berry

There’s something in his voice that makes you stop questioning it.

You sigh under your breath, already turning. “Fine. If he doesn't listen to me, I’m blaming you.”

Sungchan lets out a quiet, relieved breath as you walk away.

The hallway leading to the smaller dressing rooms is noticeably quieter. The noise from the main backstage area fades the further you go, until it’s just the sound of your own footsteps and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.

You stop in front of the door Sungchan must’ve meant.

It’s shut tight.

Locked.

You raise your hand and knock, firm but not too loud.“Sohee? It’s me. Are you okay in there?”

For a moment, there’s only silence. Then you hear a low, drawn-out whine, muffled by the door. It sounds like frustration, pain, and desperation. Your brow furrows.

“Sohee, open the door. Sungchan is about to have an aneurysm. You guys go on in ten.”

“Go away,” he groans, his voice strained.

“Not a chance. Open the door right now, or I’m getting a key from security.” You lean closer, your ear nearly pressed against the cool wood. You can hear his breathing, harsh and ragged.

There is a commotion from inside, a thud against the door, and then the distinct click of the lock being turned. The door flies inward, and a hand shoots out, grabbing the front of your t-shirt. You yelp as you’re yanked off your feet and pulled into the dark, cramped space. The door slams shut behind you, and you hear the sound of the door locking. The room is pitch black for a second before your eyes adjust to the single, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. It casts a weak, yellow light, making the small space feel even more claustrophobic.

Sohee stands in front of you, his back pressed against the door as if to block any escape. He’s still in his stage clothes —tight, black jeans and a simple, white v-neck t-shirt that clings to the sweat on his chest. His hair is a mess, sticking to his forehead, and his cheeks are flushed a deep, blotchy red. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with each ragged gasp.

“What the hell, Sohee?” you demand, your heart hammering against your ribs. The room is so small you can feel the heat radiating off his body. “What is wrong with you? You’re scaring everyone. Are you sick?”

Your first instinct, born of years of friendship, is to help. You reach out, your palm cool as you press it against his forehead, intending to check for a fever. The moment your skin touches his, he flinches violently. His hand snaps up, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. His grip is surprisingly strong, almost painful.

“Don’t,” he gasped out, his voice a low growl. He doesn’t push your hand away, just holds it there, an inch from his face. His eyes are squeezed shut.

You try to pull your hand back, but he holds fast. “Sohee, let go. What is going on? We have to go. They’re waiting for you.”

“I can’t,” he whines, the sound pathetic and broken. “I can’t go out there like this.”

“Like what? Like a sweaty mess? No one will care.”

“No. Not like this.” His eyes finally open, and they’re dark, pupils blown wide with something you can’t quite name. Panic? Pain? He stares at you, his gaze intense and pleading.

Frustration bubbles up inside you. “Then what? What is so bad that you’re going to tank the entire show ten minutes before it starts? What are you even doing in here?”

Your gaze follows the line of his body, down from his flushed face and heaving chest, past his clenched fists, to his jeans. And then you see it. The tight black fabric does nothing to hide the rigid, prominent line of his erection, straining against the zipper of his pants.

The air in the tiny room suddenly feels thick and heavy. Your eyes snap back up to his face. A deep, mortified blush spreads from his neck to the tips of his ears. He looks humiliated.

“Oh,” you say, the word a soft puff of air. You can’t help it; a small, wary laugh escapes your lips. “Oh, wow. Really? Now?”

“Shut up,” he groans, dropping his head back against the door with a dull thud. He finally releases your wrist, and you pull your hand back. “It’s not funny. It’s a problem.”

You look at him, really look at him —trapped, panicked, and undeniably hard. The situation is crazy, but the panic in his eyes is real. The thought of him walking on stage in this state is even crazier. He wouldn’t be able to hide it, not in those pants.

“Well, we have to do something,” you say, your voice softer now. You take a step closer, the limited space forcing you into his personal bubble. “You can’t go out there like that. You’d be trending for the wrong thing in ten seconds flat.”

“No shit,” he mutters, refusing to look at you.

You bite your lip, an idea taking root in your mind. It’s a terrible idea, a crazy bad idea, but it’s also the most efficient solution you can think of. “I could… help,” you offer, the words feeling strange and foreign on your tongue.

His head whips up, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What?”

“Help. You know. So you can… go on stage.” You gesture vaguely towards his crotch, feeling your own cheeks start to heat up.

“Help how?” he asks, his voice a choked whisper.

You roll your eyes, trying to sound confident you absolutely do not feel. “How do you think? A handjob, a blowjob… whatever. Just a quick fix. We’re friends, right? Friends help each other out of… tight situations.” You almost cringe at your own terrible pun. "Just don't make it weird."

He just stares at you, his mouth slightly agape. For a long moment, the only sound is the buzzing of the lightbulb. You’re about to backtrack, to tell him to forget it, when he finally speaks.

“Make it weird?” he lets out a short, sharp laugh that sounds more like a sob. “You’re the one who offered to give me a blowjob.”

Your breath hitches. Hearing him say it so bluntly makes it suddenly more real. This is your friend, Sohee, looking at you with desperation. This crosses a line, a big one. You’ve shared food and secrets and late-night drives, but never something like this.

“I… I just want to help,” you stammer, your composure cracking. “I don’t want you to mess up the show.”

He groans, a deep, guttural sound that seems to vibrate right through you. His eyes squeeze shut again, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Fuck,” he whispers, his voice strained. “You’re just making me harder.”

You take a small step forward, closing the small gap between your bodies. The worn leather of his pants brushes against your own. You tilt your head, your lips just a breath from his ear. “Then let me help,” you whisper, the words low, intimate against the shell of his ear.

He flinches, a full-body shudder that runs through him, but he doesn’t pull away. His breath hitches. You let your free hand drift down, your fingers tracing the warm, tensed skin of his stomach before they brush against the cold metal button of his pants. His entire body goes rigid. His eyes are squeezed shut now, his head tipped back against the wall, exposing the long line of his throat.

With a flick of your wrist, you undo the button. The sound of the zipper lowering seems loud in the small space, a metallic hiss that cuts through the tension. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his pants and his boxers, pulling them down just enough to free him. His cock springs out, hard and flushed a deep, angry red, the tip already beading with a drop of pre-cum.

You sink to your knees, the concrete floor cold. The position puts you right at eye level with his straining erection. You look up at him, meeting his gaze. His eyes are open now, dark and glazed with a mixture of disbelief and desperate need. He looks wrecked already, his hair a mess, his cheeks burning.

You lean in and wrap your hand around the base of his cock, the skin hot and soft beneath your touch. He lets out a choked groan, his hips bucking involuntarily. You take that as your cue. You part your lips and take him into your mouth, the salty taste of his pre-cum hitting your tongue immediately. He’s thick, stretching your lips as you slide down his length.

You set a steady rhythm, your hand working in sync with your mouth, twisting around his shaft as your tongue swirls around the sensitive head. You can feel his control beginning to break, the tension in his thighs tensing tighter and tighter. His hands fly to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, not guiding you, just holding on for dear life. The sounds he makes are filthy and broken, a series of choked-off moans and sharp intakes of breath that are music to your ears.

You take him deeper, relaxing your throat until your nose is pressed against the coarse hair at his base. You hold him there for a moment before pulling back, saliva trailing from your lips to the flushed head of his cock. You look up at him again, and the sight of him —head thrown back, mouth agape, eyes screwed shut in ecstasy —is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

You double your efforts, sucking harder, faster, your hand pumping his slick shaft. You can feel him getting closer, the twitching of his cock in your mouth, the way his balls draw up tight. His grip on your hair tightens almost to the point of pain. “Fuck,” he gasps, his voice raspy and strained. “I’m gonna—”

His words are cut off by a sharp cry as he comes, his hips jerking forward as he spills his release down your throat. You swallow it all, the taste of him salty and bitter. You keep sucking gently, milking him for every last drop, until his body goes limp and he sags against the wall, his breath coming in ragged pants.

You release him and get to your feet, your knees protesting the sudden movement. He’s leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, a blissed-out, fucked-out expression on his face. You quickly tuck him back into his jeans and pull them up, doing up the button and zipper. Then you set to work, trying to fix his appearance. You smooth down his messy hair, your fingers combing through the unruly strands. You straighten his shirt, pulling the hem down and making sure it’s not wrinkled. You brush a stray piece of lint from his tight black jeans.

He opens his eyes and watches you, a soft, sleepy look in his eyes. When you’re done, he pushes himself off the wall and stands before you. He looks like Sohee again, the lead vocalist, not the panicked man from a few minutes ago. He takes your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not a frantic, desperate kiss like you might have expected. It’s slow and deep and full of gratitude so sweet it makes your chest ache. You kiss him back, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer. He deepens the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth, and for a moment, you forget everything else —the show, the band, the ticking clock.

But then he pulls away, his breathing a little unsteady. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. “I have to stop,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “If I don’t, I’m going to get hard again, and we’ll be right back where we started.”

A laugh bubbles up inside you. You give him a gentle push towards the door. “Go on, rockstar,” you say, a smile playing on your lips. “They’re waiting for you.”

He opens his eyes and gives you a small, grateful smile. He turns and unlocks the door, pulling it open. The noise of the backstage area rushes in, a stark contrast to the quiet intimacy of the small room. You follow him out, grabbing his hand and pulling him along. “Come on,” you say, your voice firm. “Let’s go find the rest of the members.” He squeezes your hand, his steps more confident now, as you lead him back towards the stage, and the waiting crowd.