Eric's Most Insane Soldier

Orders from other staff and frantic movements are being made left and right by everyone backstage.

All members of The Boyz are ever so breathless from their intense choreographies, sweat staining their attire and droplets of perspiration trickling down from their contorted faces.

As they all jogged off from stage to prepare for their next sequence of songs, the entire backstage crew (yourself included) were ushering the boys to tend to their needs.

There was only so much time while the VCRS played to entertain the crowd during wardrobe change. It was crucial to prepare everyone as quickly as possible.

The chaos was exhilarating yet demanding. Your coworkers are pulling out designated attire from the racks, calling names of members to help them get dressed, have their makeup touched up, checking their in-ears, and merely fetching them a sip of water or rags to dab at their skin.

Your mind is roaring and racing. There’s hardly any room for mistakes or delay, so you’re incredibly focused on being a team player. The buzzing of calling shots, cameras being flashed and recording behind the scenes, and intense pacing of all movements shaped a hectic environment.

But even in the midst of the commotion, it’s rendered unfeasible to not admire Eric Sohn.

He’s panting, gasping for air as he quickly stumbles straight down into an idle chair. He takes a swig from a water bottle, throwing his head back and rolling his shoulders as he takes a breather.

It’s not even a second later that he’s hastily loosening his tie, then undoing the buttons of his shirt that’s practically sheer now, the entire backside wet and clinging to his skin.

He’s mumbling and reassuring staff even while he hisses in slight pain, having managed to sustain some sort of a knee injury. Though, he’s insisting that the show must go on.

It makes sense considering how ambitious and considerate of his fans he is. You’d argue that he practically bent over backwards the most to make these shows happen— given the circumstances. It’s part of why you’re so smitten over him.

So you knew telling this boisterous klutz to not dance wouldn’t change anything. You and the others just had to bite your tongue, knowing that Eric was too adamant of giving 110% to everyone in the audience tonight.

You’d worry about the occasional limping and extra caution he had to take during the strenuous routines, but you had to remember your place of position.

He’ll most likely have a check-up later tonight, and a diagnosis and official statement will be made that’ll be unable to be ignored to avoid further injury.

Plus, you’re an employee. Not his girlfriend or parent. Why should you helicopter him over it?

So you push your distress all the way in the back of your mind. However, you’re still obsessing over the eccentric maknae.

He’s ever so joyous yet focused on making tonight exceptional. He’s grinning from ear to ear as he unveils his glistening, naked torso. A roar releases from the boisterous boy, nose crinkled and eyes smiling as he hypes up the rest of the crew.

It’s impressive how he manages to keep your attention even in the midst of show business. Especially now with his shirt off, pecs essentially shooting daggers at you, demanding attention.

Despite the rush and running around amongst other staff like headless chickens, he seems to find your eyes roaming along his figure.

The way your mouth is left dry and core stirs at his every movement is insanity. The ridges of his hard stomach contort with every deep inhale he takes, caving in and out. Eric’s body wasn’t the most jacked in the world, but his abdominal muscles were prominent enough to leave you gawking.

You were just as bad as the boys who whistle and yell obscenities at innocent girls. You were so gone and he had you just as hooked as his fans.

It’s pivotal that your stolen glances go unnoticed by anyone else. The way your eyes fall over the length of his backside and zero in on the painfully faint happy trail that disappears into his slacks is beyond criminal.

Could you be any more subtle with the way you’re leering over him? He must feel objectified.

But everything about him, he owns it. Almost as if he’s being a tease for you on purpose.

Abruptly, the sound of him unfastening his belt startles you. He tugs it off in a swift motion, ditching it and allowing his pants to hit the floor.

A shiver sinks down your spine as his bottoms pool into the ground. Unconsciously, your thighs are pressing together to pacify a fluttery sensation that develops in between your legs. It’s unable to be contained.

There’s no denying that you are a pervert. Those Tom Ford briefs were the only article of clothing that happened to shield the most sacred part of his body. That bottom of his is clad in tight, black underwear.

Backstage, vulnerable moments were meant to happen. It was harmless and anything but groundbreaking to see people get dressed.

But in this case, it’s not just ‘whatever.’ Someone who you’ve been pining over in your dreams and who you happen to work for is just one barrier away from popping his cock out. No-fucking-deal.

You’re spiraling inside. You ‘ought to show some respect and deflect from your choice of focus. He’ll notice your thirsty glances without a doubt.

Ultimately he has the upper hand, knowing the presence of your wandering eyes can’t seem to nudge off. And unbeknownst to you, he likes it.

Shortly, he’s standing and prancing around awfully hung with that confined bulge between his legs. You’re being taunted by not being able to have your way with him.

Such a dirty mind you possess, fantasizing over feeling him slide his large length into your tender, hungry hole. Or… perhaps you’d allow him to rip you from oxygen with that cock down your throat, gagging on his hefty size with hot tears brimming your eyes.

A reality check is what you desperately need. You’re not getting paid to drool and get wet on the clock.

You’re not sure if you’re relieved or bummed when Eric has gotten changed into his next outfit. Either way, there’s no time to ponder it given that he needs his face touched up before sending him on stage again.

Millions of fans would sell their organs on the black market to be in your shoes. However, there’s great difficulty in putting up an innocent facade, poorly attempting to drown out your thoughts of wanting him to court you like colonial times, and fuck you like you two were the last people on earth.

As he sits on the chair, so charming and polite while you’re concealing parts of his face that were already somewhat smudged and uneven, the proximity leaves you not daring to even let a breath out.

The air is choking you, feeling tense and stifling. Those hands of yours threatened to shake, inside voice advising you to focus on keeping them steady.

A job you’ve mastered and completed over a dozen times still made you feel like an amateur in the presence of Eric Sohn.

You’d like to blame your dizziness to having been swamped from preparations for this weekend and being on your feet for way too long, but your vision is clouded by lust, completely starry eyed.

Being his makeup artist gave you a perfect excuse for your trance-like state. You’re focused on cleaning him up a tad, but your eyes can’t help but drink up and marvel over that gorgeous face of his.

His notable eye mole that sits on his waterline is very dear to you, giving him so much character and even more prominent up close. You imagine his past-life lover fancied kissing his left eye like a ritual. Just the thought alone brews jealousy of likely never getting that chance.

The finishing touch before scurrying him off is to brush on more lip tint. Most of the pigment had already faded, and that wound on his bottom lip was more visible than you both would like. Eric has a disgustingly bad habit of nibbling on his lips too much, avoiding chapstick like the plague because of the consistency it left on his appendage.

This was a dangerous task for you. Distance between you two merely a few inches, blotting red tint on a mouth that you would kill to kiss.

You even think about caressing your lips across the scar that curves out from the corner of his mouth, curious to know the story behind it, and maybe even getting a tour of other marks that are embedded into his skin.

His mouth is perfectly pouty and remains still while you do your work, doing your best in not outwardly gushing about how despite the cracks in his lips, or any wound, mark, or scar that’s etched on his face, it’s easy to conclude that he was the dreamiest man alive.

You prayed he’d give into your fervent wishes and cross a line. It’s no secret that he’s sex on legs, drawing appeal from every corner. Without a doubt he’s aware of how easily everyone would drop to kiss the ground he walks on if he asked.

There’s no way in hell that he knows you’re head over heels for him. He’s too locked in his own world, perhaps far too busy to even notice or entertain your little (massive) crush on him.

But one thing about Eric, he’s attentive.

Sometimes your fleeting eyes are not quick enough to look away before he holds your stare even for a brief millisecond, caught like a deer in headlights.

He notices more than you think. You’re not slick.

“I can see you staring, y’know?” he suddenly utters, causing that hand of yours to twitch, fingers gripping the makeup brush more firmly to prevent it from slipping while his words sink in.

That singular comment is like he’s broken down your walls as he cracked your code. The cheekiness in his tone is far from amusing to you, as you currently want to crawl into a hole and allow yourself to suffocate in it.

As a poor attempt to save your ass, you dismissed the meaning of that. You dipped your brush into a well-loved rectangular palette full of various shades, ignoring the sweat that builds up in your palms.

“Are you sure you’re fine to continue performing?” is what leaves your mouth, eyes never leaving his lips while you sweep the painted bristles in between his cracks, continuing to finish your job.

Steering the conversation was your best bet; addressing the elephant in the room was not an option.

Your acting skills fall average, maybe even subpar as you’re positive the heat rushing to your face is visibly evident. The kindness that Eric pays you is not taken for granted, and you’d hate to jeopardize your job for some pathetic feelings.

Sucks that you’re obvious as fuck.

A scoff sounds out from him, amused at the game of pretend you’re playing at. With a quick unserious roll of his eyes and lopsided wide-grin that interferes with your task, he finds hilarity at your inability to admit your pressing emotions even given his claim.

He’ll just have to keep trying. But for the sake of your sturdy front, he’ll play dumb, too. Just for now.

“I’m fine— don’t worry about me.” he says with a chuckle.

The muscles on your face form a smile, his own being contagious enough to pass onto you. You snort in turn, thanking the heavens that the subject has changed.

“Seriously, don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours. You already got too much on your plate.” he reassures to defeat your doubts.

Hearing him use ‘pretty’ when referring to you felt like snorting a straight line of crack. It strikes your fancy to a great degree, making you giggle and fly your eyes off to the side in hopes he can’t somehow read your mind through the contact.

Such a word left an insane effect on you. He couldn’t just go around using adjectives like that on you. If only he knew how the world fell silent within his presence, that you longed for him to admire you tentatively, and how flattery coming from him thumps your special spot down south.

It gets you giddy like a child on a sugar rush. The dopamine in your brain skyrockets, heart hammering against your ribcage more than if you were to mix liquor with adderall.

It’s rather silly, but you’re glowing like a beacon.

The corners of your lips being upturned appeal to him, making his eyes gleam as he watches your lips stretch, smile lines creasing your skin.

You noticed. For a split second, his vision momentarily longs at your mouth. No words are exchanged, just mere stares that happen to speak louder than words.

His tongue licks at his lips as if he’s contemplating something. Your breath is caught in your throat, stuck while awaiting his next move and wondering what the fuck goes on in that head of his.

The intensity of his dimmed eyes that swirled chocolate cuts you deep like a sharp blade. With a simple look, you can sense your walls coming down, wanting to cave into that tempting gaze that appears so inviting.

Your pupils fall to his mouth, catching him nibbling on the lower lip, messing with that damn wound you worked tediously to cover up.

He makes you insanely frustrated. Eager heart throbbing as you battle internally for self restraint. You couldn’t dare to knock the air out from his lungs and bruise his appendage for an endless kiss.

It’s tantalizing. But you simply couldn’t.

Just one kiss and maybe you could live on with your life. One night with him is all you’d need. You could get over him after having known what he tastes like, right?

Sadly, the universe doesn’t hold room for you to make a decision you might regret. Unspoken thoughts are cutoff by other staff ushering the members to head back out amongst the awaiting fans.

It’s almost comical how Eric surprises you by rolling those same eyes that were just filled with appetite whilst fixating on a mouth he’d like to slot his own in between. He even mumbles a ‘fuck’ expressing evident irritation over something that could’ve been had to cut short.

There was a time and place for flirtation and lust. It didn’t seem like now was the time. Given the hustle and bustle of his life, did that even seem like a possibility for him?

Despite it all, he mentally shakes his head to regain focus for his next performances. A soft smile is sent your way, probably sympathetic for having to leave you like an abandoned puppy, all wide-eyed and lost.

He rises from his seat, lips still curled at the sight of you seemingly caught in a lovesick desire. It amuses him in how cute the state makes you look. You were such a coy little girl around him.

And in the blink of an eye, he taps at your chin with his calloused thumb. As if you were his puppy dog, catching your attention.

“I’ll make you proud, hon.” he promises, shooting a wink simultaneously before breaking contact as fast as he laid a finger on you, distancing himself to go and do what he does best.

It happened so fast that you’re left swearing it was all a hallucination.

Surely you’d wake up soon to reality. But you were stone cold sober, alive and awake last time you checked.

You felt as if something had bloomed inside of you. The air felt cleaner, life suddenly had meaning, and your self worth skyrocketed.

Even if there’s a chance he believed you were an easy target, so helpless and harboring an all-consuming crush over him, your heart raced and you could disappear into the ground, melting from the heat his playful actions aroused your body with.

If his current mission in life is to fuck you and use you like a toy until you’re worn out, you’re okay with being on his to-do list.

It’s silly— maybe even pathetic. But he’s etched into every crevice of your brain.

You’re already imagining him on top of you, begging to be his fixation and muse, willing to do anything for his cock.

And luckily for you, he’s ready to watch that body fold for him.

He just hopes you can keep up.