♡ pairing: choreographer!junhui x choreographer!afab!reader ♡ genre: enemies to lovers, smut, angst, fluff ♡ w.c: 3.8k ♡ warnings: hate sex/rough sex, verbal power play + dirty talk, possessiveness, emotional vulnerability, toxic energy, semi-public sex, mirror sex, spanking, rough handling, degradation, semi-slow burn, hair pulling for a moment, multiple orgasms over multiple days, conflicting feelings ♡ a/n: thank you to @supi-wupi and @flowerwonu for beta reading for me! let me know who you guys want to see next!
It was supposed to be a clean collaboration, consisting of professionalism and a temporary nature.
But from the moment you were assigned to co-choreograph this high-energy dance with Junhui, the air between you was completely and utterly toxic; subtly laced with clipped comments that made your eye twitch, his constant territorial energy, and the kind of tension that makes everyone else clear the room early.
He always found a way to contradict you, whether it was to revise your counts, challenge your flow, or even push your buttons to the point where you’re either grinding your teeth or snapping back at him constantly. You’ve stormed out of that dim practice room twice. He hasn’t chased you either time.
Tonight is no different.
“You keep slowing the pace down,” you bite, hands on your hips as your chest heaves, sweat slick down your spine. “This part needs aggression and sharpness, not whatever the fuck you’re doing.”
Jun scoffs from across the studio, and you can almost hear his eyes roll. “And you think you’re the only one who understands sharpness?” He tosses his damp towel aside and walks toward you, every step controlled and almost predatory. “I’ve seen your work. It’s precise, sure, but it’s so, so cold, and even worse? It feels empty.”
You step forward, closing the distance between you. “And yours is arrogant and overconfident. I can throw words around, too, you know. You choreograph like the floor owes you something.”
He laughs, low and bordering on dangerous. “No. I choreograph like I own it.”
Something in you snaps, like a dusty lightbulb being turned on in a dingy basement. Before you realise it, your hands are extended out to shove him. He doesn’t move far with the pathetic push, just enough to register it. Then his eyes flicker with something you’ve seen before, but never directed at you like this: heat.
“You’ve wanted to put your hands on me for weeks, I can see it in your eyes,” he says, his voice molten. “You just didn’t know if it’d be to hit me, or fuck me.”
Your stomach drops and then coils. You don’t respond to his snarky comment as much as you want to, but instead, you grab the front of his shirt and crash your mouth into his.
It’s brutal.
Your teeth knock together, your eye twitching slightly from sensitivity. His hands are in your hair, then at your waist, then under your shirt like he can’t decide what he wants to ruin first. You yank him closer to you, pressing your body into his until you can feel the hard line of him, already pulsing through his sweats.
“You’re so fucking smug,” you gasp against his lips.
“And you’re so fucking desperate to be proved wrong,” he growls.
You slam him into the mirror, he doesn't take that well. He flips you in an instant so that you are the one backed to the cool surface instead. His eyes are fiery, fueled with anger and what you can only presume is lust.
Your back hits the glass, and before you can even look at him, he’s situated himself between your legs, his plush lips trailing down your neck with the kind of hunger that makes your knees buckle. One hand pins both of yours above your head, the other slips under your waistband, fingers dragging over your wet heat.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, satisfaction oozing into his tone. “Already dripping. Are you sure you hate me?”
“Shut up.”
He smiles against your collarbone as he presses his lips to your fiery skin. “Make me.”
You do, you bite his shoulder hard enough to leave a mark, then moan, a little too loudly for your liking, when he sinks two of his fingers inside you with zero warning. The stretch is perfect, with just a tinge of pain that causes tears to well up in your eyes briefly, which quickly subsides as he begins to thrust his fingers. His rhythm is ruthless, and when you arch against him, desperate and furious, he leans in and kisses you like it’s a war he plans to win.
Your release hits you hard, like a wave breaking. Messy, loud, and has you shattering into a million pieces. He doesn’t stop his pace, however, he doesn’t even slow down, which sends your body into a series of aftershocks that have you gasping for air and gripping his shirt like a vice.
You claw at his waistband blindly before yanking it down carelessly, and the sound he makes when you take him in your hand is downright filthy. You drag your thumb along the underside of his cock, then guide him to your entrance, meeting his eyes with defiance.
“Do it,” you whisper.
He thrusts into you in one brutal, perfect stroke.
And everything burns.
He fucks you like he’s still arguing with his body, not his mouth this time. Every thrust screams I’m better than you, and your moans scream prove it. You claw at his back, red marks streaking his skin. He grips your hips hard enough to bruise, but the sensation only drags you further into your pleasure. You both hit the edge simultaneously with teeth gritted, sweat dripping, gasping each other’s names like curses.
When it’s over, you collapse against the mirror, your legs shaking and chest heaving, sweat dripping down your skin in small rivulets. Jun leans in, his softening cock still inside you, his forehead resting against yours.
For once, there’s silence between the two of you, almost like an unspoken argument.
Then, he speaks, his voice slightly hoarse. “You’ll still be insufferable tomorrow.”
You laugh breathlessly. “So will you.”
But neither of you pulls away. Not yet.
—-----------------------
The next day, everything’s normal. Too normal.
You arrive at the studio a little earlier than you normally do, stretching on the floor like nothing happened. Like you weren’t pinned to the mirror twelve hours ago, gasping Junhui’s name with your legs wrapped around his waist.
He walks in five minutes later, fresh shirt hugging his stupidly toned body, water bottle in hand, his jaw clenched tight. Neither of you says anything. He moves to the other side of the room and pretends to scroll through his playlist, even though it's the same playlist you’ve both been using for the last 3 weeks. You count the seconds between his breaths. You can feel the ache in your thighs, almost able to feel his fingers digging into your skin still, and hate how much it thrills you.
You think maybe he’ll bring it up, maybe he would throw a smirk your way, or do that annoying thing where he licks his bottom lip when he’s being a cocky bastard.
But he doesn’t. And that’s somehow a thousand times worse than if he had done something.
Because when his eyes do flick to you in the mirror, it’s not teasing. It’s hungry. Like he’s remembering every sound you made, every place his mouth touched. He looks away from you before you can even open your mouth to say something.
You make it through half of the session. Half the routine, hell, you only made it through half a song before you explode, surprising yourself in the process.
“So you’re going to pretend that nothing happened?”
Jun doesn’t even turn to you, focused on his phone now. “Nothing did happen.”
You walk toward him, your heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your ears. “You’re lying.”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “So are you.”
You’re in front of him now, close enough to smell the fabric softener on his shirt, and you can see the sweat beading at his neck. “Say last night meant nothing,” you dare him. “Say it and mean it.”
His jaw flexes, so much so that his jawline looks like it could cut through glass, but he says nothing. Instead, his hand grabs your wrist and yanks you forward, his lips crashing into yours again like a match dropped on gasoline.
This time, there’s no build-up. No slow undressing and no banter. Just pure, fiery lust that cannot be put out with any kind of extinguisher. Jun turns you around quickly and bends you over the speaker console, dragging your leggings down with a roughness that makes your pulse skyrocket.
“You came in here dripping for me yesterday,” he growls against your neck. “What are the odds you’re already wet for me again? Pretty high, I would say.”
You’re about to snap back with a clipped remark when his fingers slide through your folds and prove you wrong.
“Fuck,” he breathes, almost like he’s in awe. “You like fighting with me, don’t you? Gets you fucking soaked every time.”
You reach behind yourself and blindly dig your nails into his thigh, a broken moan escaping your lips when he finally lines himself up and thrusts into you, deep and punishing. Your hips slam against the console with every stroke, but you couldn’t give less of a fuck. It’s raw and primal, just like him. It’s the kind of sex that makes you forget what you were fighting about to begin with.
He fists your hair, pulling your head back gently so that he can whisper in your ear. “Say you hate me.”
You choke on a gasp, his perfectly timed thrusts and the sting on your scalp making you see stars. “I hate you.”
He thrusts harder, a whimper dropping from your swollen lips. “Say it again.”
“I… hate you,” you whimper, but your body betrays you, you’re arching, clenching and begging for more. Your body is addicted.
“That’s right,” he snarls. “You hate me, but I know you’re going to cum for me anyway. Cum for me.”
And you do, you’re biting your lip so hard it nearly bleeds, your thighs intensely shaking as the orgasm rips through you, even stronger than the one he’d given you the night before. He follows right after, spilling his load into you with a growl, his long fingers digging into the skin of your hips like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out.
Afterwards, he pulls out slowly, his breathing ragged and chest heaving. Neither of you dares to move. The air smells like sweat, sex, and something dangerously close to addiction.
Finally, Jun breaks the silence, his voice almost a whisper.
“We’re never going to work.”
You look over your shoulder at him, your hair a complete mess, and your mouth red and swollen.
“No, we won’t”, you agree. “But we’re not going to stop either.”
He grins. And for the first time since you met, it’s not cocky. It’s hungry.
___________
You tell yourself it’s the last time.
You leave before he wakes up. You stealthily grab your hoodie off of his laminate floor and step into your practice shoes without looking back. It’s barely 6 a.m. and the sun hasn’t even started to show its face yet, which seems like a fitting scenario, considering you’re walking out of the most unholy night of your life.
The air outside is cold. It clears nothing from your mind, clouded with thoughts and leftover lust from the hours before. By the time practice rolls around at 8 am, you’ve rehearsed the line in your head at least twenty times:
“We need to stop this.”
But Junhui doesn’t give you the chance.
The moment you step into the studio, he’s already there leaning against the mirror, hair tied back in a small ponytail so it won’t be in his face, his water bottle in one hand like nothing happened. Like you didn’t scream his name into a pillow just a few hours ago.
He lifts an eyebrow at you. “Morning.”
You force the words out. “This can’t happen again.”
He tilts his head, possibly acting confused. “That's what you came here to say to me?”
You cross your arms, defiance setting in despite the lust trying to crawl its way to the surface. “I mean it, Jun. This thing? Us? It’s just a distraction. It’s distracting us from our main goal”
He hums, and you aren't sure why, but that action alone has you peeved. “A distraction that had you begging for me last night in all aspects.”
You snap. “God, you are so full of yourself.”
“And you’re shaking.”
Your spine straightens out at the callout, but it’s true. Your hands are curled into fists, not out of fear, but from restraint. He takes a step towards you, almost as if he’s challenging you to say something else.
“Don’t touch me,” you spit, stepping back so the distance remains the same between the two of you. But his eyes go dark in that way they always do when you challenge him. When you say one thing but your body screams something else.
“Why not?” he asks, taking a step closer. You don’t step back this time, your anger beginning to dissolve into something else, a mixture of emotions.
“Because you’ll ruin me.”
He stops, your words hitting him like a freight train, and the tension shifts. It’s not playful banter anymore, nor is it teasing. It’s raw.
“Don't you think I have already tried to stop?” His voice is low now, stripped of any performance, providing a raw insight. “I look at you and forget every line I swore I wouldn’t cross.”
You blink. That wasn’t what you had expected him to say in the slightest.
“Jun-”
But he’s already in front of you again, and this time, when he kisses you, it’s different. It’s still extremely intense, and it’s still hungry. But in this moment, it’s slower and deeper. The kind of kiss that says I hate how much I want you. I hate how much I need you. But I’m here anyway.
Your arms fall to your sides, and your fists loosen, before you finally kiss him back like you’re drowning and he’s the only one that can save you. The clothes fall off both of you just as fast again. But this time, when he lays you on the studio floor, he doesn’t pin your wrists like he did that first time. He doesn’t rush.
He moves like he wants to remember how you sound. Like he wants to make it hurt—but only because it means something. Every touch is still like fire licking across your skin, but beneath it, there’s intent. Like he's memorising the shape of your body, the way you gasp when he says your name low against your neck.
“Say it’s just sex,” he dares you between steadily timed thrusts, sweat dripping onto his toned chest.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your mind and body are at a standstill.
He slows his pace, almost dragging it out in a teasing way. “Say it.”
You drag your nails down his back and whisper, “I can’t.”
And the way his body shudders against yours says everything he doesn’t.
You don’t remember falling asleep. All you remember is the way Jun’s fingers stroked down your back long after the last wave hit, and the sound of his heartbeat under your cheek.
________________
When you wake up a few hours later, he’s still there. You’re pressed close together, and his breathing is slow and even. He has one arm slung over your waist like he forgot who you are, who you’re supposed to be to each other. You shift slightly, careful not to wake him, but his hand tightens on your hip.
“Don’t go.”
His voice is rough, half-asleep and barely more than a whisper, but it stops you in your tracks. You turn your head, just enough to meet his gaze. His hair is a mess, strands sticking out at every angle, and his eyes are puffy with sleep. And still, somehow, he looks unfairly good.
“We said this wasn’t going to happen again,” you murmur.
He lets out a quiet breath. “Yeah. We say a lot of things.”
You’re both quiet for a long time. Long enough that the weight of the situation settles deep in your chest.
“Why does this feel like more?” you ask softly. “Why do I feel like I’m going to start missing you before I even leave?”
Jun brushes his knuckles down your spine. “Because maybe it is more. Maybe we just never gave it a name.”
You blink and turn to face him, surprised by his genuine response. “What would you call it?”
He presses his forehead to yours. “Stupid. Messy. Real.”
You don’t say anything, you don’t have to. Because for once in this whole fucked up mess, you’re not fighting it.
_______________
It doesn’t get any easier after that emotional encounter.
You both try extremely hard to act as civilly as possible in public. You give it a week of pretending to be normal, you get separate hotel rooms during the tour leg, less lingering in the studio, nods towards each other in recognition instead of smirks.
It doesn’t last, not even the week that you both promised. There’s one shared look across the stage during rehearsal, a single whisper in passing. A momentary press of his hand against your lower back when no one’s watching.
And it detonates all over again.
This time it’s in the dressing room. The door is locked, and so are your lips.
He pushes you up against the wall, your thighs wrapped around his hips, clothes half-on and half-ripped because Junhui just could not contain himself. It’s frantic and brutal, you’re both like starving wolves trying to devour what they’ve already tasted and still crave. Neither of you can get enough.
“You’re ruining me,” you pant, your fingers fumbling to tug his shirt over his head in your haste to see him bare.
“Good,” he growls, kissing down your chest. “Because you ruined me first.”
He takes you fast and rough, similar to the first night, like he’s trying to chase something he’ll never fully catch. Your name is a curse on his tongue, and he is a prayer on yours. Afterwards, you slide to the floor together, skin flushed and breathing ragged. It’s the only sound that fills the otherwise silent area.
He leans his head back against the wall, eyes closing as if the back of his eyelids will provide him with the answers he wants.
“We’re not going to stop,” he says, voice wrecked and hoarse.
You shake your head, resting your forehead on your palm. “We don’t know how.”
And maybe, just maybe, you don’t want to.
Because what exists between the two of you is this chaotic, furious, irresistible thing, which has become like oxygen. It's a fire neither of you can survive without. Too toxic to last forever. Too addictive to give up.
So you do the only thing you can. You light the match again, ignite the fire, and this time, it continues to burn.
___________
You don’t even remember what the fight was about.
Something stupid, was it a timing issue? Blocking problem? His huge ass ego getting in the way yet again? It doesn’t matter now. Because after all the intense yelling, the stubborn silence on his end, the slammed doors as he left the studio and left you standing there fuming, he shows up at your apartment door.
He’s completely soaked from the rain. His normally light grey hoodie is clinging to him and saturated to almost black with how much rain is pouring from the skies. His eyes seem stormy but clear.
“I can’t do this halfway anymore,” he says before you even open the door fully. “If you want me, it’s all in. If not... I’ll leave.”
You stare at him.
He’s dripping onto your floor. He seems out of breath. But this? This is him, and it’s raw and it’s real.
“Jun…”
“No more pretending we’re just hooking up. No more pretending I don’t wait for your texts, or memorise the way you laugh when you think I’m not listening. No more lying to myself.”
You feel your chest crack open, as if he’s just inserted a key into the crevice of your heart where you’d locked away your feelings for him.
“I don’t want to fight you anymore,” he says, his voice tired. “I want to fight for you. For this. For us.”
The rain drums harder outside, a low rumble of thunder in the distance signals a powerful thunderstorm likely on its way.
And still, you step back. You let him in fully.
He drops his bag onto the floor, making a thwap as it hits the ground, shrugs off his soaked hoodie and throws it on top of his bag, and you’re moving before you realise it, your hands are in his hair, your mouth on his, and it’s all yes. Yes to the tension. Yes to the past. Yes to the future.
You pull him into your bedroom and undress slowly this time. No tearing of clothes and no slamming of doors. Just lingering touches and the kind of kisses that say I’m staying.
He lays you down like he’s trying to memorise every inch of you, and when he slides inside you, it’s not a battle. It’s a homecoming. Your bodies move in sync, like they’ve been waiting for this moment all along; no games, no roles, just truth in every thrust, every moan, every whisper.
“You’re mine,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. You nod, breath catching. “And you’re mine.”
When you cum, it’s quiet and deep. You are tangled together with Jun in something more than just heat. Afterwards, he doesn’t pull away from you. Instead, he wraps around you like a shield. Like a vow.
“I don’t care what we are to everyone else,” he murmurs into your hair. “But you’re it for me.”
You curl into his chest. “You always were.”
____________
The studio seems different now.
It’s still as intense as it ever was. It’s still very much alive with movement and music and creation of people from all over the world, but the tension no longer cuts through the air like it used to. It hums in harmony, like a bee pollinating a flower.
When you argue with Jun now, it’s with grins rather than scolding looks or snappy remarks. When you fight, it’s about who should do which part in a choreography, not who’ll break first. He still teases you relentlessly, and you still roll your eyes at his antics. But when the others leave, and the lights go low, he pulls you into his arms and kisses you like the last time. Like every time.
And when you dance together? It’s no longer war.
It’s worship.
