—no shirt, body glistening from the encore lights, towel tossed over one shoulder, hair damp and wild. His eyes locked on you like a target. Not playful, not cheeky. Possessive.
“Thought you’d sneak off?” he asked, voice like gravel and sin.
“I needed air,” you answered, steady… even as your knees trembled.
He stepped closer, closing the space like he owned it—like he owned you. “You know what you did out there?” he murmured, fingertips ghosting the bare skin above your hip. “Wearing that dress? Moving like that?”
Your breath caught. “It was part of the choreography.”
“Liar.”
And then his mouth was on yours—hot, hungry, unapologetic. The kiss the cameras didn’t get. The kiss everyone wanted. He pushed you gently against the vanity mirror, palms flat on either side of your head.
“You killin’ it, girl,” he whispered against your lips. “But now? I’m gonna ruin you sweet.”
The mirror fogged behind you as he slid one hand up your thigh, lips trailing heat down your jaw.
No lights. No cameras.
Just you and him, bodies pressed tight, breath tangled, the music of your heart pounding louder than the encore outside.
Tonight, you weren’t his co-star.
You were his muse.
And he was done pretending otherwise.
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________________________________________

The show was over.
The city lights of Seoul blurred behind the tinted windows as the tour bus rolled out. Staff had cleared. GloRilla had left with her own crew. And now… it was just you and him.
You sat on the black leather couch in the back lounge, legs crossed, still wearing the glittering two-piece stage outfit that made headlines for days. J-Hope sat across from you, sprawled out, long legs spread wide, chest bare, towel now abandoned. Eyes dark. Locked on you like a slow-burning fuse.
“You’ve been teasing me since rehearsals,” he said, voice low. “That smirk when I said ‘10 out of 10’? Baby, I meant it.”
You tilted your head, lips curling. “So did I.”
His jaw ticked. “You’re not walking off this bus until I make you forget every lyric but my name.”
And then it snapped.
He lunged—fluid, fast—pulling you onto his lap, mouth crashing into yours with raw hunger. Tongue sliding deep, hands gripping your hips like he could mold them into his rhythm. The bus shook slightly from a turn, and you gasped—he used that moment to push you back, laying you down along the cushioned bench.
His body hovered above yours, heavy and electric. “You think this was about the performance?” he growled, voice dark and low against your ear. “No, baby. That whole stage was foreplay.”
Your breath hitched as he kissed down your chest, hands tugging at the shimmering top, breath warm on your bare skin. Each touch, each graze of his lips, was deliberate—like he was choreographing a new dance. One just for you.
“You’re killin’ it,” he whispered again, sliding lower. “But now it’s my turn.”
Your moan got swallowed in the hum of the road, his mouth already rewriting your pulse.
Outside, the city kept moving.
Inside, the only rhythm that mattered…
Was the one he was creating between your thighs.
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________________________________________
The suite door slammed shut behind him—your back already pinned against it. He kissed like he performed: commanding, rhythmic, feral, like his entire body moved to a beat only he could hear. Only now… it was all for you.
“I told you,” he murmured, lips brushing your neck, “we’re not done.”
He peeled the glittering stage clothes off you like unwrapping a prize, eyes devouring every inch. His own pants hit the floor with a thud, sharp bones and smooth skin illuminated by the hotel’s gold lighting.
The bathroom door was already ajar, steam billowing out like a sensual promise.
He led you in backwards, hands still on your waist, gaze never leaving yours.
And then—
Water.
Hot, rushing, enveloping you both as he backed you into the tiled wall. The overhead rainfall drenched your hair, rivulets tracing down his bare chest, along the curve of your spine. The droplets kissed your collarbone just before his mouth did.
“Look at you,” he whispered, gripping your thigh and hooking it around his waist. “So goddamn beautiful. So mine.”
Your nails slid down his back as his hips rolled forward—not yet inside, just threatening, teasing, dragging slow.
“Do it,” you breathed.
He smirked.
“Oh baby, I plan to.”
And then he claimed you.
The rhythm was deeper than any bassline, slower than any grind you’d done on stage. His hands in your wet hair, his lips at your ear, whispering filth like it was sacred.
Every thrust echoed off the tiles, mixing with your moans, your name falling from his mouth like a man possessed.
“Still killin’ it, girl,” he rasped, breath ragged. “But now I’m the one finishing the show.”
And when you both broke—shuddering, slick, ruined—he kissed your shoulder, forehead, lips. Whispered, softer now, “Encore?”
You laughed breathlessly. “Only if you’ve got the stamina.”
His smirk curled wider.
“Baby,” he said, “I am the dance break.”
________________________________________
________________________________________
You were still pressed against the shower wall, limbs trembling, your body humming in the aftermath of him—his hands, his lips, the wreckage of what he just did to you.
But J-Hope didn’t move away.
He stayed inside your space—forehead against yours, breath hot and heavy as the spray poured over your joined bodies.
“You think I’m done?” he asked, voice low, dangerous, dripping with the same rhythm as the water sliding down your throat. “That was the rehearsal.”
You didn’t even have time to moan before he spun you.
Your palms slapped the cool tile, water running down your spine as his chest pressed flush to your back, his fingers curling around your waist, then sliding lower. He didn’t ease in this time.
He took.
With a snap of his hips, he re-entered you—deeper, dirtier, needier.
"God, you're tight," he hissed, biting down on your shoulder. "Still. After everything."
You cried out, your nails scraping the wall, forehead pressed against the tile, body arching back into him because it wasn’t enough—it would never be enough. Not when he moved like that. Not when he grabbed your chin mid-thrust and turned your face toward his just so he could growl, “I’m not letting you sleep tonight.”
His thrusts got harder.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
Not angry. Not fast. Controlled. Measured. Addictive. Like he was dancing inside you, building to a drop only he knew was coming.
Your name left his mouth in reverence, right before his teeth grazed your earlobe and he whispered, “Come for me. Right now.”
You did. Shaking, gasping, choking on his name.
And he followed—slamming deep and groaning so primal, you swore it echoed past the steam.
________________________________________
He didn’t pull out immediately. Instead, he wrapped his arms around you from behind, nuzzled into your neck, both of you breathless and wet, your bodies cooling in the aftermath of heat.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “You are killin’ it… but baby, with you like this? I’m dead.”
________________________________________
________________________________________
The steam still clung to your skin when he pulled you out of the shower, towel slung dangerously low on his hips, drops tracing his abs like the aftershocks of what he just did to you.
He sat you gently on the vanity counter, the wide mirror behind you fogged, but not enough to hide what he wanted to see.
You.
And him.
Together.
He grabbed another towel, but not for himself. For you.
“Lean back,” he said, voice a rasp that coiled straight into your core.
You obeyed, letting your wet hair fall down your back, legs parted slightly—only because he made them part. His fingers worked the towel gently through your strands, then rougher at the ends, tugging just a little. Watching. Always watching.
In the mirror, you saw the look in his eyes—starved, reverent, like he didn’t know whether to worship you or wreck you all over again.
“Look at you,” he murmured, standing between your thighs, towel now gone from his hips, because of course it was. “Hair wet. Mouth open. Legs spread. You see what you do to me?”
You nodded, but it wasn’t enough.
He grabbed your jaw from behind, angling your face toward your reflection.
“Say it,” he commanded softly. “Say what you look like right now.”
You swallowed. “I look like someone you ruined.”
His breath hitched—just the way you wanted.
“Good girl.”
His fingers slid between your thighs, slipping back into the heat he knew so well now. You gasped, head falling back, but he brought it forward again, making you look.
“Eyes open,” he said, voice like silk and smoke. “Watch yourself fall apart for me.”
And you did.
Every tremble. Every breath. Every obscene sound. All reflected back in glass as he worked you open again, this time slowly—no rush. Like he wanted to memorize every micro-expression your body gave.
When you came again, his name spilled from your lips in a high, broken moan—and your eyes stayed locked on your reflection the entire time.
You never knew the mirror could feel this intimate.
Never knew J-Hope could look this hungry even after round two.
And when he knelt in front of you, lips tracing the insides of your thighs with a fresh fire in his eyes…
You knew round three was coming.
And this time, you’d watch every second of it.
________________________________________
________________________________________
You didn’t remember how you got from the vanity to the bed. You just remembered the trail of his kisses. The scrape of stubble on your thighs. The way your legs wrapped around his waist like instinct.
Now you were lying in the sheets, skin damp with afterglow, hair still a little wet, lungs still catching up.
J-Hope was beside you, one arm thrown under your head, the other tracing lazy circles along your hip. His touch wasn’t trying to start anything this time. Not yet. He was just holding you.
But his voice?
His voice was already sinning again.
“You know,” he murmured into your neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin like a secret, “the way you moan? I could sample that shit and put it in a beat.”
You snorted. “Don’t you dare.”
“Oh, I will. Auto-tune the high note. Loop it. Make the whole damn country dance to how good I fuck you.”
Your breath stuttered.
Then—his hand slid up, ghosting over your breast, thumb flicking your nipple so casually it made your whole body clench again.
“You liked watching yourself, didn’t you?” he whispered. “All open for me. Falling apart while you stared at how filthy you looked.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You were already squirming.
“That mirror’s gonna haunt me,” he growled. “Next time I’m taking you from behind. Gonna make you beg to look at yourself.”
He slipped two fingers between your thighs, slow and light—just a tease now, just pressure. Your hips lifted on instinct, chasing it, needing it again.
“You’re so greedy, baby,” he smirked, kissing the shell of your ear. “Already this wet? What’s that, round four?”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
So you did—pulling him over you again, mouths clashing, no gentleness left in either of you. You didn’t know if it was 2am or 5am. All you knew was the heat between your legs, and the filth pouring from his mouth like it belonged there.
“You wanna ride me this time?” he rasped, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “Wanna show me how bad you want it?”
You nodded, breathless.
He grinned—devastating.
“Good. I wanna watch your face when you break for me again.”
________________________________________
________________________________________
You straddled him slow.
Not to tease.
To own.
His hands slid up your thighs, head tilted back against the pillows, eyes hooded, jaw tight like he was barely keeping it together. But that smirk—God, that smirk—still curved his lips.
“Take what you want, baby,” he said, voice husky, voice ruined. “I’m all yours.”
You braced your hands on his chest, feeling the way his heart pounded under your palm. His body was pure temptation—long lines of muscle, golden skin still warm from the shower, the way his abs tensed the moment you sank down onto him.
Both of you gasped.
“Shit,” he hissed, hands flying to your hips. “You feel like heaven and hell at the same damn time.”
You rolled your hips—once, slow and deliberate.
And just like that, the switch flipped.
From him being in control to you running the whole damn show.
You moved how you wanted—hips rocking in rhythm, back arching, chasing every angle that made him groan, curse, bite his lip like he couldn’t believe what was happening.
“Look at you,” you said, breathless, grinding harder. “All that swagger on stage, but here? You’re mine.”
He laughed—hoarse, desperate. “Fuck, I love when you talk dirty.”
You leaned down, lips brushing his jaw. “Then listen close.”
Your rhythm slowed just enough to make him squirm under you. Desperate, even though he wouldn’t say it. Not yet.
“You gonna come for me like this?” you whispered. “No hands. No control. Just me riding you until you fall apart?”
His grip tightened on your waist.
“You better,” you breathed, rolling your hips again. “Or I’ll make you beg for the next round.”
His breath caught—chest heaving, abs flexing—and then he broke. Eyes fluttered shut, mouth parted in a groan that sounded like a song only you were allowed to hear.
“God, you’re so fucking good,” he panted. “I’m not gonna last—fuck—don’t stop, don’t—”
You didn’t.
You moved faster, riding him through it, milking every drop of pleasure until he was wrecked beneath you, sweat-drenched and cursing, his fingers bruising your hips as he came hard inside you, pulsing with every beat of your name.
And when you followed—head thrown back, hands in your hair, moaning his name like a confession—he looked up at you like he’d just seen a damn miracle.
“You’re unreal,” he whispered.
You collapsed onto his chest, both of you shaking.
“Still think you’re in control?” you teased against his skin.
He chuckled, voice low. “After that? You can have all of it.”
________________________________________
________________________________________
The room was still dark when you woke up, the blackout curtains letting in only the faintest slit of golden morning light. You were sore in all the right ways, limbs heavy, skin kissed pink from steam and sweat and him.
And he was still there.
One long arm wrapped around your waist, bare chest pressed to your back, his nose tucked right behind your ear like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance.
You smiled to yourself. Until you felt it.
That unmistakable hardness… pressed snug between your thighs. Warm, twitching, and very much awake before he was.
“Really?” you whispered, shifting a little. That was a mistake.
He groaned against your skin. “Don’t move like that unless you want me up inside you again.”
You froze—then grinned.
“Didn’t know you were that easy.”
“I’m not,” he muttered, voice still thick with sleep. “But damn, the second you breathed, I was done for.”
You turned to face him—messy hair, swollen lips, eyes half-lidded but already locked on you like you were the sunrise itself.
“You wanna go again?” you teased, tracing a finger down his chest.
“Baby,” he murmured, sliding a thigh between yours. “I never stopped.”
He kissed you lazily, tongue slow, savoring. Not desperate like before. Just heat simmering low and warm in the belly, the kind of kiss that promised a long, slow burn if you let it.
“Let me start your morning right,” he whispered, dragging your leg over his hip. “No stage. No lights. Just you and me… and the way you moan when I make you come without even trying.”
________________________________________

________________________________________
“Hyung?” Jungkook asked, holding out a water bottle. “You good?”
Hoseok blinked, realizing he’d been staring at the mirror for a full thirty seconds, not moving. Sweat clung to his shirt. The bass in the room pounded. But his mind was elsewhere.
Specifically, you.
Naked. Hair dripping. Mouth open.
On top of him. Riding him like it was your full-time job.
“Yeah,” he coughed. “Fine. Just… tired.”
A beat dropped. He was supposed to jump back into choreo. He tried. He really did.
But then—the beat matched your rhythm.
The way you’d rolled your hips. That controlled grind. That smirk when you took your time watching him fall apart under you.
He groaned and covered his face.
Taehyung side-eyed him. “You sure you’re not... too tired?”
He shook his head. “I’m gonna need a cold shower before the next set.”
Another dancer walked past, and Hobi caught his own reflection in the mirror. Hair messy. Lip bitten. Neck still holding faint scratch marks from your nails.
And damn it if that didn’t make him hard again.
He muttered under his breath, “I swear to God, the next time she rides me I’m filming it. For science.”
________________________________________

________________________________________
Hoseok’s sweat was already dripping.
He was deep in rehearsal—shirt sticking to his back, jaw clenched, focused entirely on nailing the choreography for his next solo. Each beat hit sharp. Each glide, perfect. Each body roll... dangerous.
Until he looked up—and saw you standing by the studio door.
Crop top. Lip gloss. That goddamn look in your eyes that said you knew exactly what you did to him last night.
He missed the next step.
The track kept going. He didn’t.
Even the mirror caught it—his gaze sliding up and down your body like the dance was you and not the routine.
“Oh my God,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “Not now.”
You smirked and crossed your arms. “Don’t stop on my account.”
“You think I can focus with you standing there looking like that?”
“I thought the king of performance could handle a little distraction,” you teased.
He walked toward you—slow, deliberate. Shirt clinging to his abs, sweat making his skin glisten. He stopped close. Too close. Close enough to make your pulse stutter.
“You remember the way you rode me last night?” he said low, fingers lifting your chin. “Because I do. Every time I grind like this—”
His hips rolled, slow and deep, just once.
“—I remember how you felt wrapped around me.”
Your mouth parted.
“That choreography you saw?” he smirked. “I made it after you left that mark on my collarbone.”
“Oh?”
He reached behind you, hitting the button to restart the track. The music pulsed. The room vibrated.
“You like to watch?” he said, backing away slowly. “Then sit.”
You did.
And he danced. For you.
Body loose, movements raw, dripping in sex and control and intent. Like every beat he hit was revenge for what you did to him. And halfway through, he locked eyes with you in the mirror as he did a slow body roll down and said—
“Imagine this between your thighs again.”
You whimpered.
When the music ended, he stalked back over, crouching in front of you, breath hot and wrecked.
“Now,” he said, voice wrecked. “How about I rehearse on you?”
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________________________________________
The second the door clicked shut behind you, Hoseok’s control shattered.
You barely had time to blink before he had you pinned—your back pressed to the cool wall of the studio dressing room, one thigh lifted over his hip, his lips crashing into yours like he’d been holding back for hours.
Because he had.
“You think I can dance in peace with you in that damn top?” he growled against your mouth. “You walk in here looking like sin, sit there like a queen while I sweat for you, and expect me to just go back to rehearsal?”
You gasped, fingers gripping his damp shirt, pulling him closer. “What are you gonna do about it?”
He chuckled darkly, mouth dragging down your neck, biting just below your jawline. “You already know.”
His hand slid between your legs, fingers pressing through the thin fabric of your leggings—already soaked.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Already this wet? You were waiting for this.”
He pushed the waistband down, just enough to slide two fingers in—no teasing this time. He needed to hear you, needed to feel you fall apart against his palm.
Your moan echoed through the room.
He kept going. Circling. Stroking. His fingers moved like a beat he couldn’t stop choreographing—smooth, rhythmic, deliberate.
“You gonna come for me right here?” he murmured into your ear. “Right where anyone could walk in and hear the way you moan my name?”
You shuddered. “Then lock the door.”
He smirked. “Already did.”
And then he was lifting you onto the dressing table, kicking off your leggings, pushing his own sweats low enough to free himself. No pretense. No buildup.
He slid into you with a single thrust—deep, rough, needy.
“Jesus,” he hissed, resting his forehead against yours. “You feel like you were made for me.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck, rocking into him as the mirror behind the table caught everything—your reflection a blur of skin, sweat, and pure heat.
Every thrust hit deeper. Every moan got louder.
And when you clenched around him, nails digging into his shoulders, he nearly lost it.
“Gonna come again for me?” he panted. “So fuckin’ tight—shit. I can’t hold it.”
Your body snapped first.
His followed, hips stuttering as he emptied into you, breath hot, hands trembling.
He didn’t move right away. He just stayed inside you, holding you like he didn’t trust the floor to catch him if he let go.
________________________________________
When you finally caught your breath, he looked at you with a crooked grin.
“Now that was a solo worth filming.”
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You were still trembling when he slid out of you.
His breath was ragged, his forehead resting against your collarbone, hands splayed wide over your waist like he needed to anchor himself to your body or risk floating away.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “You wreck me.”
You chuckled, voice raw. “You started it.”
He leaned back just enough to kiss you—slower this time. Mouth gentle, lips swollen but soft. The kind of kiss that held you, not just took you.
And then—without a word—he grabbed the clean towel folded on the bench beside the mirror and knelt.
Between your thighs.
Not for round two.
Not for teasing.
Just to clean you.
He met your eyes once—checking. Always checking. Then he carefully ran the warm, damp cloth between your legs, wiping away the mess he’d made like it was sacred.
No rush. No shame. Only care.
“I love seeing you like this,” he murmured, voice low, lips brushing your inner thigh as he worked. “But I love taking care of you more.”
You reached down, threading your fingers through his hair. “You’re dangerous when you’re sweet.”
He grinned. “You bring it out of me.”
He stood again, helped you down from the table, pulled your leggings back up like he was dressing a goddess—every movement gentle, every touch reverent.
Then he found your gloss, uncapped it, and tilted your chin.
“Let me,” he said.
He swiped the gloss across your lips slowly, precisely, his tongue darting out to lick his own bottom lip like he was already imagining ruining it again.
“There,” he murmured, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Perfect. No one’ll know what I did to you.”
You smirked. “Except you.”
He kissed you again. “And that’s my favorite part.”
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The venue pulsed like a living thing—bass thumping in your chest, lights flashing like a heartbeat, fans screaming before the song even started.
But you?
You were silent.
Because he was about to walk on stage.
And he knew you were watching.
He’d caught your eyes just before stepping into the spotlight—one final glance from behind the curtain. His smile wasn’t wide, wasn’t showy. It was slow. Dangerous. Intimate. The kind of smile that said:
"You remember what I did to you five hours ago? I do. Every second. Every sound. And now I’m gonna dance it."
The music hit.
Hard.
“Killing It Girl” roared through the venue. And Hoseok? He transformed.
One hand in his hair. Shirt clinging. Hips rolling to the rhythm that had haunted your body just hours earlier. Every beat a mirror of how he moved inside you—slow, hard, controlled.
And the crowd went feral.
But they hadn’t seen anything yet.
Because suddenly—you were walking on stage.
Not a surprise to the crew. Not to him. This had been planned since last week’s rehearsal.
But to the fans?
You were her.
The “Killing It Girl.”
And when you stepped out in your combat boots, loose cargo pants hanging low on your hips, and a crop top that still held his fingerprint on your skin underneath, the screams reached deafening.
Hoseok didn’t break character.
He locked eyes with you.

You moved toward him—hips matching his, body sliding around his like the memory of that dressing room fuck still lived in your bones.
And when his hands caught your waist in the choreography, when your thighs bracketed his as you dipped, grinded, smirked—
You both forgot about the crowd.
It wasn’t a stage anymore. It was a flashback. Set to music.
His voice rasped into the mic:
“Don’t stop, baby—show them how you kill it.”
You spun. Dropped. Grinded against his thigh.
He watched with his jaw clenched, lip bitten, eyes burning holes through your skin.
He mouthed it—not for the mic, not for the fans.
Just for you:
“I’m gonna destroy you after this.”
And the lights went black.
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Second verse.
The lights drop low—gold spotlight slicing across the two of you like a blade. Your silhouettes move in sync, soaked in sweat and sin, as if the entire performance was a countdown to this moment.
And then—
The breakdown hits.
Bass slows. Everything turns primal.
Hoseok circles you.
The stage belongs to him, but you—you are the center of his gravity. The only thing in his orbit.
He doesn’t dance around you.
He dances with you.
On you.
Every step drips with heat.
He slides behind you—one hand trailing from your hip up your spine, not gentle, not sweet—claiming. You arch back into him like it’s muscle memory, like your body already knows what he wants before he even touches you.
And then he does.
Hand at your waist. Fingers splayed. Pulling your hips back against him in one fluid, filthy grind.
The crowd loses it.
But you? You barely hear them.
Because his lips graze your ear, voice not mic’d—just for you.
“Look at them cheering… they don’t even know I had you bent over this morning, crying my name.”
You almost miss the next beat.
He grins.
You recover. Snap your hips forward, spin to face him, and this time you take control.
Fingers slide up his chest, slow and taunting, before you tug him closer by the collar of his shirt. The mic in your hand lifts.
Your voice? Smooth velvet.
“Bet they don’t know who this song’s really about.”
Screams.
The lights flicker, pulsing red, and Hoseok drops low—knees wide, thighs flexing, and you ride the air above his lap like you’ve done it for years.
Because you have.
His hands grip your waist again as you drop into a full-body grind.
One. Two. Three.
Your thighs bracket his hips and you lean in close, breath against his jaw—
“You want the real version again tonight?”
He nods—once. Sharp. Filthy.
And then the final chorus explodes.
The music slams back to full volume.
You both hit the choreography like you’ve got vengeance in your veins and sex still humming in your bones.
By the time the song ends—he’s breathless.
So are you.
And the fans?
They just witnessed something that wasn’t acting.
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________________________________________
The second the curtain dropped, so did his restraint.
You barely made it three steps into the hallway when he grabbed your wrist, spun you hard against the dressing room door, and kissed you like he’d been starving for the taste of your mouth the entire performance.
No one around. Just the echo of fan screams bleeding through the walls. And his tongue deep in your mouth like he didn’t care if security walked in or hell broke loose.
He fumbled behind you, yanked the door open, shoved you inside, and slammed it shut with his foot.
Click. Locked.
Then silence.
Except your breathing.
And his.
“You—” he rasped, staring at you like he could see through your clothes. “You really thought you could move like that on stage and just walk away?”
You blinked, breathless, grinning. “I was just hitting the choreo, Hobi.”
“Bullshit.”
He was on you again, this time slower, mouth dragging along your jaw, hands gripping your waist like the echo of your on-stage grind still hadn’t left his palms.
“You were riding my thigh,” he growled. “Moaning in my fuckin’ ear. That wasn’t choreo. That was you telling me to bend you over again.”
You gasped as he grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted you effortlessly onto the vanity counter, pushing your legs apart with his hips.
And then—he dropped to his knees.
Still in full stagewear. Still glistening with sweat.
On the floor for you.
He didn’t even tease.
He yanked your pants down, pulled your soaked underwear to the side, and devoured you.
Sloppy. Starved. Tongue everywhere.
The mirror behind you fogged instantly. Your head fell back with a cry, hands in his hair, thighs clamping around his head like instinct.
He groaned into you, voice wrecked.
“Taste better than the fuckin’ encore.”
His tongue curled just right. You bucked forward—nearly knocked over a cup of makeup brushes—and he didn’t stop until you came hard, thighs shaking, panting his name.
Still not done.
He stood, mouth shiny, and shoved his pants down just far enough.
“You ride me like that again,” he said, lining himself up, “and I’ll make sure everyone hears how pretty you sound when I ruin you.”
And he slammed into you.
The countertop shook. Your cry echoed off the walls.
And Hoseok? He was unhinged.
Thrusting deep. Fast. Hands tangled in your shirt. Sweat dripping from his jaw.
“Say it,” he groaned. “Say you wanted to drive me insane on stage.”
“I did,” you gasped. “I wanted you wrecked.”
“You got it.”
He kissed you as he came, hips jerking, arms shaking—but he didn’t stop holding you. Didn’t stop whispering your name like a prayer.
________________________________________
________________________________________
The suite was quiet.
No screaming fans. No blinding lights.
Just low lamps, sweat-slicked skin, and the sound of the door shutting behind you.
Hoseok didn’t say a word.
He dropped his bag. Took two steps forward. And then?
He just looked at you.
Not rushed. Not lust-drunk. Just intense.
Like he was trying to memorize every inch of you again now that the crowd was gone—now that you were no longer the “Killing It Girl” on stage… but his.
“You undressed me with your eyes the whole performance,” you whispered.
He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he walked toward you. “Wrong. I didn’t undress you with my eyes.”
He stopped in front of you. Fingers ghosting over your hips.
“I owned you with them.”
Your breath hitched.
He leaned down, lips brushing your temple—delicate.
“But now I want to earn it. Every inch.”
And he did.
Button by button.
Kiss by kiss.
He stripped you down like you were silk-wrapped porcelain—something rare. Something his.
Then he laid you on the bed.
No rush. No roughness. Just his body above yours, heat radiating, eyes drinking you in like a long-awaited homecoming.
He didn’t touch you—not at first.
He just hovered. Mouth brushing over your collarbone, your jaw, the curve of your breast.
“You feel that?” he whispered. “My heart?”
It was racing—thundering against your skin as he pressed his chest to yours.
“I don’t just want to fuck you tonight,” he murmured.
“I want to watch you fall apart for me. Slow.
I want to learn how your body begs when there’s no noise to hide it.”
You whimpered. He kissed it from your mouth.
Then slid down your body, inch by inch.
Tongue tracing the inside of your thigh.
Fingers gliding over your ribs, your hips, your lower belly.
He took forever.
And when he finally entered you—slow, deep, still watching your face like he was listening to every gasp, every flutter, every shift in your breath—he moaned like he was being reborn.
“You’re so tight like this,” he breathed. “So honest.”
Your fingers dug into his back. He caught your jaw in one hand, made you look him in the eyes as he rolled his hips—steady, full strokes that had you unraveling slowly, your body clenching around him with every grind.
And when you came, he held you there. No thrusts. No speed. Just a full, deep press and the softest “that’s it, baby… just like that…” against your lips.
He followed with a groan—low, broken—burying himself in you like the only place he ever wanted to finish was inside you, wrapped in your warmth, eyes locked to yours.
________________________________________
You didn’t move for a long time after.
He stayed inside you, arms around you, body molded to yours like you were an extension of him. Kissing your shoulder. Your cheek. Your hand. Over and over.
“Next time,” he whispered, “I want to see you come on top of me. Slow. With nothing but moonlight and that look in your eyes.”
________________________________________
________________________________________
It was past midnight when the suite door to the private pool slid open.
You stepped out first—bare feet padding against cool tiles, the hotel robe slipping from your shoulders like a secret whispered into the dark.
The pool shimmered under the moon, glowing silver and blue—quiet, except for the soft ripples lapping against the edge.
And then you felt him behind you.
Warm hands wrapped around your waist. Bare chest pressed to your back. Breath soft against your neck.
He didn’t say a word.
Just kissed your shoulder.
You turned slowly, robe falling the rest of the way, and his eyes followed every inch of exposed skin like he’d just watched the stars fall.
“Get in,” you whispered.
His smile was slow. Almost reverent.
You waded in first—water warm around your waist. He followed, eyes never leaving your body, until you were both submerged beneath moonlight and steam, your skin glowing like wet silk.
He reached for you under the water—hands finding your thighs, your hips, your waist—pulling you gently into his lap.
Straddling him.
No grind. No rush. Just your bare chest pressed to his, legs floating around his waist, and his cock hard beneath you, twitching with need.
“I could live in this moment,” he murmured, voice low, eyes locked to yours. “Right here. Right now. Inside you.”
You sank down.
So slow.
Water wrapped around you both as he filled you inch by inch—every slide deep and deliberate, every part of him stretching you in quiet possession.
He groaned against your collarbone.
You whimpered into his neck.
The water sloshed around you with every lazy grind—his hands on your waist guiding you, your arms draped over his shoulders, chests pressed tight.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
And when you did—eyes locking with his under the moonlight, pupils blown wide, lips parted—he stilled.
Just held you.
Buried deep inside you, bodies suspended in warmth, forehead pressed to yours.
“You look like art like this,” he said. “Like something no one else should be allowed to touch.”
You rocked your hips slowly—just enough to make him hiss.
“Then don’t let them.”
His grip on your hips tightened.
And he moved.
Lazy strokes. Deep rolls.
Water rippling. Breaths mixing. Moans swallowed by the night.
Neither of you broke eye contact.
When you came, you clenched around him hard—silent, gasping, trembling—and he caught you in his arms like you were something fragile, something holy.
He followed with a deep, broken curse against your mouth, pulling you down hard as he spilled inside you—heat flooding, hands shaking, lips worshipping every inch of skin he could reach.
And then… stillness.
Floating together.
You in his lap, him buried in you, the water still warm around your joined bodies, the moonlight painting silver streaks down his neck where your nails had left marks.
“I want to remember this forever,” you whispered.
His fingers trailed along your spine.
“You will,” he promised. “Because next time, I’ll do it under the stars. Then again in the rain. Then again in front of that mirror. Until there’s nowhere left I haven’t made you mine.”
________________________________________
________________________________________
He’d dragged the full-length mirror from the bedroom to the center of the dance studio.
No lights on. Just the city behind the glass walls and the neon hum from the street below.
You stood in front of the mirror.
Completely naked.
Your skin gleamed in the dim light, breath already shallow, chest rising and falling with anticipation.
Behind you—Hoseok, just as bare.
Sweat still dried along the curve of his jaw from earlier rehearsals, but his focus now?
Only you.
Not a single beat played.
He didn’t need music for this.
“Feel that?” he whispered from behind, hands sliding over your waist, guiding your hips in slow figure-eights. “That’s tempo.”
Your hips rolled to match his.
He pressed closer—hard length brushing between your thighs, not entering—teasing. Controlling.
“Keep your eyes on the mirror,” he murmured.
His voice dropped an octave.
“I want you to see how you move when you’re mine.”
You nodded once, lips parted.
He stepped in fully, chest to your back, hands ghosting up to cup your breasts—thumbs circling, palms firm. You arched into him, and he smiled against your shoulder.
“Good girl,” he breathed.
Then—he bent you.
Hands braced against the mirror, legs spread just enough for him to slot between.
Your own reflection stared back at you—flushed, wide-eyed, already glistening.
Hoseok lowered his hips.
And slid inside.
Slow. Deep. Unapologetically full.
You gasped—one hand slipping on the glass—and he grabbed your waist tighter.
“Look at you,” he growled. “Taking me so well.”
He started to move.
Not fast. Not rough.
Just rhythmic. Deliberate.
The kind of thrusts that matched dancer’s muscle memory—every roll of his hips synced with the curve of your body, every breath from your lips echoed in his panting growl.
And through the mirror, you saw everything.
His grip on your hips.
The flex of his abs.
The way your thighs trembled each time he bottomed out.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered softly.
You obeyed—fingers sliding between your legs, circling where you needed it most as he pounded into you deeper.
“Look how messy you get for me,” he groaned. “That’s my choreography. Right there.”
You moaned—head falling forward—but he caught your throat with one hand, pulling you upright so you had to face yourself.
His voice was a growl in your ear.
“Don’t hide. I want you to remember exactly what this looks like.”
Your fingers moved faster. So did his hips.
You sobbed once—body collapsing forward—and he grinned against your neck.
“That’s it. Break for me.”
And when you came—hard, shaking, loud—he didn’t stop.
He wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you up against his chest, still buried inside you, and thrust up once, twice, deep—
He came with a groan, head buried in your shoulder, hips jerking.
And you both collapsed against the mirror—skin slick, hearts pounding, the glass fogged with heat.
He kissed the back of your neck.
“Again. Tomorrow. With heels on.”
________________________________________
________________________________________
________________________________________
The next night, you showed up in nothing but the black stilettos he liked best.
No music. No pretense.
Just the mirror.
Just you.
He was already there, sitting on the edge of the studio couch—shirt unbuttoned, chest gleaming faintly under soft light, hair still damp from a shower. But the moment you stepped in, his jaw clenched.
You walked slowly. Deliberately.
Click. Click. Click.
Each heel against the wood floor.
“Holy fuck,” he breathed.
You didn’t speak. You just turned to face the mirror, met his eyes through the glass, and began to move.
Hips swaying.
Arms sliding down your own curves.
Then lower. Knees bending. Arching back as your hands traveled between your thighs—
And then you bent forward, palms bracing against the mirror, just like before.
Only this time—you were in control.
You rocked your hips, back arched to obscene angles, eyes locked with his in the reflection.
Teasing. Inviting.
“You gonna sit there,” you asked sweetly, “or are you gonna give me what I danced for?”
He stood. Immediately.
His hands were rough when they grabbed your waist, lifting one of your legs to rest on the mirror ledge—spreading you wide as he pressed into you from behind.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t tease.
He slammed into you.
The heels stayed on.
Your moans filled the room.
And the mirror? Covered in your fingerprints by the time he was done.
He held your leg up the whole time—whispering how powerful you looked, how much you owned him like this, how he'd never be able to watch you dance again without getting hard.
And when you came—he kissed your shoulder and whispered:
“You’re going to ruin me if you keep moving like that.”
________________________________________
________________________________________
He agreed before he knew what you had in mind.
You told him to wait on the studio floor. You came back with the silk ties—wrist restraints, soft but tight—and a smirk that made his cock twitch before you even touched him.
He knelt for you.
Let you bind his wrists behind his back, sit him in front of the mirror, and strip him naked.
You circled him slowly, dragging your nails over his chest, down his abs, over the twitch of his cock.
“Since you like choreography,” you whispered, “why don’t you sit still and let me show you what your body’s been teaching mine?”
He looked wrecked already. Breathing hard.
You lowered yourself onto his lap, straddling him with deliberate slowness.
Didn’t let him thrust.
Didn’t let him touch.
He watched in the mirror as you rode him—soft, slow, tormenting him with every roll of your hips, every breathless moan he couldn’t pull from you faster.
“You feel how deep you are right now?” you murmured against his ear. “That’s because I know your rhythm.”
He whimpered when you clenched.
“All those nights of you teaching me your tempo… now it’s mine.”
You rode him until his head fell back, muscles trembling, begging to come.
You didn’t let him.
You kissed him softly—tongue lazy, hips grinding with perfect control—and whispered, “Not until I say.”
He came only when you gave the nod.
Eyes locked in the mirror. Bound. Breathing broken.
Completely yours.
________________________________________
________________________________________
The ties dropped to the floor with a soft flutter.
You didn’t rush.
Didn’t say much.
Just slipped behind him and gently unwrapped the silk from his wrists like you were peeling off something sacred.
Hoseok exhaled slowly—shoulders loosening, eyes still heavy-lidded from the weight of surrender.
You leaned in, kissing the curve where his neck met his shoulder, and he shivered.
Not from cold.
But from the way you touched him now—tender, without demand.
“Too much?” you asked, brushing your fingers over the red lines where the ties had held.
He shook his head slowly, eyes fluttering shut as your fingertips ghosted over his spine.
“No. It was perfect.”
You smiled. Pulled a blanket around his shoulders. And let him lean back against your chest, the both of you sinking to the studio floor in a tangle of limbs and sweat-warmed skin.
Silence wrapped around you like a second blanket.
Soft breathing. Slow heartbeat. Still bodies.
But it wasn’t empty.
His fingers curled loosely around your thigh. Your lips pressed gently into his damp hair.
“You’re always in control,” you whispered, “but tonight… you let go. With me.”
He turned his head slightly, resting his cheek against your chest.
“Only you.”
A quiet promise. A soft truth.
He looked up at you—eyes vulnerable in a way you’d rarely seen.
Not idol. Not performer. Not dominant choreographer.
Just Hoseok.
Raw. Open. Yours.
You brushed his hair from his face and kissed his forehead.
“Let me take care of you a little longer.”
He didn’t answer with words.
He just slid down—resting his head fully in your lap, arms wrapping around your waist like you were his anchor. His pulse slowed. His breaths evened out.
Your hands moved gently through his hair.
You pressed one last kiss to his temple.
“Sleep. I’ve got you.”
And he did.
Because for once, he didn’t have to perform.
Didn’t have to move, lead, or carry the weight.
Tonight, you held him.
________________________________________
________________________________________
It had only been a few days since the mirror and the ties.
And yet—something shifted.
You felt it the moment you walked into the studio and saw him.
Alone.
Headphones on.
Shirt damp with sweat.
Focused. Dangerous. Possessed.
The speakers were muted, but the tension in the air was vibrating. Almost electric.
Hoseok didn’t look up when you entered.
He was too lost in it—hands slicing through air, hips rolling in that exact tempo you’d ridden him to, shoulders dropping low and rising again in sync with a rhythm only he could hear.
But then he turned.
And saw you.
And froze.
A smirk ghosted across his face.
He paused the music, pulling the headphones off just enough to let them hang around his neck.
“Stay,” he said.
“I’m building something for you.”
You crossed your arms, amused. “For me?”
His gaze darkened—lazy, unapologetically hungry.
“Inspired by you.”
He pressed play again.
This time the room filled with sound—low bass, pulsing rhythm, sensual R&B that vibrated straight through your chest.
And he began to move.
It wasn’t a dance.
It was a confession.
Every thrust of his hips.
Every glide of his hands.
Every chest pop and ripple of muscle—he choreographed the way you’d made him feel.
He mimicked the way your hands had pinned his shoulders. The way your hips had rocked above his.
Then dropped low, one knee sliding out, head tilted back like he was reliving it.
It was obscene.
Artful.
But filthy.
You felt heat bloom at the base of your spine just watching him.
And he knew it.
Every move pulled your strings.
And he was watching—always watching—between spins and body rolls, eyes locked on yours like he was daring you to stop him.
He ended the routine with one sharp breath.
Sweat dripping from his neck.
Chest rising and falling.
He didn’t speak. Just looked at you with that familiar quiet hunger.
You clapped slowly.
“That choreography’s not going public, is it?”
He walked toward you—slow, predatory.
“Not unless you want to make it a duet.”
He pulled you into him, forehead pressing to yours, lips brushing without kissing.
“But fair warning,” he whispered, “you step on that floor with me again, I won’t let you walk out untouched.”
You grinned.
“Wasn’t planning on walking.”
________________________________________
________________________________________
The next time you performed together, it wasn’t subtle.
Not in the tension between your bodies.
Not in the looks Hoseok gave you when your hips collided, when your breath hit his throat.
Not in the way his hand slid just a little too low down your back—lingering for the crowd, but only you felt the possessiveness underneath.
The stage lights were blinding.
The music thundered.
And you two moved like you were sharing a secret no one else was allowed to hear.
It was magnetic. Raw.
And impossible to ignore.