I H(ate) You
Pairing: New_Neighbor!Hoseok x Reader Genre: Strangers-to-Enemies-to-Lovers, Enemies-with-Benefits, Slow-Burn, Filthy oral smut (too much), competitiveness, petty banter, messy feelings, intense love, steamy love, more-smut-less-fluff Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, lots of oral sex (m/f receiving), public place risk(parking lot, elevator, hallway), edging, overstimulation, rough sex, unprotected sex [refrain IRL], dom-sub-switch dynamic, jealousy, possessive behavior, strong language, emotional turmoil Word Count: ~7k Rating: 18+ | Minors DNI [MASTERLIST]
The streetlamp flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow over the parking lot outside your apartment complex. It was 11:47 PM, your feet ached from a brutal shift, and all you wanted was to collapse into bed.
But there it was—his car.
A sleek, black Hyundai Genesis gleaming under the dim light. Sitting in your spot.
Your spot.
Your stomach dropped, then twisted into a knot of pure rage. You’d fought neighbors, snowstorms to defend that space for the past two years.
Everyone in the complex knew it was yours.
And yet here it was... stolen.
You slammed your door so hard it rattled, the sharp thunk echoing across the quiet lot. Your eyes locked on like a predator sighting prey.
“Who the hell…” you muttered, stomping toward it.
And then you saw him.
Jung Hoseok... The new guy.
He leaned casually against the hood like the car was his throne, arms folded, dark hoodie pulled low over his forehead. His posture was loose, almost lazy—but the smirk tugging at his lips was sharp enough to cut.
Like he’d been waiting just to see your reaction.
That same smirk you’d seen last week when he was carrying boxes upstairs, charming the landlord, laughing easily with the delivery guy.
Back then you thought he looked approachable.
Attractive, even.
Now? He was a menace... A total menace.
“Excuse me,” you snapped, forcing your voice steady even as irritation buzzed under your skin. “That’s my spot.”
Hoseok tilted his head, studying you like you were something entertaining. His dark hair fell into his eyes, but not enough to hide the deliberate spark of mischief there.
“Didn’t see your name on it,” he replied, voice smooth as honey but edged with challenge.
The way he said it... so calm, so unbothered... made heat crawl up your neck.
Not embarrassment. Rage. Just pure rage.
Your fists curled at your sides. “Everyone knows it’s mine. Move your car.”
He stepped closer, towering over you just enough to make your pulse spike. Close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes.
His smirk widened, wolfish now. “Or what?” His voice dipped lower, teasing, daring you. “You gonna tow it yourself?”
The cockiness in his tone made your blood boil. You imagined smacking the smugness right off his stupidly handsome face. Instead, you spun on your heel, every step stomping against the asphalt.
“Fine,” you threw over your shoulder, jaw tight. “Game on.”
You didn’t sleep that night.
Every time you closed your eyes, his smirk flashed behind your eyelids. The smug tilt of his head.
The lazy way he’d said or what? as if you were nothing but a passing nuisance.
By 2 AM, your fury had fermented into reckless determination. You grabbed the kitchen knife, pulled on a hoodie, and crept down to the lot.
The Genesis gleamed like a taunt under the moonlight, perfectly polished, perfectly parked.
Perfectly infuriating.
You crouched, pressed the blade to the tire, and with one satisfying push, the rubber hissed in defeat. Your heart pounded so hard it nearly drowned out the sound.
One tire wasn’t enough.
You slashed the others too, adrenaline fizzing in your veins. By the time you slipped back under your covers, you felt electric, powerful and victorious.
Morning brought music sweeter than coffee... Hoseok’s frustrated shout, echoing through the complex.
You peeked out the blinds to see him pacing beside his car, hands fisted in his hair, mouth moving furiously.
You bit your lip to muffle the laugh clawing its way out.
He looked ready to combust, and it was beautiful. Then, he glanced up.
You crouched down, heart hammering.
He couldn’t know it was you. Could he?
It spiraled from there.
Every time he stole your spot, you retaliated.
Ketchup packets tucked beneath his wipers. A fake ticket scrawled with Learn to park, asshole.
But Hoseok didn’t just take it. He pushed back.
He parked diagonally across two spaces, grinning when you stormed past. He started singing obnoxiously loud in the stairwell at 7 AM.
And every time your paths crossed, he’d toss you a wink that made your stomach flip... annoyance, surely, not anything else.
The tension thickened, humming in the air whenever he was near. Hatred, you told yourself. Just hatred.
But deep down, you couldn’t deny the truth... This was war.
And it was starting to feel dangerously fun.
The cool night air bit at your skin as you crouched by his car, knife steady in your grip. You were focused, lips pursed, heart pounding with that familiar feeling of adrenaline.
One quick slash, one hiss of air leaving the tire, and you’d win again.
But before you could press the blade down, a shadow stretched across the pavement. A low voice slid over you.
“Gotcha.”
Your whole body jolted.
The knife nearly slipped from your fingers.
You turned slowly, pulse thundering, and found him standing there—Jung Hoseok, every line of him lit by the yellow streetlamp. His hoodie hung loose, his smirk razor sharp, but it was his eyes that froze you.
Dark. Glittering. Not just furious. Hungry.
He stepped closer, close enough that his body heat cut through the chill, close enough that your breath hitched without permission. “You’re a little psycho, aren’t you?” he murmured, voice threaded with amusement, like this was a game and you were the prize.
Your chin snapped up, stubborn defiance covering the tremor in your voice. “You stole my spot.” The words burned through clenched teeth. “You started this.”
A sharp laugh broke from him, too quick, too dangerous. It raked down your spine and left goosebumps.
“You slashed my tires. Four times.”
“You deserved it,” you hissed, taking a deliberate step forward into his space.
You refused to back down—even though your pulse was a spiking, even though being this close to him made your knees feel suspiciously weak.
The air between you thickened, like the entire lot was holding its breath.
Suddenly, his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist.
Warm. Firm. Unyielding.
He stopped the knife in its tracks, and the simple strength of his grip sent a shockwave through you that settled hot and low in your belly.
His face inched closer, until his breath ghosted over your lips. “You’re gonna regret this,” he murmured, voice like a promise, like a threat.
“Try me,” you whispered, and you meant it.
Or maybe you didn’t.
Maybe you just couldn’t stand the way his eyes looked at you, like you were something worth burning for.
That was the spark.
He crashed into you, lips hard, bruising, furious.
His kiss tasted like smoke and gasoline, like every ounce of tension that had been building between you had finally snapped. His mouth demanded, devoured, and you matched him bite for bite, shoving at his chest.
He didn’t budge.
If anything, he pressed harder, slamming your wrists against the cool steel of his car.
The knife clattered to the ground, forgotten.
All that mattered was his tongue sweeping into your mouth, the desperate clash of teeth, the heat of his body crushing you against the metal.
“You’re infuriating,” he growled against your lips, but his hands betrayed him—one already dragging down your side, slipping beneath your skirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of your thigh.
“Then stop kissing me,” you snapped, your voice breaking on a gasp as his fingertips pressed higher. But your hips arched toward him, betraying you completely.
He smirked, teeth grazing your bottom lip, the sound of his low chuckle rumbling straight through your chest. “Make me.”
You didn’t.
Instead, you yanked at his hoodie, tugging him closer, devouring his mouth like you hated him for making you want this so badly.
And then... he dropped.
Just like that.
One moment he was pressing you into the car, the next his knees were on the ground, hoodie bunched, eyes locked up at you with something wild in them.
Your breath stuttered. “Hoseok—”
He looked up. “Tell me to stop—”
You didn't. You couldn't.
He didn’t wait.
Just hooked his fingers into your panties, yanking them to the side with a roughness that made your whole body jolt. The cold air against your bare skin stole your breath.
Then his mouth was there.
The first stroke of his tongue was deliberate—slow, firm, from base to tip. Your knees buckled. A choked moan slipped out before you could stop it.
“Fuck,” you gasped, your hands flying to his hair.
His strands slid between your fingers, soft and thick, and you tugged when his tongue circled your clit. He groaned at the pull, the vibration rolling through you in waves, and your head fell back against the car with a hollow clunk.
He was relentless.
Flicking, sucking, swirling, alternating between playful teases and devastating precision. The wet sounds filled the quiet lot, obscene in the stillness, mixing with your ragged breaths.
He held your thighs wide, his grip iron, making you feel pinned, displayed, helpless.
“Look at you,” he rasped against your skin, voice vibrating straight through your core. “So fucking wet for someone you claim to hate.” His tongue plunged deeper, pushing inside you, and your moan cracked in the middle, loud, unrestrained, echoing off the empty cars.
Heat coiled tight in your belly, faster than you wanted to admit.
His mouth worked you with ruthless determination, his lips closing around your clit, sucking until your legs trembled violently. When he added two fingers—thick, curling just right—your world blurred at the edges.
You came undone with a cry, sharp and broken, body clamping around him as the pleasure ripped through you.
He didn’t stop.
His tongue kept moving, licking every aftershock, dragging out the bliss until you were trembling, tears pricking your eyes from overstimulation.
Finally, he pulled back, lips glistening, jaw wet, eyes dark with triumph. He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
That infuriating smirk was back, but now it was dirtier.
Hungrier.
“Fuck… that was insane.” The words left your mouth before you could stop them, rough and unguarded. You swallowed hard, still catching your breath, eyes narrowed at him like you could take the words back.
“…in a good way,” you added, quieter, almost resentful. “And I hate that I’m saying it.”
His voice was low, rough, like he’d swallowed gravel. “We clearly hate each other.” He leaned in, close enough that his lips brushed your ear. “So let’s use it. No strings. Just this.”
Your breath came fast, chest heaving, body still quivering from what he’d just done. Your pride screamed to say no, to shove him away.
But your body? Your body already craved more.
You swallowed, glaring even as your pulse raced. “No dating. No feelings. Just this... Just oral...”
His smile widened, dangerous. “Deal.”
The way he said it made your stomach twist. Not just because of what it promised. But because deep down, you already knew you were in trouble.
The rules were simple.
Too simple.
Argue, fight, claw at each other until one of you broke, until someone ended up on their knees. But nothing about him—nothing about this—was ever simple.
One night, it started in the hallway.
It was 4 a.m. and his music was pounding through your walls, rattling your picture frames, drumming against your skull. You stormed down the hall, fist hammering on his door.
“Open up, you selfish asshole!”
The door swung wide, and there he was—Hoseok.
Shirtless, damp with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead, sweatpants hanging indecently low on his hips. His smirk was immediate, sharp as a blade.
“Can’t sleep, princess?” he drawled.
You glared, refusing to look at his body, refusing to admit the heat that punched through you. “Turn it the fuck down.”
“Make me.” His voice dropped, daring you.
And that was it—you snapped.
You shoved past him into his apartment towards the music system to turn it off, chest heaving, fury blazing just as bright as something you refused to name. The door slammed shut behind you, and his hand caught your arm, spinning you.
The moment his eyes locked on yours, the fight shifted—anger melting into heat so fast it terrified you.
Before you could spit another insult, his mouth crushed against yours, hard and demanding.
Your brain screamed don’t, but your body betrayed you instantly. You kissed him back, just as fierce, your hands curling into his damp hair, dragging him closer.
His lips were fire, his teeth scraping yours, his tongue staking its claim with brutal precision. He walked you back until your knees hit the couch, and you tumbled down, breathless.
“Gonna shut me up, huh?” His lips brushed yours as his hands tore at your shorts, tugging them down with rough efficiency. His eyes gleamed, full of triumph and hunger. “Let’s see how loud you really get.”
“Fuck you,” you hissed, but it came out shaky, your voice breaking because god, your chest was tight and your pulse was sprinting.
He smirked, sinking to his knees before you, his hands locking around your thighs like he owned them. “Gladly.”
Then his mouth was on you.
Your whole body jolted.
The first slow drag of his tongue felt like fire, like surrender, like every sharp word between you had been leading to this. He licked you open with deliberate care, savoring, cruel in how much he enjoyed your unraveling.
You grabbed fistfuls of the couch cushions, biting your lip to stop the sounds clawing their way up your throat. But then his lips closed around your clit, sucking—gentle at first, then harder—and the dam broke.
A ragged moan tore from you, loud, raw, humiliating in how desperate it sounded.
“So fucking sensitive,” he groaned against you, his breath hot, his tone almost reverent.
Almost. “Bet I can make you scream for me.”
“In your dreams,” you gasped, but the way your hips bucked into his face betrayed you, shame curling in your gut alongside the unbearable pleasure.
He chuckled, the vibration rattling through you, and then he devoured you.
Tongue relentless, fingers sliding in—two, then three—stretching, curling, hitting every spot that made your vision blur. Your body shook, tears pricking your eyes from how overwhelming it was, how much you hated that it was him doing this, how much you loved it anyway.
“Hoseok... oh god—” His name ripped from you in a scream you couldn’t hold back. Your thighs clamped around his head as you came, shaking, crying out, your body convulsing with pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain.
He didn’t stop.
He worked you through it, through the aftershocks, licking softer now, tender almost, until you were whimpering from the overstimulation.
You sagged against the couch, trembling, ruined.
When he finally stood, wiping his mouth, that fucking grin was back. He grabbed a whiteboard off the counter and scrawled with a squeak of marker...
Y/n: 0. Hoseok: 1.
You gawked, still breathless. “You’re keeping score?”
“Of course,” he said, holding the board up proudly, eyes dancing with wicked delight. “What’s the point of winning if no one remembers?”
Your chest tightened, your glare faltering under the weight of something softer—something dangerous. Because beneath all the smugness, you saw it... the gleam in his eyes wasn’t just victory.
It was hunger. Want.
A need just as reckless as yours.
You’d left that night with shaky legs, telling yourself it was just the game. Nothing more.
Three nights later, you were walking past his door when you noticed the usual noise was missing. No music. No laughter through the walls. Just silence.
You knocked once, more out of habit than concern.
The door opened slowly.
Hoseok stood therew, but the usual sharp glint in his eyes was gone. His shoulders were lower. His hair was messy in a way that didn’t look intentional.
“Long day at work?” you asked, not sure why you were still standing there.
He stared at you for a second, then stepped aside without a word. You walked in. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee.
He dropped onto the couch like his body was too heavy to keep upright. You hesitated, then sat on the opposite end, leaving a careful space between you.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
Eventually he exhaled, long and quiet.
“Don’t make this weird.”
You kept your eyes on the dark television screen. “I’m literally just sitting here.”
“Exactly,” he muttered.
The silence returned, but it didn't feel awkward anymore.
After a minute, you noticed the blanket crumpled beside him. “You cold?”
“No.”
“You're literally wearing hoodie indoors.”
“It's fashion.”
“It's an ugly hoodie.”
His eyes narrowed lazily. “Get out.”
You smiled and pulled the blanket over his legs anyway. He looked down at it, then back at you.
A few minutes later, his head tipped back against the couch, eyes closing.
“You hungry?” you asked quietly.
A pause. “Maybe.”
You sighed. “Come on.”
You got up and walked into his kitchen. He followed without protest, dragging his feet behind you.
You found two bowls, filled a pot with water, and started making the ramen while he leaned against the counter, watching you through half-lidded eyes.
“You're terrible at being a guest,” he murmured.
“You're terrible at being a host.”
“Fair.”
When you handed him the bowl, your fingers brushed. He looked at you for a second longer than necessary.
“Thanks.” The word was quiet. Almost shy.
You shrugged, looking away. “Don't get used to it.”
You stayed until the quiet stopped feeling heavy. When you finally stood to leave, he didn’t stop you, but his eyes followed you to the door longer than usual.
You didn’t mention it the next time you saw him. Neither did he.
It was past midnight when you finally stumbled into the lobby.
You were still buzzing faintly from the club—hair a little messy, perfume clinging to your skin, the faint glitter of neon still on your clothes. Your heels clicked against the marble floor, announcing your late return.
The place was dead quiet, except for the one person you least wanted to see.
Hoseok was there.
Leaning against the wall near the elevator like he’d been carved into the spot, hoodie pulled up, hands buried in his pockets. His head snapped up the second you walked in, and though he tried to play it cool, you caught the quick flicker of relief in his eyes.
Your eyes narrowed. “Why are you here? Don’t tell me you suddenly enjoy standing around the lobby at this hour.”
He arched a brow, grin tugging at his mouth. “What, I can’t use my own building? Maybe I just got back from somewhere.”
“Funny. You don’t exactly look dressed for a night out,” you shot back, taking in his sweatpants and worn hoodie.
He shrugged, unbothered. “Maybe I went for a run. Maybe I was getting food. Maybe I just like the peace and quiet.” He pressed the elevator button casually, like he hadn’t been waiting for you at all for the past 1 hr.
You rolled your eyes. “Sure. Totally believable. Standing in the lobby past midnight isn’t creepy at all.”
“God, you’re paranoid,” he muttered, following you into the elevator once the doors slid open.
“Or maybe you’re just bad at lying.”
That earned you a sharp grin, his shoulders hitting the mirrored wall as he leaned back with deliberate ease. “Is that the best you’ve got?” he teased, voice dripping with amusement. “Weak comeback for someone who claims to hate me so much.”
You didn’t think. You lunged.
Shoving him hard against the mirror, you dropped to your knees, yanking his sweats open with enough force to make him grunt. His eyes widened, his smirk faltering for just a second.
“What are you—” His voice broke off into a guttural sound when you swallowed him down in one bold move, no hesitation, no warning. His cock hardened instantly, filling your mouth, stretching your lips.
“Fuck, Y/n,” he gasped, his head thudding back against the mirror, hands flying into your hair, tightening as if he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or push you away.
You pulled back slowly, your tongue swirling around his tip, tasting him, savoring the way his thighs trembled under your palms. You looked up, lips slick, eyes sharp.
“Thought you could outdo me?” you murmured, stroking him lazily, deliberately. “Let’s see how long you last.”
His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in ragged pulls. “You’re such a fucking brat,” he groaned, his voice shaking, but the way his hips jerked forward gave him away.
You smiled, a cruel, victorious little curve of your lips, and dragged your tongue up his length, slow, torturous. He cursed under his breath, knuckles white against your scalp, every muscle straining as if he was holding on by threads.
You teased him mercilessly, pulling off every time his breathing grew too shallow, every time his abs clenched like he was seconds away from breaking. His cock twitched in your hand, leaking, and finally, a sound slipped from him that shocked you both—broken, desperate.
“Please,” he whispered.
Not cocky. Not smug. Just raw. Needy.
The sound went straight to your core, and your smirk faltered for just a heartbeat.
Then you leaned in, licking the bead of precum from his tip with a languid flick of your tongue. “Begging already?” you teased, though your voice was softer now, almost trembling. “Thought you hated me.”
His eyes snapped open, glassy with lust, a storm of anger and want. “I do,” he rasped, tugging your hair tighter, pulling you closer like the contradiction itself might break him.
You alternated—deep pulls that had him choking on curses, then feather-light flicks that left him straining for more. His breathing grew uneven, thighs trembling under your palms. His pride kept him silent as long as it could—until it didn’t.
“Shit, Y/n, I’m—” he gasped, his whole body tight with need.
But the ding of your floor rang out, sharp and cruel.
With a wicked grin, you let him slip from your lips, wiping your mouth casually as you stood. His eyes widened in disbelief, anger and arousal warring in their dark depths, his cock still hard and dripping as he fumbled his sweatpants covering himself just before the doors slid open.
“You fucking tease,” he hissed, his voice low, raw, almost pleading, though he tried to make it sound like venom.
You smirked, stepping out with deliberate sway in your hips, your pulse hammering from the thrill. “Better luck next time,” you tossed over your shoulder, pretending your own knees weren’t weak.
But Hoseok wasn’t about to let it go.
In three strides, he had your wrist, spinning you back toward his apartment, his grip firm, his voice rough with need.
“You’re not walking away from me like that,” he growled, dragging you inside and slamming the door. His chest heaved, his eyes dark and wild.
“Finish what you fucking started.”
Your laugh came out shaky, half-defiant, half-breathless.
“What’s wrong, Hobi? Can’t handle a little edging?” you teased, even as your body lit up at the hunger radiating from him.
He pinned your wrists above your head in one strong hand, his other tugging at your shirt with rough desperation. His lips brushed your ear, his breath hot, his voice low enough to make your stomach flip.
“You think you can play me like that? Tease me, leave me hanging?” His mouth pressed harder against your skin, his words a filthy promise.
“You’re gonna pay for that.”
“Big talk,” you gasped, though your voice trembled how his touch burned through you. “Still thinking about my mouth, huh?”
“Fuck yeah, I am,” he growled, before his lips crushed yours in a kiss that was messy, brutal, aching.
Not just lust, but frustration, hunger, something more dangerous bleeding through. His hands shook as he grabbed your waist, every movement rough, possessive, like he needed to prove something to himself.
“On your knees,” he demanded, breathless, shoving you down in front of him. “Now.”
You smirked even as you obeyed, sinking down, eyes locked on his like a dare. “Only because I want to watch you beg,” you murmured, your tongue flicking the sensitive tip before dragging slow and wet down his length.
His groan was raw, guttural, his hips jerking forward before he caught himself, his grip in your hair almost painful.
“Keep running your mouth, and I’ll fuck your throat until you can’t talk,” he panted, but his voice cracked, betraying how close he was to losing control.
You tormented him—long, slow strokes, sudden deep-throats that had him gasping your name, pulling off at the last second every time his body trembled.
He was shaking, sweating, wrecked.
“Fuck, Y/n, stop teasing,” he begged again, his voice broken, hoarse, desperation leaking through every syllable.
“You’re killing me.”
“Good,” you murmured against his cock, your tongue licking a deliberate stripe, your eyes gleaming with wicked triumph. “Payback’s a bitch, Hobi.”
He growled, snapping.
He grabbed you, shoving you back onto the couch, his weight caging you in, eyes dark with a mix of rage and need. “You think you’ve won?” he spat, though his voice was thick, almost shaky. “Let’s see how much you can take.”
But you flipped it, straddling him before he could move, pushing him down with surprising strength.
“Not so fast,” you purred, licking down his chest, tracing the lines of his abs, savoring every shudder of his breath. “I’m not done breaking you.”
You slid back down his body, devouring him again, this time merciless. Your lips, your tongue, your hand—working in tandem, relentless. His curses dissolved into whimpers, his hips thrusting helplessly, chasing your mouth as if his pride had already shattered.
“Fuck, Y/n, please,” he begged finally, his voice raw, almost pleading. His fingers dug into the couch cushions, his body trembling under your control.
You pulled back just enough, stroking him with a cruel slowness. “Say you’re sorry for trying to steal my win,” you whispered, voice soft, dangerous.
His head tipped back, his chest heaving.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, his pride cracking open, the words spilling out desperate and unguarded. “Fuck, I’m sorry, just don’t stop.”
Your grin softened, wicked and satisfied, but there was a strange pull in your chest at hearing him break like that.
“Good boy,” you murmured, before swallowing him whole, sucking hard until he came undone with a shattered moan.
His body arched, trembling violently, his release hot and desperate against your tongue as he clutched at you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.
When you pulled off, wiping your lips with a satisfied smirk, you stood, sauntering toward the whiteboard without a backward glance.
The sound of him panting, wrecked and ruined on the couch, only made your grin widen.
You scrawled it in bold letters: Y/n: 1. Hoseok: 1.
“Even now?” he panted, his voice hoarse, his body trembling as he looked up at you. The cocky grin was gone, replaced with something rawer—admiration, hunger, maybe even surrender.
“Yes,” you winked, leaving him sprawled and undone, the scoreboard glowing like a crown jewel.
But the truth you’d never admit?
His begging still echoed in your chest, dangerously sweet.
Months passed and the game escalated.
In your kitchen, he had you pinned to the counter, hands gripping your thighs as he dropped to his knees. His tongue teased, then turned ruthless—sucking your clit, fingers curling deep until you shattered, screaming his name.
“Taste so fucking good when you’re losing,” he taunted, eyes hungry.
“Shut up and keep licking,” you gasped, yanking his hair. He obeyed, devouring until you collapsed against the counter, wrecked.
Another time, in the hallway after another screaming match, you shoved him back and sank to your knees. This time, you took control—slow, wet licks, eyes locked on his as he cursed, groaned, hips jerking. You edged him mercilessly, pulling off whenever he trembled, until the cocky bastard was whimpering.
“I hate you,” he rasped—right before he broke, spilling into your mouth with a wrecked moan, ruined and undone by you.
And still, both of you knew: the scoreboard was never really about who won.
It was about how much you were both losing.
Losing your mind over each other.
The lines between hate and something far more dangerous blurred before either of you dared to name it.
Hoseok learned your weaknesses first, figured out them like secrets only he was allowed to hold. He discovered how your body betrayed you when overstimulated—the way your anger melted into raw, trembling need under his tongue.
And you weren’t innocent either.
You found his weakness in return. You stripped his armor with patience, with cruelty disguised as softness. He crumbled when edged—when you had him at the brink, when he couldn’t hide behind that cocky grin anymore.
The competition softened over time.
Smirks turned playful.
When he “won,” he doodled a smug little face on the scoreboard like a child. You retaliated with hearts scrawled next to your tallies, masking sincerity with pettiness. Banter that once burned now brushed against something warm, almost… tender.
Then came the night you stormed into his apartment, ready to yell about his overflowing trash bin.
Instead, you found him in the kitchen, stirring a pot of kimchi jjigae, the spicy, tangy aroma filling the air. He was in a loose t-shirt, hair mussed, humming softly to himself, and the domesticity of it caught you off guard.
He glanced over, smirking.
“Hungry, psycho?”
“Shut up,” you snapped automatically, but the heat in your stomach wasn’t anger.
It betrayed you with a loud rumble, and he laughed.
Not his usual sharp, teasing laugh—but something warmer. Something that reached into your chest and curled around your ribs until you couldn’t breathe right.
He scooped up a spoonful and blew on it, eyes flicking to yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Taste it. Tell me if it needs anything.” He murmured, holding the spoon steady.
You hesitated, but when you didn’t move fast enough, his fingers tilted your chin up, guiding you closer. Heat prickled your skin as his gaze followed every movement—your parted lips, the way the spoon slipped inside, the way you closed around it.
The broth hit your tongue—rich, tangy, spicy in a way that lingered like a kiss.
You swallowed, throat tight.
“It’s… good,” you admitted, voice softer than you intended.
His grin was faint, knowing.
He reached up, brushing the corner of your mouth with his thumb, slow and deliberate. “High praise from you,” he teased, bumping your shoulder lightly, and for once you didn’t shove back too hard.
You sat at his counter, eating straight from the pot, trading barbs about his cooking and your so-called lack of taste. But the words felt different now, lighter, carrying more laughter than venom.
After, you crashed on his couch, too full and comfortable to move.
He tossed you one of his jackets without meeting your eyes.
“You look cold,” he muttered, but you heard the care beneath it.
You pulled it over without thinking, the soft fabric clinging to you, smelling like him.
You drifted off to the sound of him in the kitchen, the quiet clinking of dishes and the low hum of a melody slipping from his lips.
It was steady, soothing.
Like he wasn’t just humming for himself, but for you.
Like every note was meant to cradle you closer to sleep.
And it worked.
He stood at the sink longer than he needed to, the warm water running over his hands as he scrubbed a dish clean. The apartment was quiet except for the soft splashing and the faint sound of his humming, something he hadn’t even realized he was doing until he caught himself glancing back at you.
You were curled up on the couch, eyes closed, lips parted slightly.
Peaceful in a way he didn’t see often.
He slowed his hands, careful not to wake you.
When the last dish was set on the rack, he dried his hands on the towel and crossed the room quietly. He thought about shaking you awake, sending you to your apartment.
But when he leaned down, and saw your peaceful face in sleep, the faint crease between your brows finally gone, he couldn’t do it.
Instead, he fetched a blanket from his room and draped it over you gently, brushing your hair out of your face with fingers that trembled more than they should have.
His chest ached with something he didn’t want to name.
He sat down on the floor beside the couch, just for a moment, just to make sure you didn’t stir.
And when you woke up, the apartment was dark.
The faint glow from the streetlights slanted through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the living room.
A blanket had been tucked over your body, warm and careful, the edges smoothed down as if someone had lingered too long to make sure you were comfortable.
Your eyes drifted downward, and there he was.
Hoseok.
Slumped against the side of the couch on the floor, head pillowed against the cushion right near you. His long lashes rested against his cheeks, lips parted just slightly as his chest rose and fell in the rhythm of sleep.
He was right there.
Close enough to touch. Close enough to reach.
And you couldn’t help but wonder—why here?
Why hadn’t he gone to his bed?
Why anchor himself to the floor beside you like he couldn’t bear to distance between you? Why take the time to cover you, only to leave himself with nothing? The blanket smelled faintly like him, proof enough that it was his doing.
For the first time, you didn’t want to move.
You didn’t even want to breathe too loudly, afraid the moment might slip away.
It was supposed to be nothing.
Just dinner to keep your parents quiet, a polite smile over bland conversation. The guy was nice enough, safe in the way that made you yawn inside. "Not my type", was your first thought the moment you met him.
And when he hugged you goodnight while dropping you outside your building, you didn’t think twice about it.
Except Hoseok was watching.
From his balcony, he’d seen every second—the polite bow, the smile you gave, and the hug he gave before leaving.
Something inside him snapped.
By the time you got upstairs, he was pounding on your door like he’d break it down. You barely opened it before he stormed in, eyes blazing, jaw so tight it looked painful.
“Who the fuck was that?” His voice was low, dangerous, the kind of sharp that made your stomach flip.
You blinked, taken aback.
“A blind date. Why do you care?”
His laugh was harsh, humorless.
He stepped closer, caging you against the wall without touching you. His body radiated heat, his presence suffocating. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna… what? Replace me with some boring-ass guy in a fucking button-up?”
His voice cracked, just slightly, and that crack said more than the words. “You think he can give you what I do?”
Your chest tightened, but you forced steel into your voice. “You’re not my boyfriend. We have rules, Hoseok.”
Something in his expression twisted—anger, hurt, desperation all colliding at once.
“Fuck the rules,” he growled, and then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss wasn’t careful—it was messy, angry, desperate.
Like he was trying to pour every unsaid thing into you, to brand himself into your skin. His hands tugged at your clothes with frantic urgency, his teeth scraping your lip, and you responded in kind, clawing at his shirt, shoving him back against the wall just to feel him.
When his mouth moved to your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise, the sound you made broke something in him.
“You think he could make you feel like this?” His voice was raw, almost breaking as his thumbs brushed your nipples through your shirt, pulling another gasp from you.
“Shut up,” you hissed, though your hands were already tearing at his belt, your fingers clumsy with need. “You don’t own me.”
His laugh was dark, low in your ear. “Wanna bet?”
Before you could answer, he spun you, pinning you to the wall, his chest crushing against your back. His hand slid into your jeans, tugging them down along with panties, and he swore under his breath.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction, his fingers teasing you, circling your clit with slow, torturous strokes that made you whimper.
“This for me or that loser?”
“You,” you admitted, your voice breaking, hating how easily he pulled the truth from you.
He smirked, his fingers dipping inside you, pumping slowly, teasingly, until you were trembling, your hips rocking against his hand.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, his voice low and filthy.
He pulled his fingers out, licking them clean with a groan, his eyes never leaving yours. “Gonna make you forget he ever existed.”
He turned you again in front of him and dropped to his knees, his tongue flicking over you just once, a teasing swipe that made you moan, but he didn’t linger.
Instead, he stood, unzipping his jeans, his cock hard and ready.
He gripped your hips, lifting you slightly, and thrust into you without warning, hard and deep, filling you completely, breaking the rule of sticking to oral only.
You cried out, your hands gripping his shoulders as he set a merciless pace, each thrust slamming you against the wall, the sound of skin on skin echoing in your apartment.
“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough with need, his hips snapping harder, deeper, relentless.
His hands gripped your hips so tightly you knew you’d bruise, but you didn’t care—you wanted more.
“Say it.”
He growled against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes wild.
Your body betrayed you, legs wrapping tight around his waist, dragging him closer. “Fuck you,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.
He slowed, grinding deep, dragging his cock against your walls with agonizing precision.
His eyes burned into yours.
“Say it,” he demanded again, softer now, almost pleading. “Say you’re mine...Please...”
He groaned, the sound raw and desperate, and he angled his hips, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur.
“Please, Hoseok,” you moaned, your voice breaking, your body aching for more.
“Don’t stop, fuck, I need you.”
He grinned, wicked and triumphant, and picked up the pace, pounding into you with a rhythm that was brutal, unforgiving, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge.
“That’s it, beg for me,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and teasing. “Tell me how much you want this.”
“More,” you gasped, your hands clutching at him, your body shaking as he fucked you harder, deeper, the wall creaking under the force of his thrusts.
“Please, Hoseok, more, I need it, I need you.”
“Fuck, you sound so good while begging,” he groaned, his hands sliding to your ass, lifting you higher so he could hit deeper, his cock stretching you, filling you completely.
He leaned in, sucking another mark into your neck, his teeth grazing your skin.
“No one else gets this—no one else hears you like this. Just me. Just me, Y/n.”
You moaned, your head falling back, your body trembling as he pounded into you, relentless, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing hard, fast circles that made you scream.
“Hoseok, please, don’t stop, I’m so close,” you begged, your voice hoarse, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“Not stopping,” he growled, his thrusts growing erratic, his own breathing ragged as he chased his release. “Come for me, Y/n, let me feel you.”
You did, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, your body shaking, your vision blurring as you came around him, your walls clenching tight, pulling a guttural moan from his throat.
He kept going, fucking you through it, his thrusts merciless, drawing out every shudder, every cry, until you were a trembling, oversensitive mess, begging for more even as your body screamed for mercy.
“More Hoseok,” you whimpered, your voice raw, trembling.
“Harder, fuck me harder—I want to feel you tomorrow.”
He gave a low, throaty laugh, though it cracked in the middle like he couldn’t hold it steady.
“I can’t say no to you—you know that.” he muttered, but his thrusts grew sharper, like he couldn’t deny you even if it killed him.
Then he pulled you from the wall, lowering you to the floor without breaking rhythm. He hovered over you, his chest brushing yours, his body caging you in as though the thought of letting go made him ache.
The new angle had you gasping, his cock hitting deeper, harder, every snap of his hips making you cry out.
“Fuck, you feel too good,” he groaned, his face twisting with something more than lust—something that looked frighteningly close to need.
His hands clutched your hips like he was scared you’d slip away.
“Don’t stop begging me, Y/n. I swear I’ll never get tired of your voice.”
“Please, Hoseok,” you moaned, nails raking down his back, your body arching helplessly to meet him. “Don’t stop. OH God... you fuck me so good—I’ll beg forever if you want.”
That made him falter, his thrusts stuttering for a second.
His forehead pressed to yours, sweaty and desperate, his lips brushing yours with every ragged breath. “Fuck,” he whispered, and it sounded like a confession. “You don’t get it, do you? No one else. Just me. You’re mine.”
“Yes,” you gasped, your voice breaking, your eyes wet though you didn’t know if it was tears or sweat. “Only yours. I don’t want anyone else, just you—only you.”
He kissed you then, messy and aching, his tongue tangling with yours like he was trying to swallow the words you weren’t saying, the feelings spilling out between teeth and gasps.
His hips slammed harder, more frantic, as though he was trying to brand himself into you, to prove he wasn’t lying.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” His voice broke as his thrusts grew sloppy, his desperation overtaking rhythm.
You came again, shaking violently, sobbing into his mouth as your body convulsed around him. That undid him completely—he spilled inside you with a strangled moan, his whole body trembling like he’d been holding himself together for far too long.
He collapsed against you, chest heaving, his face buried in your neck. His voice was muffled when he finally spoke, but you could hear the tremor in it, the truth he didn’t dare say out loud. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured, almost broken.
You let out a weak laugh, but your arms tightened around him, holding him closer, like you weren’t ready to let go either.
Your fingers traced lazy circles on his damp skin, but your heart was hammering, the weight of what just passed between you sitting heavy in the silence.
Because it hadn’t just been fucking.
It had been something dangerously close to surrender.
Things changed after that.
He started lingering more—brewing you coffee in the mornings, fingers brushing yours as he handed you the mug with a lopsided grin.
You stopped rushing out, choosing instead to curl up on his couch, stealing his hoodies because they were soft and smelled like him.
The scoreboard on the fridge had stopped tracking wins long ago. Now it was covered in doodles—messy stars, uneven hearts, a tiny “Hobi” scribbled under your name, and the clumsy smiley face you’d drawn when he wasn’t looking.
One night, mid-banter over something, the laughter slipped from his lips. He just… stopped, his eyes softening in a way that made your breath catch.
“I don’t want you with anyone else,” he blurted, his voice quiet but firm, like he’d been holding it in too long.
You froze, heart racing, but the warmth in his eyes made it impossible to look away. “It was a blind date,” you admitted, stepping closer. “My parents forced me. I didn’t even like him. I told him no to a second date.”
His shoulders relaxed, and a small, shy smile tugged at his lips.
“I was jealous,” he confessed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Felt like I was losing you.”
You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his.
“You’re not losing me,” you said softly, and the way his eyes lit up made your chest ache in the best way.
He pulled you into his arms, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, each one softer, sweeter than the last.
“The spot’s yours,” he murmured, pressing his car keys into your hand, his fingers lingering. “But I’m not giving up my spot in your heart. Ever.”
You laughed, burying your face in his chest, breathing him in.
“Deal,” you whispered, and as he hugged you tighter, you knew the rules were gone.
It wasn’t just hate anymore... it was everything, messy and perfect, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
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