𝓚𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓪 | 𝓝𝓮𝔀 𝓞𝓾𝓽𝓯𝓲𝓽

The venue parking lot is shrouded in the deep, quiet shadows of late evening. Tucked away in the furthest, most unlit corner of the private staff lot, your car engine hums softly, the tinted windows already fogging heavily around the edges from the sheer, rising heat trapped inside the leather interior. Outside, distant security guards occasionally make their rounds, their flashlights cutting through the dark, but inside the small cabin, the atmosphere is suffocatingly hot, intimate, and urgent.

Karina was originally supposed to take ten seconds to check her lip tint in the passenger mirror, grab her rehearsal bag, and slip quietly through the private artist entrance. Instead, the front seat is completely reclined, her custom stage jacket is crumpled carelessly on the floorboards, and her slender, ring-adorned hands are already shoved firmly beneath the hem of your shirt, her nails pressing into your bare skin with needy intensity.

"We don’t have time..." she murmurs against your lips.

She utters the warning, yet her actions betray every word. Her mouth remains glued to yours—deepening the kiss, dragging her lips heavily against your mouth, breathless and unyielding. Her long dark hair falls over her shoulders like a heavy curtain, completely shielding both of your flushed faces in the dim cabin light. Every time you try to speak or remind her of the clock, she tilts her head, pulling your lower lip between her teeth with a slow, deliberate bite.

"Rehearsal starts in less than fifteen minutes," she whispers, pulling back just a fraction of an inch—barely enough for her dark, heavy-lidded eyes to lock onto yours. Her chest heaves with uneven, shallow breaths, her mouth noticeably plush and swollen, curved up into a dangerous, confident little smirk. "Staff will notice if aespa's leader is missing for soundcheck. Manager-oppa is probably already pacing near the staging door looking for my location, texting my phone over and over."

She pauses, her thumb slowly tracing the sharp line of your jawline, feeling the heavy, rapid pulse beating beneath your skin. The air between your faces is thick with heat, smelling of her expensive perfume mixed with the scent of leather. She leans back in, her warm, raspy voice dropping into a thrilling, incredibly low whisper directly against the shell of your ear.

"...So be quick."

A heavy beat of pure silence stretches between you as her fingers slide lower, gripping your hip firmly through your jeans and pulling you tight against her body until there is no space left between you.

"Or don’t," *she hums softly, her breath hot and humid against your throat as she nuzzles deeper into your neck. "I’ll deal with the staff later. I’ll make up an excuse, tell them my zipper broke, blame traffic... I don't care. Just don't make me wait another second."

The secluded corner of the parking lot is completely dead silent, save for the rhythmic, muffled rocking of your car suspension and the heavy, humid condensation coating every single inch of the dark tinted glass. Outside, the world goes on—staff members carrying equipment cases, venue technicians checking light rigs—but inside the back seat, the air is thick, stifling, and dripping with raw, unchecked heat.

Karina is straddling your lap in the cramped space, her custom stage outfit shoved entirely aside onto the dusty floor mats, completely ruined, wrinkled, and discarded. Her bare, smooth thighs tightly bracket your hips, her spine arching gracefully as she sinks down onto you—taking you deep, inch by inch, until there is no physical distance left between your bodies.

"Fuck— don’t stop..." she pants out, biting down hard on her own lower lip to smother a loud, helpless moan against the warm column of your neck.

Her manicured nails dig firmly into your shoulders, leaving deep red crescent impressions through your shirt fabric. She rolls her hips with practiced, agonizing control, riding you hard even as her breath hitches and her usual idol composure cracks right down the middle. The leather seat squeaks beneath her weight with every movement, but she doesn't care if the car sways noticeably in the dark lot. She tilts her head back, letting out a sharp, trembling gasp as you thrust up to meet her rhythm.

"Deeper... right there— ah, yes..." she gasps, her voice breaking into a breathless, needy rascality that only you ever get to hear behind closed doors.

She snaps her hand forward, cupping your jaw firmly with her slim fingers to force your eyes directly onto hers while she moves above you. Her forehead drops against yours, her skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat, her dark eyes completely unreadable and wild with passion. She grinds down against you with deliberate, agonizingly tight friction, refusing to give up a single second of dominance.

"Someone could walk past this window right now..." she whispers huskily into your open mouth, her hot breath fanning across your lips as her pace turns rough, desperate, and fast. "I don’t care. Let them look. Keep going. Don’t you dare finish before I do."

She leans in and kisses you messily—open-mouthed, slippery, and urgent, tasting the faint trace of her own lip gloss on your tongue. Without breaking the kiss, her hand slides down between your slick, joined bodies, guiding your fingers directly over her sensitive center so you can feel just how thoroughly ruined, sensitive, and soaked she already is.

"Touch me," she commands breathlessly against your lips, her hips stuttering in their rhythm as a sharp wave of pleasure rippling through her body makes her clench tight around you. "Harder. I want to feel this exact soreness when I’m on stage under the blinding lights later. I want to be standing in front of thousands of screaming fans, dancing to our choreo, while secretly still thinking about you inside me."

Her voice cracks into a desperate, trembling gasp as her body begins to shudder violently, her inner muscles contracting tightly around you as she falls apart completely in your arms, remaining bossy and demanding until the very last second.

"Look at me... only me... and don’t stop until I say."

The backstage corridor near the primary green rooms is an absolute frenzy of chaotic activity. Sound engineers are rushing past with clipboards and radio headsets, backup dancers are running through high-energy choreography in the hallways, and heavy stage lights reflect off the floor-to-ceiling wall mirrors. Standing near the center vanity counters, looking cool, composed, and completely untouched by the surrounding madness, is Karina.

Except she isn't wearing her scheduled stage wardrobe.

She stands tall in your oversized white button-down shirt—the crisp fabric draped loosely over her broad shoulders, the long hem falling well past her hips to cover a pair of fitted black shorts. Around her neck, your black necktie hangs loosely unbuttoned, the knot resting casually against her collarbone. Her long dark hair is styled with intentional, slightly messy volume, her lips noticeably plush, flushed, and slightly swollen under the harsh, bright vanity bulbs.

A passing staff member carrying a massive rack of sparkly performance outfits pauses dead in their tracks, staring at her unconventional, striking attire with a raised eyebrow.

"New look?" the staff member asks, tilting their head in genuine surprise. "I thought styling had you in the silver leather set for tonight's camera run."

Karina doesn't blink. She doesn't flinch, flush, or hesitate for even a fraction of a millisecond. She casually reaches up with two slim, ringed fingers, gently adjusting the loose knot of your black tie with cool, effortless poise, looking every bit the high-fashion icon.

"It’s for my solo stage," she replies smoothly, her voice completely calm, professional, and unbothered. "A new concept. You like it?"

The staff member nods in immediate, stunned approval before hurrying down the hallway, completely oblivious to the truth. The very second their attention turns away, Karina’s sharp dark eyes glide across the busy holding room, searching through the crowd until they lock directly onto you standing near the doorway.

A small, barely visible, deeply knowing smirk touches the corner of her lips—a silent, possessive look meant entirely for your eyes only.

She turns on her heel and begins walking toward the heavy stage entrance, deliberately altering her path across the room so she passes directly beside where you are leaning. As she brushes past—far closer than necessary in an open room—she tilts her head slightly, her voice a low, secret murmur that doesn't even move her jaw enough for onlookers to notice.

"You made a complete mess of my actual outfit..." she hums, her shoulder lightly grazing yours as she steps past, smelling strongly of your cologne. "...so now you have to stand in the wings and look at me wearing yours all night. Fair, right?"

A few paces down the hall, right before stepping through the thick black stage curtains, she comes to a sudden halt. She glances back over her shoulder just once, running her slim fingers along the oversized cuff of your white shirt to pull the sleeve slightly over her palm.

"You’re staring," she whispers softly, her dark eyes flashing with quiet, smug satisfaction. "If you keep looking at me like that, someone is going to figure out exactly why my lips are swollen and why I'm wearing men's clothes."

With a quiet, triumphant tilt of her chin, she slips behind the velvet curtains and onto the stage—still wearing your clothes, still completely composed, and thoroughly enjoying the secret only the two of you share.