Desire

You’re walking the backstage hallway at a steady pace, headset still looped around your neck, clipboard tucked under one arm. The show just ended. The stage lights are down, the crowd noise is a distant roar through the concrete walls, and the usual post-performance chaos is already starting—staff moving equipment, managers checking schedules, idols slipping toward dressing rooms. You’re JYP staff. Your job is to keep things moving, keep people on time, keep the machine running. You’ve done this a hundred times.

You’re halfway down the corridor when a hand locks around your wrist.

Hard.

You turn and Momo is right there, still in the blue stage outfit—tight cropped zip-up top with the small white logo on the chest, high-waisted blue shorts with “TEN:” printed across the front in bold white letters, black knee-high socks. Her hair is a little messy from the performance, cheeks still flushed, eyes dark and focused only on you. She’s breathing fast.

“Come with me,” she says, voice low and urgent.

Before you can answer she pulls. You barely keep the clipboard from falling as she drags you three steps to the nearest staff bathroom, shoves the door open with her shoulder, and yanks you inside. The lock clicks behind you. The space is small—one stall, one sink, fluorescent light buzzing overhead. Tile walls. No windows.

She doesn’t wait.

Momo fists the front of your shirt and kisses you like she’s been thinking about it the entire set. Aggressive. Open-mouthed. Teeth and tongue and the kind of needy pressure that steals your breath. You taste the faint mint of her stage drink and the salt of performance sweat. Her free hand is already at your belt.

“I couldn’t stop looking for you,” she mutters against your mouth between kisses. “The whole second half. Every time I turned I wanted you back here. Now.”

You drop the clipboard. It hits the floor with a dull clack. Your hands go to her waist, then lower, gripping the tight blue shorts. She makes a small frustrated sound when the fabric doesn’t give fast enough and shoves your hands away so she can yank the zipper of her own top down. The crop top falls open. No bra. Her breasts are bare, nipples already tight. She doesn’t bother taking the top all the way off—just leaves it hanging open while she drops to her knees on the cold tile.

Your cock is already hard when she gets your pants open. She pulls you out with both hands, looks up once with that hungry expression, and takes you into her mouth in one smooth motion. No teasing. No slow build. She sinks down until her lips meet the base and stays there, throat working, eyes watering just a little. The wet heat is sudden and perfect. You brace one hand on the sink edge and the other in her hair.

She sucks hard, head bobbing fast, one hand stroking what she can’t fit. Spit runs down her chin. The blue shorts ride up higher on her thighs as she shifts on her knees. Every time she pulls back she looks up at you like she’s daring you to stop her. You don’t. You thrust into her mouth once, testing, and she moans around you and takes it deeper.

“Fuck—Momo—”

She doesn’t answer with words. She just works you faster, tongue flat along the underside, cheeks hollowed. The bathroom is quiet except for the wet sounds and her soft, needy noises. You’re close already from the aggression of it, from the risk, from the way she’s still half in her stage clothes and on her knees for you like she couldn’t wait another second.

She feels it. She pulls off just long enough to say, “Come in my mouth. I want it,” then sinks back down and stays there, throat open. You grip her hair tighter and come hard. She swallows around you without pulling away, taking every pulse, throat working until you’re finished. When she finally lets you go she licks the last drop from the head, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and stands up like she’s still not done.

You’re still half-hard. She sees it and her eyes flash.

“Wall,” she says.

She turns, plants both hands on the tiled wall beside the sink, and pushes her ass back. You step in behind her, yank the blue shorts and her underwear down to mid-thigh in one motion. She’s soaked. You don’t bother with more prep—she doesn’t want it. You line up and push into her pussy in one deep thrust. She gasps, forehead dropping against the tile, and immediately pushes back to take more.

“Harder,” she demands. “Don’t be careful. Just fuck me.”

You give her harder. One hand on her hip, the other braced on the wall above hers, you drive into her with short, aggressive strokes that make the wet slap of skin echo off the tile. The blue top is still open, breasts moving with every thrust. Her knee-high socks stay up. The shorts are stretched tight around her thighs, keeping her legs close together so every stroke feels tighter. She reaches back with one hand and digs her nails into your thigh, pulling you in deeper.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this today,” she says, voice rough between breaths. “Watching you walk around with that headset like you weren’t going to end up inside me the second the lights went down.”

You reach around and find her clit, rubbing fast and rough in time with the thrusts. She comes quickly—body locking, a sharp cry muffled against her own arm, pussy clamping hard around you. You don’t slow down. You fuck her through it until her legs start to shake, then pull out, spin her around, and lift her by the thighs. Her back hits the wall. The shorts are still around her thighs; you shove them lower so she can spread wider. She wraps her legs around your waist and you sink back into her in one smooth push.

This angle is deeper. She moans against your neck, teeth scraping your skin. You kiss her again—aggressive, messy, the same hungry pressure she started with. Her hands are in your hair, pulling. Every thrust lifts her a little higher against the wall. The fluorescent light hums above you. Somewhere outside the door people are still moving through the hallway, voices distant, footsteps passing. Neither of you cares.

You fuck her like that until her second orgasm hits, stronger than the first. She bites your shoulder to stay quiet, thighs trembling hard around your hips. When the waves ease you set her down only long enough to turn her again—this time facing the sink. She bends over it, hands braced on the porcelain, and looks at you in the mirror. Her reflection is flushed, lips swollen, eyes still dark with need.

You push back into her from behind and set a relentless pace. The mirror shows everything—the way her breasts move, the open blue top, the “TEN:” on the shorts still tangled at her thighs, the black socks, the exact moment her mouth falls open when you hit the right angle. You reach forward, cover her mouth with one hand, and keep going. She moans into your palm and pushes back to meet every thrust.

“I’m close,” you tell her, voice low against her ear.

She nods hard, reaches back, and spreads herself open with two fingers so you can watch yourself disappear into her. That does it. You bury yourself to the hilt and come inside her, thick pulses filling her while she keeps rocking back against you, milking every drop. You stay deep until the last spurt leaves you, forehead pressed to the back of her shoulder, breathing hard.

When you finally pull out, cum starts to leak down her inner thigh almost immediately. She watches it in the mirror for a second, then reaches down and pushes some of it back inside with two fingers, a small, satisfied sound leaving her throat.

You both stay quiet for a moment, catching your breath. The bathroom still smells like sex and stage makeup and the faint chemical clean of the tiles. Outside, the hallway noise continues like nothing happened.

Momo straightens slowly. She pulls the blue shorts and underwear back up, wincing a little at the mess, then zips the crop top closed. She turns to face you, still flushed, still a little unsteady on her feet in the black knee-highs. She steps in close and kisses you one more time—softer now, but still with that underlying hunger.

“Thank you,” she murmurs against your mouth. “I needed that. Badly.”

You tuck yourself away and fix your pants. Your clipboard is still on the floor. You pick it up. She reaches up and smooths your hair once, then checks her own reflection quickly, wiping a smudge of lipstick from the corner of her mouth with her thumb.

“I have to get to the dressing room before they come looking,” she says. “But… later? After everything’s done?”

You nod. “Later.”

She smiles—that small, private one—and unlocks the door. She checks the hallway first, then slips out, blue outfit still perfectly in place except for the faint flush on her cheeks and the slight wetness she can probably still feel with every step. The door clicks shut behind her.

You’re alone in the small bathroom for another thirty seconds, just breathing, the taste of her still on your tongue, the memory of how tightly she clenched when you came inside her still vivid. Then you wash your hands, straighten your shirt, put the headset back on, and step back into the hallway like nothing happened.

The machine is still running. Staff are still moving. Somewhere down the corridor Momo is already being pulled into the next part of the schedule.

But you both know what just happened in that bathroom.

And later is still coming.