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It was all part of the choreo.
Hongjoong kept repeating it like a spell, hoping it would help him calm down and maybe finally start thinking clearly—without turning his overstimulated mind into a total mess.
There had always been something special about Seonghwa—Hongjoong knew it the moment he met him years ago in a dance studio. They didn’t talk that time; Hongjoong was desperately learning some moves that didn’t want to be learned and, at some point, just noticed in the mirror that he was being watched through the glass door from the hall. When he met gazes with that someone, even from a long distance he saw how stunning the boy looked—shy, caught off guard, still focused—and so impossibly beautiful.
“It should be me watching you” was his first thought, the one that later became the reason he wouldn’t be able to look away. Ever.
Seonghwa was a magnet.
An art so beautiful and mysterious you’re afraid to taste, but even more afraid not to taste at all.
Yes, with time, when these strange feelings became stronger and Hongjoong realized that he was doing too much as a captain, as a teammate, as a friend, he actually had to look away a lot, not being able to maintain eye contact, especially in Seonghwa’s proximity. But he had always seen him. Always.
Especially when he performed.
On stage, something lived inside Seonghwa like a pulse, stronger than music, louder than the crowd. Every turn of his head, every sweep of his arm, every tilt of his hips—everything was meant for others’ eyes, meant to be devoured. Hongjoong had always sensed that hidden yearning in him, even when nobody else seemed to—maybe because he felt it too—for Seonghwa.
So when he was finally able to work on solo tracks for the members, he was so proud of Seonghwa’s, genuinely. They’d spent hours together polishing each detail, staying late in the studio or his room until the air itself started to hum with exhaustion and quiet laughter. The song fit Seonghwa perfectly—sharp, confident—everything that he’d become in recent years and proudly wanted to demonstrate to the world. Hongjoong wanted them to see Seonghwa the way he always had.
And the dance—fuck, the dance—Seonghwa made it stand out even more with his incredible skills and overflowing passion. Every movement was precise yet flowing, like water that knew exactly where it wanted to go, and Hongjoong was ready to drown in it if he was ever allowed close enough to touch it.
It carried that kind of beauty that looked effortless and natural, and that only highlighted the main idea of the song. Skin. It wasn’t just choreography anymore; it was a symbol of rebirth, possession masterfully turned into meaning.
Hongjoong should’ve just watched and admired, like everyone else.
And, in fact, he did. He watched, under the burn of the lights, hidden behind the stage but with a clear side view and monitors, slowly losing his mind from what was going on there—during the performance.
He swore he saw it.
The whole song Seonghwa moved like a snake—maybe he was a snake indeed—dangerous, hypnotizing—as if he wanted to poison everyone’s blood and consume anyone who dared to land their eyes on him. That meant everyone.
But there was something even more than that, something more dangerous, and it made Hongjoong shiver.
A moment—there was a moment when Seonghwa’s hand moved down in slow motion, brushing his inner thigh, touching right against his…
No, of course it was all part of the choreo.
Hongjoong had seen the practices, he had watched them train each move with the dance crew, he was even there for Seonghwa when he showed him a final version before showing it to anyone else. Those moves existed indeed. They were professional. Planned.
Right?
Hongjoong convinced himself his mind wasn’t tricking him, and the only thing he was doing—trying to figure out why Seonghwa’s hand stayed there not for one second, but for a full three.
And why, at some moment, it landed exactly on his crotch. And, more importantly—why it pressed and stayed like that for a whole one and a half seconds.
It looked like—
Could it look like—?
Hongjoong hated himself for the thought.
No, actually he was terrified.
Because he swore he saw it.
That thumb dragging slow across the fabric, that curl of fingers, that deliberate pressure…
It was gone in seconds, swallowed by the blur of movement and by the screaming chaos, but it was long enough for Hongjoong to forget how to breathe.
Hongjoong felt under attack.
When they came back to the hotel after the concert, the first thing he did—he searched for Seonghwa’s fancams.
There were so many videos, from so many angles, but lying in his bed and zooming in on them, he was suddenly not so sure what he actually saw. He saw a dance, a great performance; people in the comments went absolutely insane about it, praising all the bold movements and his charisma. But that was it. Seonghwa looked hot and sexy. It seemed like Hongjoong was the only one who noticed something more than that.
And did he even notice it?
Or did he imagine it?
Maybe he just wanted to see what he wanted to see.
Did he?
Did he want to see it?
Fuck.
Hongjoong fell asleep with the thought that he was sick in the head, that he had turned a simple shift of the hand into something obscene just because he craved it to be.
That was what he told himself, and he believed it.
Until the next time.
When Seonghwa did it again.
And then again.
It was not part of every performance, and it was a bit different every time, but Hongjoong could swear it happened at least three times.
Hongjoong checked Seonghwa’s stages like a possessed person, rewinding all those videos, watching specific parts over and over again, feeling like a complete pervert fixated on Seonghwa’s hand teasing the fabric between his legs.
Teasing.
Was it teasing?
Fuck.
It’s just art. It’s just a choreo—yes, seductive and totally provocative—but still, just a choreo. Isn’t it?
But after seeing it more than once, Hongjoong could no longer convince himself it was an accident. Comparing them, he became the one who knew exactly that it couldn’t have been.
Was Seonghwa…?
Was Seonghwa touching himself?
Was Seonghwa touching himself on stage?
And was Hongjoong the only one who saw it?
But even this wasn’t the worst of it.
Suddenly Hongjoong remembered all those cases through the years when he had thought he was the same kind of crazy as he was now: while practicing with the team, while eating with the staff, while chatting in public places: an innocent brush of a hand to check his underwear, a mindless adjustment of his tank top and showing too much skin, a slow move of tongue across his lips when his lips looked already wet enough, an open door while taking a shower, underwear on a visible spot when all the other clothes, even socks, were accurately stored in a wardrobe by color, by size, by type of fabric…
There were hundreds of such moments; Hongjoong could not remember even a third of them, especially after all his desperate attempts to make himself forget.
But that’s not even all, because every time he was there, every time like a good tradition, there was also a quick glance at Hongjoong—a glance that always made him avert his gaze in shame and question his own reality.
And he touched himself too.
Totally intentionally. Locking himself in the bathroom or lying in bed in an empty room, sliding a hand down to his cock and trying to stay quiet, swallowing his own moans that threatened to turn into Seonghwa’s name.
All this time Hongjoong was full of guilt and fear, because of course he was not allowed to do it under any circumstances.
But he still did.
Hongjoong looked at Seonghwa, and then hours later he touched himself.
But it turned out that Seonghwa was looking at Hongjoong while touching himself at the very same moment.
That thought, that complete realization, made Hongjoong terrified, hot, and surprisingly… hard.
He was fucked.
*
Seonghwa had always had that thing in him.
The small thing that initially led him to some other big things—becoming an idol, getting model invites, gaining fame with thousands of fans across the world.
The thing woven through his entire existence, usually carefully hidden beneath other layers of his personality yet never failing to rise to the surface for those who knew how to notice.
Seonghwa always liked to be watched. Maybe even more—to be seen. And, above all, to be desired.
When he was on stage—under all those colorful lights, before all those hungry eyes catching his every move—he felt powerful like nothing else. Powerful and… hard.
He still remembered that first time during his first-ever world tour when he went behind the scenes between songs and desperately tried to figure out what to do with the boner he had in his pants. After a few seconds of pure panic, the decision popped up in his mind fully formed—he wouldn’t do anything with it. Anything. He would just go back to the crowd and continue performing while he was hard. And maybe people would not notice, but if they did… even better. That thought almost made him come on the spot.
From then on, the stage became his mirror—a reflection of his own passion and dark desires, and he loved mirrors a lot. He didn’t need the camera to zoom in, didn’t need spotlights or fan chants—though he always got them. He needed eyes. Eyes on him, eyes feeding him, eyes swallowing him whole. What’s the point of moving if no one sees it? What’s the point of breathing if nobody hears it?
The more the group grew—bigger, louder, brighter, the more Seonghwa sank into that aching need to show himself to the world.
He was getting bolder; he let himself do things he never imagined he could when he had just debuted. He was getting obsessed.
By the crowd. By himself.
And by Kim Hongjoong.
That very hardworking and talented boy who, a long time ago, gave him hope he could become someone he was even afraid to admit he wanted to be. Hearing about him from the principal and then watching him dance in the studio changed something deep in Seonghwa’s soul forever, forming an invisible connection that would only grow with time.
It was so natural for Seonghwa—to seek Hongjoong’s attention, to get validation from him, to make him look at him. Even after that incident during the first world tour, when Seonghwa fully recognized his desire and needs, he would always put Hongjoong first.
He wanted Hongjoong’s eyes on him.
He thought about it a lot, and every time he came to the conclusion he would give up every other pair of eyes in the crowd except Hongjoong’s. Hongjoong alone would be enough.
Seonghwa did everything he could to provoke Hongjoong—innocent from the outside—feeling no shame and no guilt, because even if he liked to be noticed, he also knew how to notice things himself.
And he noticed how Hongjoong looked at him when he thought he wasn’t seen. And Seonghwa would die before pretending he wasn’t absolutely devouring that reaction—and the cute blush on Hongjoong’s cheeks the moment he was caught.
He loved their secret game, and the only thing Seonghwa could regret was that it lasted for years without moving to another level. Seonghwa wasn’t afraid to tease, but he was truly terrified to challenge Hongjoong openly, knowing it might ruin everything if Hongjoong wasn’t ready.
But the hunger—the need—only kept growing, and he had to feed it.
He didn’t do anything extreme—just small stuff to get a quick adrenaline rush, then to fantasize in the darkness of his room before bed.
So when he actually touched himself during his solo stage, it wasn’t the first time.
He was just really careful—doing it when he wasn’t center, when the light was dim, when the view was blocked by something or someone. He knew he wasn’t the only one who grew hard while performing; San had confessed as much when they started living together. Seonghwa assured him it was normal and they all used special underwear meant to cover it if anything happened. He didn’t add that he was doing it on purpose—making himself aroused with the insane energy they poured into performances and the wicked thoughts circling in his head. Yes, he touched himself. And he never said that whenever he did, he searched with his eyes for their captain. Just for half a second, a tiny little moment, as if it never happened, as if it never existed.
But that first solo stage changed something between Hongjoong and him—Seonghwa could feel it. He could even see it, because suddenly Hongjoong stopped averting his gaze when Seonghwa looked back after being watched.
Now it looked like he inspected each of Seonghwa’s moves, and even when their eyes met there was something more than shame. There was realization. And acceptance. Partial, still wrapped in guilt, but also dark and tempting.
And Seonghwa could not wait for that last part to take over Hongjoong.
*
It was almost midnight when Seonghwa turned off the music and checked his phone—San messaged he wouldn’t be returning to the dorm.
Seonghwa loved to spend time in the dance practice room.
It was always harder for him to catch up with new choreo compared to other members, and he always stayed late to polish his moves until he was fully satisfied. He never minded it, though, because he did love spending time there.
Especially when he was left alone—in the company of yellow light and sharp mirrors. A lot of mirrors.
The Japanese comeback was around the corner, and he had to work hard. The reward for it was getting hard in the process.
So after a few hours of exhausting training, he finally stood in the center of the room, hands loose at his sides, carefully watching his own reflection breathe. He met his own eyes as if they belonged to someone he needed to impress, as if the only thing that mattered was whether Seonghwa would approve of Seonghwa. He did.
He liked what he saw. He liked himself in the mirror, and he didn’t hide it.
His hand came up and skimmed his face, knuckles along his cheekbone, then lightly pressed at the corner of his mouth; his lips parted for the touch without being asked. He dragged two fingers down his throat, felt the pulse answer him, and traced the collarbone like a line he’d drawn a thousand times and still found new each night.
Satisfied with the view, he closed the distance to the mirror and leaned closer until his nose all but touched the glass, then pressed his mouth to the cold surface—a hint of a kiss, nothing more—and left it there long enough to warm. Then he drew back to watch the faint mark he had made, his breath haloing around it, and he felt the want inside him sharpen like a point. It was ridiculous, he knew, to be undone by his own reflection. It was also true.
He touched his bottom lip with his thumb, then did it again—slower. He was gentle with himself, the way he’d be for anyone watching, anyone there to consume him. He was his own audience now.
He let his hand trail lower—waistband, hip, the hard plane where fabric met bone—and paused there as if he were a judge calling his own name. The mirror offered him back a version of himself that was both cruel and tender: the curve of his mouth dark with pleasure, the focused eyes, the tiny twitch at the corner that said he knew exactly what he was doing.
And he did know what he was doing: a few seconds earlier, he’d realized he was being watched. And not just by himself.
Two fingers slipped back to his mouth and then he dragged that same hand down, over his chest, across his waist, and this time he cupped himself through his pants with steady pressure.
He spread his fingers, adjusted, pressed again.
A low exhale came from the door—a silhouette breaking the frame.
Not surprised, Seognhwa didn’t move, letting his palm stay exactly where it was.
“You may watch as much as you want, Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa said, tilting his head toward the door, eyes steady on him.
Caught off guard, Hongjoong looked like he had forgotten to breathe. And maybe—even if he wanted to—he didn’t run, he didn’t look away
“Or—even more—you may also touch. Do you?” Seonghwa’s hand pressed against his crotch again. “Do you wanna touch me?”
Hongjoong’s face was a picture of an internal war: he lost to himself, choosing a side, but he actually won. He nodded.
“Then come closer.”
He did—cautious but determined.
“You can also touch me without the fabric. Will you take this off for me?”
With no hesitation, Hongjoong set his fingers to the waistband and drew it down with the underwear, careful and slow.
“Now take it in your hand. Both gentle and firm, the way you do with your guitar.”
Hongjoong stood so close Seonghwa could feel his breath on his skin. Then he felt his touch.
“Your hand is so small around me. I love it.” Seonghwa lowered his eyes and gave a small, low giggle. “Now slide your palm up and down.”
Hongjoong did exactly as he was told, and Seonghwa couldn’t help but let out a quiet moan.
“Mmm, I’ve been hard for so long. And it’s already wet, see? I’m already wet. It’s not enough, though, Joong-ah. What can we do? I could take it into my mouth, but I’m not that flexible.” Hongjoong choked on air but Seonghwa continued as if nothing. “So we need your help. Will you? Will you help me?”
Hongjoong would. He knelt in front of Seonghwa and, not thinking too long, pressed a light kiss to his tip.
“Good boy. Now gather your saliva, open wider, and put out your tongue—mmm, that’s right. It feels so good, Joong-ah. You make me feel so good.”
Seonghwa pushed in and out his cock a few times, circling around and shivering at the rush of sensation.
“May I go deeper? I’d love it—please? Your mouth’s so warm, so wet, and I’m losing my mind knowing it’s you who opened it for me.”
Hongjoong didn’t answer—he wrapped his arms around Seonghwa’s legs for balance and sank lower, until his nose brushed Seonghwa’s skin.
“Oh—fuck. Holy fu—I’m close. So fast. I’m—look what you’re doing to me. You’re too good, too good for me, my Hongjoong-ah.”
Encouraged by Seonghwa’s praise, Hongjoong only went further, and very soon Seonghwa threaded his fingers into his hair, gently trying to push him back.
“Move—” His breath stuttered. “Move away—”
Seoghwa did wanted him to move away, but Hongjoong’s fingers only sank into his thighs, holding him there, refusing any distance until he swallowed every last drop of hot cum slided down his throat, and Seonghwa shuddered, boneless and quiet.
“Oh my… you’re insane.”
“Insane?” It was the first thing Hongjoong actually said since he’d entered; his voice came out rough. “You call me insane?”
“You think you aren’t?”
“I think I am. But maybe a bit less than you.”
“Fair enough.”
They stayed quiet for some time like that, gaze focused on each other, a soft smile playing on their lips. At some point, Hongjoong stood up, and Seonghwa pressed a finger to Hongjoong’s bottom lip, brushing against it and wiping away the last of his own cum.
“And what do we do now?” Hongjoong asked, hesitant, as if he were afraid this—them together—would all vanish the moment they left the room.
“We go to my dorm, take a shower, and then we’re gonna practice more.”
“Practice?”
“Yeah, a choreo. I’ll teach you a new one—some special movements people would kill to see.” He suddenly pulled Hongjoong closer, pressing his body to his own, and whispered close to his ear, “I’m gonna take such good care of you, I promise.”
“But San and Mingi?” Hongjoong blurted, losing himself in the smell of Seonghwa’s skin.
“I’m delighted that’s your only concern.”
Hongjoong flushed, helplessly pleased, and Seonghwa giggled, because he didn’t need to see Hongjoong’s face to know it had turned red.
They wanted to leave immediately, and they wanted to stay like that forever—hugging each other, breathing each other, living for each others.
“So…” Seonghwa asked, curious, letting himself be in the moment a bit longer, fingers brushing through Hongjoong’s hair. “How many times have you watched my fancams on this tour? That part of the choreo.”
“Seo-o-onghwa…” Hongjoong whined and tried to move away, but was only pulled closer.
“I see… And still, Joong-ah,” his tone was all quiet amusement and teasing displeasure, “still not enough.”