#stick shift

The snow isn’t heavy, but it hasn’t stopped falling in days.

Fat, lazy flakes drift through the air like ash, slow and quiet, clinging to rooftops and resting in tire tracks, melting only when the exhaust or adrenaline burns hot enough. The whole city’s taken on that grayish tint winter always brings. Streetlights glow dull gold through the cold. Everyone’s breath curls like smoke.

It’s not racing weather.

Not really.

The roads are too slick. The air is too sharp. But that doesn’t stop them. The desperate ones. The restless ones. The ones who crave the thrill more than they fear the risk. That tightrope feeling. That moment when the car might slip, might spin, might kiss a guardrail or flip on a turn. Those are the ones who show up now.

And tonight, you’re one of them.

So is Hoseok.

You spot him before he sees you. He’s leaning against a rust colored SUV near the edge of the lot, black hoodie pulled up beneath his leather jacket, gloved hands tucked into his pockets, jaw sharp in profile as he watches the course through snow-streaked lashes. His breath fogs in front of him.

You could say he’s been avoiding you.

But you’d be lying.

You’ve been the one dodging him.

Three months since the almost kiss. Three months of ghosting meets where he might be. Three months of showing up late and leaving early. You’ve kept your distance. Thought time and space would let the heat die down.

It hasn’t.

And now, here he is.

And here you are.

Neither of you were planning to race tonight. The track’s a death wish. Half snow, half black ice, barely lit. No one smart’s running it. But the energy’s still thick with tension and breath and the low growl of modified engines testing grip.

You end up beside him almost on accident. Someone moves. You shift. And suddenly you’re there, standing at the same angle, watching a gutted Subaru slide sideways across a hairpin turn.

Hoseok glances over.

You nod once, a tight lipped smile.

He nods back.

And to your surprise, the silence between you doesn’t stay sharp. It stretches, then softens, and melts.

“Guy’s got no weight in the back,” he murmurs, chin angling toward the car on the course. “Should’ve known better.”

“He’s trying to impress someone,” you reply, shrugging. “Or die trying.”

A beat.

Then he huffs a laugh, low and surprised.

“Sounds like half the guys out here.”

You grin. “Exactly.”

Conversation flows easier than you expect.

You talk about how you got into racing. He tells you about his older cousins owning a mechanic shop, busted knuckles, the need to make something move when nothing in life felt fast enough. You tell him your cheesy story about seeing Too Fast, Too Furious: Tokyo Drift and becoming obsessed. About your neighbor who taught you how to change a tire before you were twelve, and the first time you outran a cop on a road with no headlights.

The snow continues to fall, dusting your shoulders, the tips of his lashes.

You shiver once, just barely. But he notices.

He shifts behind you, warm body angled just right. Without a word, he reaches out and gently tugs your arm until you’re standing in front of him. His chest is at your back. His jacket brushes yours. His breath grazes your temple.

“You’ll warm up faster like this,” he says casually, as if it’s nothing.

But your heartbeat kicks.

His voice is right against your ear, low and calm. His hand stays at your hip, just resting there, easy and unassuming, but you feel every inch of it.

You scramble for something to say, something safe.

“Looks like the next guy’s running a GTR. Dumb choice in this weather.”

“Way too heavy,” he murmurs, still close. “Front’ll pull. Watch.”

And it does.

You both laugh.

Then someone steps in front of you, holding out a pre-roll. The man nods once, offering it without words.

You shrug. Why not?

You take it.

Then pause, glancing over your shoulder at Hoseok.

He raises a brow.

You lift the blunt to your lips.

“Got a light?”

He exhales a quiet laugh, somewhere between amused and exasperated. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a Zippo, flicking it open with one smooth motion.

The flame dances.

He lights it for you, fingers grazing yours as he steadies the blunt between your lips.

As you inhale, he leans back with a small smirk.

“Guess that makes me one of the sorry bastards Jin warned me about.”

You blow the smoke out slowly, the burn smooth against your throat, heat pooling low.

“Poor you.”

You pass it to him.

He takes it.

You both stand there like that. Shoulders brushing, watching headlights cut through snow and steam, passing the blunt back and forth like it’s always been this easy.

But it hasn’t.

And you feel it now.

The weight of every second that’s passed since that night.

The silence between you grows heavier. His hand brushes yours when you pass it again.

Your breath hitches.

And before you can say something to break the tension, to push him away like you always do, he moves.

He grabs your wrist, guiding you through the crowd, past a half dead heater buzzing beside a crate stack, and back toward his car. You don’t fight it.

He presses you against the passenger side door, the cold biting into your spine, and then his mouth is on yours.

Finally.

And you don’t hesitate.

Your hands fist in his jacket, dragging him closer, mouths colliding like punishment. His tongue flicks against yours, rough and warm. You bite his bottom lip. He groans into your mouth, palms braced against the car door on either side of you, body heat caging you in.

You’re ravenous. Filthy. Desperate.

You press your hand between his thighs.

Find him hard already.

You palm him through his jeans, slow and firm, and he stumbles forward slightly, lips pulling from yours with a gasp that makes your thighs clench.

But before your hands can undo his belt—

He pulls back.

Just barely.

“Not—” he pants, “not out here.”

You blink up at him, lips swollen, breath ragged.

He opens the passenger side door behind you, gesturing inside. “I’m not gonna fuck you against a freezing car in front of half the lot.”

You grin, teeth gleaming in the dark.

“Aww,” you coo, teasing, “such a gentleman.”

He huffs a sharp laugh, guiding you into the car with one hand at the back of your neck.

“Far from it.”

Then he shuts the door.

And follows you inside.

—

The city unspools behind you in streaks of gold and white.

Snow sweeps the windshield in soft, relentless waves as Hoseok drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting firm and warm on your thigh. You’re still catching your breath, your lips tingling, every part of you overheated in the silence between kisses. The Mazda handles like it’s part of him, cutting down slick backroads and winding turns without hesitation.

You keep watching him.

The way his jaw clenches when you shift in your seat. The way his fingers tap against your leg in rhythm with the music humming low through the speakers. The way his eyes burn through the windshield like they’ve never stopped seeing you.

By the time he pulls into the underground garage of his apartment complex, the cold is long forgotten.

Snow still falls outside, but here, beneath fluorescent lights and concrete beams, the air is still and quiet. Thick with anticipation.

He shifts the gear into park.

And you don’t wait.

You’re on him the second the engine hums to a stop, climbing across the center console, straddling him in the driver’s seat, mouths crashing together like magnets too long denied. Your fingers curl into the collar of his jacket. His hands grab your hips with a groan that’s half warning, half surrender.

You grind down against him, hips rolling in steady, relentless circles. His cock is hard beneath you, trapped behind denim. You drag your tongue along the seam of his mouth. He opens for you, lets you taste him, lets you press close until the windows begin to fog from your breath alone.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, hands flexing against your ass. “You don’t stop, do you?”

Your teeth catch his bottom lip. “Not when I know what I want.”

You grind again, firmer this time, and he bites back a curse. Head tipping back briefly against the headrest.

His mouth finds your neck, then heads lower.

Wet, open kisses along your throat. Slow drags of tongue along the dip where your pulse hammers. But when he noses at the collar of your coat, he growls in frustration.

“How many fucking layers are you wearing?”

You laugh, breathless. “It’s January.”

His fingers slip beneath your jacket anyway, tugging at zippers and cotton and whatever else is in his way. “Yeah, and you decided to show up wrapped like a fortress when I haven’t had my mouth on you once.”

Your grin deepens, smug. “Gotta stay warm out there.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“I’ve got a better way.”

Your breath catches.

And then his hand is moving.

Down your front, swift and sure, finding your belt and popping it open with practiced ease. The button on your jeans is next. The zipper follows with a slow, taunting drag.

He slides his hand inside.

Past denim.

Past the waistband of your panties.

And groans.

“Fuck,” he hisses, voice rough. “You’re dripping.”

His fingers slide through your folds, stroking through the slick heat with slow, maddening precision. He teases everywhere but where you need him most.

You squirm in his lap, hips rocking, chasing the pressure that never lands.

“Hoseok…”

But he doesn’t budge.

He brings his other hand to your waist, steadying you, holding you still.

You whimper softly, frustration blooming.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“You had your fun,” he murmurs. “Making me watch you flirt with every sorry bastard in a fifty foot radius. Riling me up till I almost broke that guy’s face. Thought you could play me, baby? Thought I wouldn’t come back for mine?”

You try to move again, desperate now, but his grip tightens.

“Nah,” he growls, “my turn.”

His thumb drags just below your clit, close enough to make your thighs twitch, but never enough.

“I’m gonna work your body harder than a stick shift, sweetheart.”

You’re soaked around his fingers, your thighs slick and trembling as he works you in slow, punishing circles.

Still seated in the driver’s seat, you’re straddling him with your pants undone, your body melting into his hands, your forehead pressed to his shoulder as your mouth parts in half formed pleas. His fingers are finally buried inside you now, two deep, twisting just enough to make your hips jerk, and his thumb, fuck, his thumb doesn’t stop working your clit.

You can barely breathe.

“Fuck,” you pant, rocking down harder, chasing your high like it’s the last stretch of a street you’ve raced a thousand times. “Hoseok—”

“I know,” he whispers against your temple, voice wrecked. “Give it to me.”

The pressure crests and breaks before you can hold it back.

Your body jolts, legs tightening around his waist, and you cum hard, grinding down against his hand, lips parted, breath fogging against the side of his throat. You whimper as your body shakes, your head tipping back, eyes fluttering open and closed as he slows the rhythm just enough to let you ride it out.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “So fucking pretty like this.”

He kisses your cheek.

Then, gently his hand slips from your jeans. He sucks your cum off his fingers before wiping them on his jeans. Then he cradles the back of your head as he unlocks and opens the driver door, brushing your hair away from your face.

Your thighs are still twitching when he locks his arms firmly around you, lifts you in one smooth movement, and slides out of the driver’s seat with you wrapped around him.

You’re still dazed. Still glowing.

Completely forgetting your jeans are unzipped.

The cold air of the garage hits your skin, but you don’t flinch. You cling to him instinctively, your cheek pressed to his neck, breathing him in like warmth. He walks like you weigh nothing, like he’s carried you a hundred times before. His boots echo off the cement floor as he strides across the garage, cutting toward the elevator.

Inside, it’s empty. Thank fuck.

You stir as the doors close behind him.

“I can walk,” you mumble, voice drowsy but smug. “I’m fine.”

His grip doesn’t shift.

“I know,” he says, pressing a kiss behind your ear. “But not for long.”

—

He doesn’t say a word as he keys in the door code, pushes it open, and kicks it shut with the heel of his boot.

His apartment is surprisingly warm.

Dark wood, dim lighting, a single candle still burning on the windowsill. The city flickers beyond the floor to ceiling glass windows like a galaxy.

You blink slowly, legs still wrapped around his waist, arms still clinging.

He doesn’t go to the bedroom.

He takes you straight to the kitchen island.

The hard surface meets your back as he lays you out across it with care. Your spine arching, jacket riding up, the bare skin of your stomach peeking out from where your jeans are half undone.

He steps back just long enough to yank off your boots, letting them thud to the floor one by one.

Then your jeans.

He peels them down your legs slowly, eyes on your face the whole time, lips parted. You lift your hips just enough to help.

He drops them to the ground.

Then he sits on a bar stool still fully clothed, and pushes your thighs open with steady hands. Pressing a kiss just above your knee.

Then another. And another.

You watch him from above, breath caught, fingers clenching the edge of the counter as he makes his way up your thigh.

But he doesn’t touch you yet.

Not really.

Not where you want him.

“Waiting for permission?”

He doesn’t answer, instead, he presses his mouth to the damp heat of your panties, humming low at the taste of you even through the fabric. His hands grip your thighs to hold you still as his tongue drags a slow, lazy stroke over the soaked cotton.

You gasp, hips lifting off the counter.

He chuckles low in his throat. Then the fabric gives way with a sharp, ripping sound, brutal and effortless in his grip. Your ruined panties flutter to the floor like a white flag, but you don’t get the chance to surrender.

Because he’s already on you.

His mouth crashes into your core with an open mouthed hunger that steals the breath from your lungs. His tongue is greedy as it slithers through your folds, licking up everything you’ve given him and demanding more.

You jolt with a cry, your spine bowing off the counter, hands scrabbling for purchase as his lips seal around your clit and suck.

A sob bursts from your throat, high and trembling. “Hoseok—”

But he’s not listening.

His name is just noise to him now, a background hum beneath the obscene sounds of his mouth on your pussy. His hands tighten on your thighs, anchoring them wide apart as he buries himself deeper between them like a man possessed.

Two fingers slide back into you like they belong there. Thick, practiced strokes curling just right and finding that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Then there’s a third, stretching you wide, dragging a gasp from your chest that turns into a moan.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he mutters into you, words muffled by your slick. “And so wet for me. Look at you.”

You can’t.

Your eyes are already rolling back, legs trembling where they’re propped over his shoulders, heels pressing into the defined muscle of his back like you’re trying to hold onto something—anything—but there’s nothing left.

Nothing but him.

And he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t let you catch your breath. Doesn’t let you come down. Doesn’t let you run.

He just eats. You. Alive.

Every lick is rougher, sloppier, wetter than the last. His tongue flicks against your clit like he’s teasing you toward madness. Then he flattens it and drags it slowly until you’re keening, thighs clenching around his head.

But even then, he doesn’t ease up.

You feel the smile against your cunt when you cry out again. Feel it when he growls low and filthy, vibrating through your core like a shockwave. He’s drenched in you now, chin slick, lips shiny, fingers knuckle deep and fucking you like he’s not planning on ever letting go.

And when you finally start to come undone, babbling his name like a prayer and a warning, Hoseok just tightens his hold, locks you in place, and drags every last trembling wave from your body.

You don’t remember how long he licks into you on that cold marble slab, but it’s long enough for your thighs to start trembling again, long enough for your voice to crack when you beg him to stop teasing, and long enough for him to lift his mouth with a shine on his lips and a wicked grin stretching across his face like he already knows you’re ruined.

He kisses your inner thigh and rests his cheek there like he’s smugly catching his breath.

“Still wearing all these layers,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin.

You snort, chest rising. “You haven’t exactly given me a chance to take them off.”

“Oh?” His brows lift as he straightens to full height, looming over you, licking his bottom lip. “You’re saying this is my fault?”

You raise a brow, eyes flashing. “I’m saying if you wanted me naked, you could’ve said something twenty minutes ago.”

He lets out a laugh and grabs the hem of your coat without warning. “Fine. Come here.”

You sit up, your core still pulsing, your thighs still shaking faintly.

He helps you up with steady hands, easing your coat down your arms like he’s unwrapping something precious. It falls to the kitchen floor with a soft thud.

Your sweater’s next.

Thick. Oversized. Cozy enough to hide everything.

He grips the hem and pulls it up.

You lift your arms.

The sweater goes over your head…and Hoseok stops.

Stares.

Your nipples tighten in the cool air, and his gaze drops, eyes going wide as he realizes what’s not underneath.

“Fuck me,” he breathes.

You smirk. “I’m starting to think that’s the idea.”

His jaw flexes. “No bra?”

“Nope.”

He takes a step back, just to get the full picture.

Your curves. The way you sit naked on his kitchen island like a dream, hair messy, lips swollen. Your breasts heaving with every breath. And smiling at him like you know exactly what you’re doing.

He exhales, sharply. “I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind.”

“Then fuck me before you do.”

That’s it.

He moves.

Fast.

Without a word, he scoops you up and carries you down the hall like he’s on fire, like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t get you somewhere now.

Your arms wrap around his neck as your head tips forward to nuzzle his jaw. “God, you’re obsessed with carrying me.”

“Of course. You won’t stay still long enough for me to keep you.”

Your heart stutters and you cover it up with a scoff, “you’re lucky I haven’t taken control, sunshine.”

He chuckles darkly as his bedroom door swings open with a shoulder bump. “Oh, baby. You’ll get your turn.”

The room is warm, dimly lit. Golden slats of light from the street slicing across the comforter. You barely register the space before he’s laying you out on the bed, like you’re something he’s waited his whole life to touch.

Your back hits the sheets.

He looks at you like he’s starving.

Then he’s climbing over you and his hands are everywhere.

One spreads over your thigh, coaxing your legs apart again while the other kneads your breast like he’s been dreaming about this exact weight in his palm. His mouth is lower, dragging down your chest with slow, wet kisses that leave trails of heat behind. He sucks at the skin just below your collarbone first, then lower, tongue curling around your nipple before he pulls it into his mouth and groans.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice hoarse, still mouthing at your tits like he can’t get enough. “You’re unreal.”

You arch beneath him, gasping as the wet heat of his mouth sends sparks licking through you. One hand slides up into his hair, tugging, and he moans again as if you’ve flipped a switch inside him.

His fingers are there again, slipping between your thighs.

His thumb circles your clit with practiced ease, while two fingers dip lower, teasing your entrance before easing back inside. You cry out, hips bucking instinctively, and Hoseok lifts his head just enough to watch your face.

“Sounds so pretty,” he mutters, voice rough and ragged with want.

His fingers pump slowly, curling just right. You swear he’s reading your body like a manual—knowing when to go slow, when to press deeper, when to still everything just to hear you whimper his name.

Your back arches again when he presses a third finger in, thumb never leaving your clit.

“Hoseok—fuck—”

He grins, messy and wild.

“I’m gonna fuck you like I’ve been dying to.”

And when he says it, it’s against your chest—his breath hot over the nipple he just sucked raw, the words vibrating against your skin like a promise.

Your head tips back.

Your hips roll up to meet his hand.

“Do it, then,” you whisper, broken and breathless.

He kisses your chest once more and pulls his fingers from your pussy, wet and gleaming. He sits back on his heels between your thighs, breathing hard. Watching you. His eyes rake over your flushed, wrecked body, your chest still glistening from his mouth, your thighs slick and trembling from his fingers.

Then, without a word, he reaches for the hem of his shirt.

And pulls it over his head.

Your breath catches.

His skin is golden and taut, glowing in the low light. His body lean but strong, every inch of him cut from tension and fire. Defined shoulders, rippling abs, sharp lines that narrow into a perfect V. There’s a sheen of sweat on his chest, clinging to the dip between his pecs, the slope of his collarbone.

You’ve imagined it before, maybe once or twice. But you never imagined this.

You drag your eyes up to his face.

He smirks, just a little.

“You gonna stare all night?”

You don’t even blink. “Yeah. I might.”

The smirk grows, cocky and crooked, before he reaches down, thumbs hooking into the waistband of his jeans. He stands as he pushes them down, stripping slowly, teasing. His briefs go next, and then he’s bare.

Your mouth parts.

He’s… big.

Beautiful.

Thick and hard and glistening, the flushed head twitching slightly as the cool air hits him. Your gaze trails the vein running down the side, the perfect curve of him, the way he fits perfectly in his own palm as he strokes once, twice. Just enough to watch your thighs twitch in response.

“You want it that bad?” he teases softly, voice dipping, cock dragging through your folds in a slow, deliberate glide that makes you jolt.

Your answer comes in the form of a whimper, hips bucking. “Hoseok—please—”

He shushes you with a kiss to your knee, then lines himself up.

The first press of him inside is slow.

Measured.

He groans low in his throat, gripping your thighs to keep himself steady. You’re soaked and still tight around him, your walls fluttering in anticipation, clinging to every inch as he pushes deeper.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “You feel… better than I imagined.”

You can’t even form words. Just sharp little gasps as he stretches you, filling you to the hilt with maddening patience. He stills when he’s fully inside, letting you adjust, letting you feel it.

Your body trembles.

You’ve never been this full.

He leans over you again, planting a kiss against your jaw as he starts to move. Deep, unhurried thrusts that drag against your g-spot with each pull and push. He doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t lose the rhythm. He just fucks you like he’s savoring every second, eyes locked on yours like he’s memorizing your face the moment you break.

And then it happens.

He rolls his hips a little deeper, a little firmer and your body locks up.

The orgasm takes you by surprise, pussy tightening around him like a velvet vice until it shatters through you. Your legs tense, then quake, and you cry out. Gripping his arms, his shoulders, anything to stay grounded.

Your cunt spasms around his cock, and he growls. A raw sound ripped straight from his chest.

“Shit,” he hisses. “You’re squeezing me—fuck—”

Whatever control he had crumbles.

He pulls out almost all the way just to slam back in again, harder, hips slapping against you, his hands sliding beneath your ass to anchor you exactly where he wants you.

He loses himself.

The second your walls clamp down and your hips jerk, he stops pretending to be gentle. All that patience, all that teasing, all the smirks and steady restraint he wore like armor shatter in a breath.

Now he’s snarling against your neck, one hand gripping the back of your thigh as he pistons into you, fast and deep, his rhythm brutal with need.

“You feel that?” he growls. “Feel how good you take me?”

You nod, gasping, fingers clawing at his back, your body already starting to tremble again from the overstimulation. But he doesn’t let up. If anything, he fucks you harder.

“You could’ve had this so much sooner,” he grits out, hips slamming into yours with obscene wet sounds. “We could’ve been doing this—I could’ve been doing this to you—every fucking night.”

Your head tips back against the pillows, tears pricking your lashes from how deep it all feels. The stretch, the pressure, the truth in his voice.

“But no,” he growls, dropping his head to bite gently at your collarbone. “You wanted to play. Act like you didn’t want me. Act like you didn’t need me.”

You whimper, a choked little sob escaping before you can stop it. It only makes him groan louder.

“That’s it,” he mutters. “Cry for it. Cry on my cock. Should’ve let me ruin you a long time ago, sweetheart.”

His hand slips between your bodies, finding your clit again, rubbing it in hard, punishing circles. You jerk under him, wailing now, overwhelmed, desperate, wrecked.

He’s everywhere—inside you, on you, in your head.

“You’d rather cry on this cock than admit you wanted it?” he pants, voice rough. “You’d rather sit across from me at every meet pretending you didn’t dream of this?”

You sob out his name, hips rising helplessly to meet each thrust. Another toe curling orgasm rips through you sharp and violent, making your whole body seize.

And still—he doesn’t stop.

“Fuck, that’s it—give it to me again, baby. Let me feel you fucking break on me.”

He slows just enough to roll his hips deep, dragging the tip of his cock along your walls until he’s grinding into that sweet spot again and again, coaxing every last tremble from you.

You can’t even speak anymore.

Too wrecked.

All you can do is hold onto him while he fucks you like he’s been starved of you for months.

And maybe he has.

Because when he speaks next, his voice is barely a whisper.

“I could’ve been loving you like this the whole time.”

And then he slams into you, groaning as his own orgasm finally hits, spilling deep inside you with one last hard thrust. His body shaking, his hand clutching yours, forehead pressed to your shoulder.

You barely have time to breathe.

You’re still trembling, still soaked in the aftermath of your orgasm and his, when Hoseok grabs your hips and flips you over like you weigh nothing.

“On your knees.”

His voice is sharp. Gravel wrapped. It sends a shiver ripping through you as you scramble to obey, arms giving out slightly when he presses your back down with a firm hand between your shoulders.

Your ass is in the air.

Your thighs sticky.

And he’s behind you again, already hard—already leaking against your thigh like the first round didn’t satisfy him one bit.

“Look at this pussy,” he groans, thumbing through your folds, watching you drip. “Fucked dumb and still so greedy for me.”

You whimper, clenching around nothing. But then he’s there.

Sliding in again, one thrust, full force.

You scream.

The stretch hits different from this angle. Deeper, more dangerous, and he knows it. Hoseok hisses as your walls suck him back in, his fingers bruising on your hips as he sets a punishing rhythm right away.

Slap.

His hand comes down on your ass, sharp and loud.

Slap.

Again, the other side this time.

“Bounce for me,” he growls, grabbing a handful of your ass and watching the jiggle as your body rocks forward with every thrust. “That’s right, baby. Take it. Take every inch.”

You try. You do. But he’s relentless, forcing you back on his cock, controlling your pace with fists full of your hips, his moans turning guttural as he watches you arch for him, cry for him, melt for him.

“Fuck, you were never gonna get away from me,” he breathes. “Not like them.”

Your arms shake beneath you, but his hand is curling around your throat before you collapse. He drags you upright, your back flush to his chest now, his cock still buried inside you as his other hand reaches between your thighs to tease your clit again.

“Did they fuck you like this?” he murmurs into your ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Did they make you scream for it?”

You can’t answer.

You can’t think.

His grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your head spin, your body hypersensitive, nerve endings screaming in pleasure as he keeps pounding into you from behind.

“I know they didn’t,” he snarls, dragging his teeth along your shoulder. “They didn’t fuck you like you were theirs. Didn’t wreck you so bad you’d still feel it the next day. Didn’t make you cry for it.”

You’re sobbing now. Your head thrown back, body shaking, completely undone.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, so soft and filthy it sounds like sin. “Say it.”

You choke on the words at first, but they come out.

“Y-Yours.”

“Louder.”

“Yours, Hoseok—’m yours—fuck, I’m yours—”

And that’s when he snaps.

He slams up into you so deep you swear your lungs forget how to work. His hand never leaves your throat as he arches your back further, the angle so perfect it sends stars dancing behind your eyes.

You’re unraveling again. Already right there. Right on the edge.

And he knows it.

“Come on,” he groans, burying himself to the hilt. “Show me. Show me who you belong to.”

And when you cum, it’s shattering.

Mind blowing.

A scream caught in your throat, eyes rolled back, body clenching so tight around his cock he curses against your neck and comes with you. Grinding so deep inside you it feels like he’s marking you from the inside out.

He collapses on top of you with a grunt, body trembling, still buried inside you. His chest presses into your back, damp and heaving, lips dragging across your shoulder in a dazed, open mouthed kiss.

Neither of you speak.

You’re both too wrecked, too spent, but fuck, it feels good.

You don’t remember the last time someone made you feel this full.

Eventually, his breath evens just enough that he gently pulls out, a shaky groan catching in his throat at the loss. He rolls onto his back, dragging you with him until you’re sprawled across his chest, your cheek against the slick warmth of his skin, your legs tangled together.

He strokes your spine lazily, all hazy and sated. And that’s exactly why you strike.

You press a kiss to his collarbone, then another, lower and slower, before pushing yourself upright, your palms flattening on his chest as you rise to your knees. Hoseok blinks up at you, still dazed.

“What… what are you—”

“I’m not finished,” you purr, voice like satin soaked in sin.

Before he can ask another question, you reach between your thighs, wrap your fingers around his cock. Already twitching back to life as you stroke him, and guide it right where you want it.

And you sink down.

Hoseok gasps. His head thrown back onto the bed, hands flying to your hips as your walls wrap around him, still fluttering from everything he just did to you.

“Fuck—are you trying to kill me?” he groans, voice already breaking.

You roll your hips once, deliberately slow.

“No,” you murmur, dragging your nails across his chest, “just trying to show you that you’re not the only one who knows how to make someone cry while they cum.”

You clench around him hard, rhythmically, and purposefully.

His whole body twitches.

“Oh my God—what the fuck was that?”

You smile, tilting your hips again, dragging his cock against every sensitive inch inside you. “Kegels,” you whisper against his jaw. “I do them in the car. At work. All the time.”

Another squeeze.

He moans.

You start to ride him properly now. Grinding slowly, rolling your hips with precision, making sure he feels everything. Your hands brace on his chest, your tits bouncing just enough to make his eyes roll back.

His hands are everywhere.

Gripping your ass, your waist, your thighs and then sliding up to your tits again, mouth latching on like he’s starving. He sucks and groans and worships, licking across your nipples while you bounce in his lap.

“Fuck, you feel unreal,” he gasps, kissing the swell of your chest. “Baby—baby, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna cum—”

You pull off him instantly.

Hoseok shouts.

His cock twitches, angry and wet and pulsing in the air, but you grip the base and lock eyes with him.

“No. Be a good boy. Hold it.”

He groans, dragging both hands over his face. “You’re fucking evil.”

You lean down, licking a stripe up his throat before biting his earlobe. “You love it.”

And then you do it again.

And again.

You ride him to the edge, only to pull off the moment his face twists in ecstasy, only to whisper, Not yet.

He’s a mess.

Sweaty, flushed, jaw slack with his fists curled in the sheets, hips bucking into nothing, his cock leaking so much it’s smeared between both of your thighs.

“You gonna cry for it?” you coo, stroking him slow.

He chokes out something that might be a yes. Or a prayer. You can’t tell.

But you’re close now too. Your thighs are shaking, your own walls clenching hard around nothing. The power high is melting into want. Into need.

And when you see him bite his lip to keep from begging, you give in.

You slide back down with a gasp, clenching him deep, your nails raking across his chest as you ride him hard. This time with no mercy, no teasing, just pure fucking want.

It’s frantic now.

Louder.

Wetter.

More.

His hands slam down on your hips, thrusting up to meet you with ragged moans.

You both fall apart at the same time.

You sob his name, head thrown back as your climax rips through you. He follows instantly, shouting your name as he empties inside you again, body jerking beneath yours.

You collapse forward, both of you boneless and covered in sweat, lips brushing, hearts hammering.

He’s still twitching inside you.

Still panting.

And all he can say—over and over, in a ragged whisper—is your name.

—

You don’t know how long you lie there. Your bodies tangled, skin sticking from sweat, the air heavy with sex and silence.

But eventually, Hoseok shifts beneath you with a groan, his arms tightening as if he’s not quite ready to let go.

“Come on,” he mumbles, voice scratchy. “Let me take care of you.”

You nod, too tired to speak, letting him lift you in his arms. He carries you to the bathroom without saying another word, flicks on the light and the shower with practiced ease, and sets you down gently on the closed toilet seat while the water warms.

He steps in first, then reaches for you again.

“Up,” he whispers, offering his hand like you haven’t already given him everything.

You take it.

The water hits your skin in a warm cascade. Hoseok keeps one arm around your waist, the other moving gently across your body. He doesn’t speak.

Just lets his touch say everything his mouth can’t quite form yet.

He washes you with care. His fingers skimming down your arms, your thighs, over the marks he left. He kisses your shoulder as he rinses you clean, then does the same to himself.

When he finally shuts the water off, he wraps you in a towel first. Then himself. Then dries you piece by piece. His hands pause at your knees, his lips brushing your skin.

Then he carries you back to bed.

Not because you can’t walk.

But because he doesn’t want you to.

You end up curled against him, bare under the sheets, your cheek on his chest again. His heartbeat is slower now. Steady. But you can feel it skip every time your fingers drag lazily across his ribs.

Outside, the sky is starting to shift, inky black fading into lavender gray. The first birdsong breaks through the stillness.

And that’s when he finally speaks.

“I thought about you all the time,” he murmurs into your hair. “Even when I told myself I shouldn’t.”

You blink, slow. “When?”

His hand strokes your back. “Every time you walked away. Every time you laughed at someone else’s jokes. Every time you looked at me like I wasn’t the one you were dying to touch.”

You smile softly. “Maybe I was waiting for you to do something about it.”

He laughs under his breath. “You mean like throw you in my front seat and wreck your life?”

“Or like finally admit you wanted me?” you counter, chin tipping up.

His eyes find yours and he leans in, brushing a kiss across your forehead. “I’ve always wanted you.”

Silence falls again.

His arms wrap tighter around you, like he’s trying to shield you from the coming sun. Like this moment is the only thing that matters.

“Don’t disappear on me,” he says quietly. “Not now. Not after this.”

You nuzzle closer. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

His lips curve against your temple. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go.”

And then there’s nothing left to say.

Just his fingers in your hair.

Your leg slung over his hip.

The sheets tangled around your calves.

And the light rising slow, like a promise you finally stopped running from.

Spring arrived fast and loud.

The lot was already packed when you pulled in, your tires crunching over the gravel before gliding to a stop near the starting line. Smells of burnt rubber and someone’s cheap peach vape drifted through the air, mingling with the rumble of engines and the thump of music blasting from somebody’s open trunk.

Hoseok was already there.

Of course he was.

Leaning against his blacked out ride like he hadn’t just blown your back out that morning with his head buried between your thighs and your knees over his shoulders. Like he wasn’t the reason your legs were still a little shaky as you stepped out of your car.

He turned at the sound of your door.

And smirked.

That cocky, half lidded look like he already knew something you didn’t.

You rolled your eyes and popped the trunk.

“Back for more?” he called out, voice lazy.

You didn’t dignify that with an answer.

You just pulled off your jacket, tied it around your waist, and stretched your arms overhead, very aware of his eyes dragging down your body. Very aware of the little twitch in his jaw before he sucked in his cheek and turned back to his car like it didn’t affect him.

It always did.

You lined up side by side on the strip, tension buzzing like static between your cars. The sun was warm on your thighs through the window, but it was the memory of his tongue inside you that made your pulse thrum like this. That made your grip on the wheel tighten. That made your core ache.

The starter stepped into position.

Fingers lifted. Lights dropped.

You took off.

Tires screaming.

Engines snarling.

You were neck and neck from the jump—each of you surging forward, weaving past the curve of the first makeshift checkpoint, your cars dancing across the asphalt like twin predators on the hunt.

He stayed on your left, close enough to feel like gravity, and when the tight curve ahead loomed, you both drifted into it in perfect sync.

That’s when it happened.

Your eyes locked through the driver’s side windows.

He bit his lip.

Let his gaze drag down your body.

Like he could see through the steel frame and tinted glass. Like he was looking right into your lap and remembering how you came for him that morning, panting and helpless in the dim light of his bedroom.

Your stomach dropped.

Your thighs clenched.

And that split second of distraction was all he needed.

He pulled ahead.

By the time you were past the final checkpoint, it was over.

He beat you by less than half a second, but the grin on his face as he stepped out of his car was full wattage.

You stalked up to him, chest still heaving, hair wild around your face. And slapped his chest with the back of your hand.

“You cheated, asshole.”

He blinked. “Cheated how?”

Jin and Namjoon were already approaching, grinning wide. Jin held up a phone like he’d been filming the whole thing.

“You saw that, right?” you snapped at them.

“Saw you lose, yeah,” Jin said brightly.

Namjoon laughed. “Sore loser energy is crazy today.”

You turned back to Hoseok, who was leaning casually against the hood of his car again like he hadn’t just thrown off your entire rhythm with one look.

“I asked how,” he repeated, lips twitching. “How’d I cheat?”

You opened your mouth.

And then closed it.

Because how do you explain that his face was the problem? That one bite of his lip and a phantom pulse in your pussy was all it took to throw you off course?

You were dickmatized. That was the only explanation. And there was no way in hell you were saying that out loud.

So instead, you huffed. “You’re not funny.”

And walked off.

Hoseok watched you go, the line of your legs disappearing into the crowd, and tried to play it cool. But Jin elbowed him in the ribs, smug as hell. “You are so down bad.”

Namjoon crossed his arms. “I mean, do you hear yourself? That whole race was foreplay.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Hoseok muttered, but the grin he was fighting was already curling at the edges of his mouth.

And then he was following you.

He jogged a few steps, caught up, and matched your pace without saying anything for a second. Just walked beside you. Close enough that your pinkies brushed.

“I wasn’t cheating,” he said quietly, voice softer than before. “You just looked… fuckin’ stunning behind the wheel.”

You swallowed.

Didn’t say anything.

He bumped your shoulder gently.

“Still mad, baby?”

You shot him a sidelong look. “Maybe.”

He stopped you with a hand around your wrist and spun you to face him.

His other hand slid to your waist.

“How about I make it up to you,” he whispered, smirking now. “I’ll do anything.”

Your breath caught. Your thighs clenched. Again.

You shoved his chest lightly, but this time you didn’t walk away.

Not yet.

Not when he was looking at you like that.

Not when the night was still young.

And you both knew the real race was just getting started.

—

The inside of Hoseok’s blacked out Mazda smells like sex and sweat and danger.

You’re on top of him again, straddling his lap in the backseat, your hands braced on his shoulders, your thighs spread wide over his hips as you sink down on his cock with a moan.

The car rocks softly beneath you, suspension putting in overtime as you roll your hips, slow and deep, grinding down on him like this is the apology he owes you.

“Say it,” you pant, dragging your nails across his chest. “Say you cheated.”

Hoseok leans back, head tipping against the seat as his hands find your waist. His jaw tightens, like he’s debating it. And then he gives you that grin. Wicked, lazy, and very aware he’s already inside you.

“I cheated.”

You arch a brow. “And?”

“I’m sorry,” he groans, lifting his hips just enough to meet your next thrust. “Sorry for being too good.”

You slap his chest again but he loves it. His fingers dig into your waist as you bounce a little faster, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that’s maddeningly perfect.

“Not funny,” you hiss.

“It kinda is,” he grins, eyes half lidded. “You’re so cute when you’re mad.”

You ride him harder, angling your hips to make him gasp, to make him lose control for once. Your tits bounce with every movement, sweat beading at your temples, the air thick and hot and fogging the windows.

His head drops forward, lips dragging across your chest, tongue flicking over a nipple as you grind down on him.

“You’re the one who got distracted,” he murmurs. “I just took the win.”

You clamp down around him in retaliation, and he chokes on a groan, eyes fluttering shut.

But then—without warning—he moves.

He grabs you and flips you off of him in one fast motion, and before you can even blink, you’re flat on your back across the backseat, your legs flung over his shoulders as he drives back into you in one hard, brutal thrust.

You scream. Your eyes rolling, hands scrambling for anything to hold onto, but he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you hard. His grip on your thighs is iron tight, his body crashing into yours with every thrust, like he’s reclaiming you all over again.

“You think your little tantrum was gonna get you what you want?” he snarls, voice ragged and low. “You think riding me was gonna settle the score?”

You can’t answer.

You’re too busy sobbing his name, your body shuddering beneath him, your walls fluttering around his cock like you’re about to lose it.

“Fuck—Hoseok—please—”

His lips curl into a smirk, sweat dripping from his temples.

“You don’t get to cum until you apologize.”

You shake your head, whining, until he shifts his angle and hits that spot that makes your toes curl.

You crack.

“I’m sorry—fuck, Hoseok, I’m sorry— I’m such a sore loser—just—please—let me—”

That’s all it takes.

You explode around him. Pussy tight and clenching, body convulsing as your orgasm rips through you like lightning. And he growls, dropping your legs to wrap his arms around your waist as he slams into you one last time.

He comes hard, his whole body jerking as he buries his face in your neck, moaning your name like it’s the only word he knows.

You’re both panting, limbs tangled, sweat cooling on your skin as the windows drip condensation.

And then, he starts laughing.

“God, you’re such a sore loser.”

You’re too blissed out to even glare. Your walls clench around his softening cock, still buried inside you, and you let out a low hum.

“Yeah,” you murmur, lazy and smug. “I’m definitely sore.”

He snorts, kisses your jaw, and collapses next to you on the seat, pulling you on top of him like you’re the prize he always wanted.

And maybe you are.

Because under the starlight filtering through the moon roof, with your leg draped over his and your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest, there’s no need to pretend anymore.

You’ve both already lost.

To each other.

And neither of you would take it back.

one | masterlist