Chapter 1: Stolen Moments and Stolen Pleasures
The bolt slid home with a satisfying, metallic snick. Lock engaged. Finally alone. The sudden silence after the chaos of the dorm’s common area was almost deafening, broken only by the persistent drip… drip… drip of the faulty faucet into the stained porcelain sink. Overhead, the single fluorescent tube buzzed and flickered, casting long, nervous shadows on the stark white tiles that felt like ice against Sunoo’s bare feet. The air hung thick with the sharp, chemical scent of bleach, sterile and unforgiving. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the door, closing his eyes for just a second, trying to banish the image of Ni-ki laughing in the living room, head thrown back, throat exposed.
It was pointless. Ni-ki was always there. Especially here, in this small, locked box.
Sunoo slid down the door until he hit the floor, the chill of the tiles seeping through his thin sweatpants. He pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen flaring to life and illuminating his face in the bathroom gloom. His thumb hovered over the innocuous, calculator-themed icon that hid everything. A familiar, sickly thrill coiled in his gut, equal parts anticipation and self-loathing. He tapped it.
The folder opened. Dozens of images filled the screen. Grainy, covert, stolen moments. Ni-ki mid-lunge on a weight machine, the cords in his neck standing out, sweat darkening the collar of his tank top. Ni-ki adjusting the hem of his shorts, a sliver of taut stomach gleaming. Ni-ki facing away, the muscles of his back rippling like liquid shadow under the harsh gym lights. Sunoo’s breath hitched, turning shallow and ragged. He scrolled faster, the images blurring into a montage of sweat-slicked skin, defined abs, the powerful curve of shoulders and biceps.
He stopped on one: Ni-ki leaning against a wall, catching his breath after what must have been a brutal set. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, a sheen of sweat making his dusky gold skin glow. A bead of moisture traced a slow path down the strong column of his throat, over the prominent Adam's apple, disappearing into the damp fabric clinging to his collarbone.
Sunoo’s free hand slid beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. His fingers were already slick. The cold tiles were forgotten, replaced by the phantom heat radiating from the image. He imagined the smell – salt and effort, clean exertion. Not the cheap bleach of this room. He pictured the texture of that sweat-slicked skin under his tongue, the hard ridge of muscle beneath. He envisioned pressing his mouth to the pulse point hammering in Ni-ki’s throat, feeling that life force thrum against his lips. Grinding against the solid wall of Ni-ki’s abdomen, feeling it flex, hearing the low gasp that would escape those lips… His own hips jerked involuntarily against his clenched fist.
He wouldn't push you away. Not if he knew. Not if he felt how much you want him. The treacherous thought slithered through the haze. He bit his lip hard enough to sting, trying to anchor himself. Reality intruded like a cold splash: the drip of the faucet, the sterile smell, the absurdity of his position huddled on a bathroom floor. Idol. Group member. Friend. Boundaries. Lines drawn in concrete.
Guilt washed over him, hot and nauseating, warring with the relentless thrum of desire. He pulled his hand out, wiping it roughly on the leg of his sweatpants, leaving a damp streak. He stared at the screen, at Ni-ki’s oblivious, exhausted face. "Why?" he whispered, the sound swallowed by the buzzing light and the relentless drip. "Why does it have to be you?"
His gaze drifted to the locker room photo buried deeper in the folder. The riskiest one. Taken during a chaotic tour, a moment of madness when the communal locker room was briefly, miraculously empty except for Ni-ki changing. Sunoo had ducked into a shower stall, phone trembling in his hand. Ni-ki was pulling a clean t-shirt over his head, his back fully exposed. The tattoo high on his left shoulder blade – a simple, elegant pair of wings – stark against his skin. Sunoo had snapped the picture just as Ni-ki turned slightly, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulder, the dark trail of hair leading down from his navel. It was the portrait Sunoo returned to most often, the one that felt most intimate, most stolen. He zoomed in now until the pixels blurred, tracing the edge of the wing with a fingertip against the cold glass of the screen. The physical printout hidden beneath a loose floorboard in his room was worn at the edges from similar handling.
A sudden, sharp rap on the bathroom door jolted him like an electric shock. His heart slammed against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure panic. He fumbled the phone, nearly dropping it, scrambling to lock the screen, his thumb slipping on the power button.
"Sun?" Ni-ki’s voice, muffled through the wood, but unmistakable. Deep, slightly raspy. Close. Too close. "You alive in there? Been ages."
Sunoo froze, pressed against the door, the stolen image of Ni-ki's back seared onto his retinas. Sweat prickled at his nape, cold now. He couldn't speak. Couldn't move. The phone felt like a burning coal in his hand.
"Sunoo?" Ni-ki knocked again, firmer this time. "Hey? Manager-nim’s gonna do room checks soon. Thought you should know."A pause. Sunoo could almost see him leaning against the doorframe on the other side, head tilted. "You okay? You sound like you’re hyperventilating or something."
Sunoo squeezed his eyes shut, willing his voice not to crack. "F-fine!" It came out strangled, too high-pitched. "Just… finishing up. Be right out." He shoved the phone deep into his pocket, like hiding evidence.
Silence from the hallway. Then, the distinct sound of the lock mechanism rattling from the outside. Testing it. Sunoo’s blood turned to ice.
"Door's locked," Ni-ki observed, his tone shifting, laced with a curiosity that felt dangerous. "Everything cool?" The handle jiggled again, more deliberately. Sunoo heard the faint scrape of the latch pulling against the strike plate. "Open up, Sun." The command was casual, almost playful, but it landed with the weight of an ultimatum in the buzzing silence of the bathroom.
The jiggle of the handle stopped. The silence stretched, thick and humming with the fluorescent buzz overhead and Sunoo’s own ragged breaths. He pressed his back harder against the door, willing himself invisible, the cold tiles leeching the heat from his body while shame burned his face.
"Locked for a reason, huh?" Ni-ki’s voice came again, closer now, like he’d leaned his forehead against the wood on the other side. Sunoo could almost feel the warmth radiating through it. "You sick or something?"
Yes. The word screamed inside Sunoo’s skull. Sick. Twisted. Wrong. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. "Just... tired," he managed, forcing his voice lower, calmer. It sounded brittle. "Really tired. Need a minute."
A beat. Then a soft sigh, almost inaudible over the dripping faucet. "Okay. Okay, Sun." Ni-ki’s tone shifted, losing its probing edge, softening into the familiar casualness that usually set Sunoo’s nerves alight. Now, it was a lifeline. "Manager-nim is doing rounds, though. Don't be long, yeah? He sees a locked door during checks, he’ll get weird."
Sunoo squeezed his eyes shut, relief warring with a fresh wave of self-disgust."Yeah. Got it. Two minutes."
Footsteps receded down the hallway, the sound fading into the muffled thump of bass bleeding through the walls from someone’s speaker. Sunoo slumped, boneless, against the door, his heart still hammering a frantic tattoo against his ribs. He stayed there, breathing in the harsh chemical scent, listening to the drip… drip… drip… until the trembling in his hands subsided enough to function.
He flushed the unused toilet for noise, ran the tap, splashed icy water on his burning face. Stared at his reflection in the smudged mirror. Dark circles bruised the skin under his wide eyes. He looked haunted. Because you are, the thought hissed. He straightened his sweatpants, smoothed his hair, practiced a neutral expression. Idol. Professional. Fine.
When he finally unlocked and opened the door, the hallway was empty. Empty, but charged. He could feel Ni-ki’s lingering presence like static in the air. He walked quickly towards the common area, the phone a lead weight in his pocket.
Ni-ki was lounging on the worn sofa, scrolling through his own phone, one long leg propped up. He glanced up as Sunoo entered. His dark eyes, usually warm and playful, held a flicker of something unreadable. Assessment? Curiosity?
"Feel better?" Ni-ki asked, his voice carefully neutral.
Sunoo shrugged, avoiding direct eye contact, busying himself with grabbing a glass of water he didn’t want. "Just needed a reset. Long day." He kept his movements casual, practiced. "Manager coming?"
"Any minute," Ni-ki said, still watching him. "You looked kinda pale."
"Bad takeout, maybe," Sunoo mumbled into his glass. The lie tasted sour. He could feel the phantom heat of Ni-ki’s gaze tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulder. The stolen image of Ni-ki’s sweat-slicked back, the wings tattoo, flared behind his eyelids. His skin prickled.
Before Ni-ki could probe further, the front door beeped. Manager-nim entered, clipboard in hand, his expression one of weary routine. "Alright, boys. Lights out check. Everyone accounted for? Sunoo? Ni-ki?" His eyes scanned them briefly. "Good. Get some rest. Early vocal practice tomorrow."
The mundane intrusion was a relief. Manager-nim moved down the hall, checking the other bedrooms. Sunoo drained his water, the cold liquid doing nothing to quench the deeper thirst churning inside him. "I'm hitting the sack," he announced, his voice thankfully steady. "G'night."
Ni-ki just nodded, his expression still thoughtful, uncharacteristically quiet. "'Night, Sun."
Sunoo didn't hesitate. He walked down the hallway to his own small room, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound far less definitive than the bathroom lock. The familiar space – the narrow bed, the desk cluttered with sheet music, the faint scent of his own cologne – offered no sanctuary. Only a different kind of cage.
The moment the latch settled, the practiced calm shattered. His breathing hitched again, sharp and shallow. Tremors ran through him, not just from the near-miss, but from the desperate, clawing need that hadn't been extinguished, only banked. The manager’s presence, Ni-ki’s watchful eyes – they were barriers temporarily down.
He paced the small space, three steps each way, his bare feet silent on the thin carpet. The cold tile of the bathroom was gone, replaced by a suffocating heat radiating from his own core. He yanked the phone from his pocket, fingers clumsy with urgency. The screen unlocked, illuminating his face in the darkness. He didn't bother with the decoy app. His thumb flew, navigating directly to the hidden folder.
Tap.
Ni-ki filled the screen. The locker room photo. The stark lines of muscle, the vulnerable curve of the spine, the dark trail leading down. The wings. The forbidden intimacy of the stolen moment slammed into Sunoo with physical force. A low groan escaped his lips, unbidden. The shame was still there, a bitter undercurrent, but it was drowned out by a roaring tide of hunger.
He fell back onto his narrow bed, the springs protesting. The phone glowed, a beacon in the dark room. He shoved a hand roughly down his sweatpants, finding himself already painfully hard, slick. His fingers closed around his cock, a jolt of electric sensation shooting up his spine. He gasped, his eyes fixed on the screen, on the pixelated contours of Ni-ki's body.
He didn’t fantasize about gentle touches or whispered words. It was raw, immediate. The imagined scrape of Ni-ki’s teeth on his neck. The crushing weight of that gym-honed body pinning him down. The bite of fingernails digging into his hips. The sound of his own name ripped from Ni-ki’s throat – not in question, but in surrender, in need. He pictured grinding against that defined abdomen, the friction, the impossible heat of that skin against his own. He imagined sinking his teeth into the sweat-slicked swell of that bicep, tasting salt and effort and him.
His hips bucked off the thin mattress, thrusting into his own tight, frantic fist. The phone slipped from his grasp onto the pillow beside his head, the image of Ni-ki’s tattooed shoulder blade inches from his face. He turned his head, pressing his open mouth against the cold glass screen over the image of the wing, a distorted, desperate kiss. His breath fogged the surface. His movements grew jerky, desperate. The physical release was a foregone conclusion, a biological inevitability riding the crest of his obsession. It built, a coiling pressure, focused entirely on the image flickering beside him, on the phantom sensations crashing through his mind – the imagined strength, the imagined submission, the utterly forbidden reality.
But as the tension shattered, a strangled cry catching in his throat, sticky warmth coating his trembling fingers, the image on the screen didn't fade into blissful oblivion. It remained. Ni-ki’s back. Strong. Oblivious. Untouchable. The wave of pleasure crested and crashed, leaving not satisfaction, but a deeper, colder emptiness than before. A hollow ache where the frantic energy had been. He was spent, shaking, alone in the dark with the glowing evidence of his sickness and the echoing, unanswerable question: Why him?
He lay there, gasping, staring at the ceiling, the phone’s glow the only light. The need wasn't gone. It was just resting. Waiting. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that the folder would be opened again. Soon. Maybe minutes from now. Maybe in an hour when the shame curdled into something else. The digital images weren't enough. He needed more. He needed darker places. He needed the crumpled printout hidden beneath the loose floorboard near his desk – the one he could actually touch, the one that felt real. His trembling fingers, still slick, twitched towards the edge of the mattress. The night wasn't over.