author's note : this is my first non kep1er story, hello. this was a request literally a month ago. im editing this on my phone so it might be badly edited here on tumblr, im so sorry. enjoy reading though! i have three more stories to post
Inside Y/N’s bedroom, the only light came from a single bedside lamp, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sighing under his weight. His hands, usually so steady when navigating the complex lines of code he worked with, now trembled slightly as he fumbled with a small, foil-wrapped square.
Eunchae, curled up beside him, watched with wide, curious eyes. Her usually boisterous energy had dimmed to a soft hum, a nervous flutter just beneath her skin. A stray strand of hair fell across her cheek; she tucked it behind her ear, her movements slow, deliberate. The air thrummed with unspoken things, with a sweetness that bordered on apprehension.
“Is it… difficult?” she asked, her voice a whisper, barely cutting through the distant city murmur.
He glanced at the condom, then back at her, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “Apparently, there’s an instruction manual for everything but this.” He peeled back the foil, revealing the tightly coiled rubber. It looked so simple, yet his fingers felt clumsy, oversized. He tried to unroll it, but it resisted, clinging to itself. A soft sigh escaped him.
Eunchae giggled, a sound like wind chimes. She reached over, her slender fingers brushing against his as she took the prophylactic from him. “Let me see.” She held it up, examining the rolled rim. “It goes… this way?” She made a small, circular motion with her thumb and forefinger.
He nodded, a blush creeping up his neck. “I think so.” He offered a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “My sex ed class was mostly about diagrams and fear mongering.”
She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. “Mine too. They made it sound like… a medical procedure.” Her eyes, dark and shining, met his. “But it’s not, is it?”
“I hope not,” he managed, his voice a little hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I hope it’s… better.”
A comfortable silence settled between them, punctuated by the soft whir of the air purifier. Eunchae’s gaze drifted to his chest, then lower, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. Her shyness, usually hidden beneath layers of playful banter, now surfaced, raw and endearing. He felt a similar warmth spread through him, a mix of vulnerability and burgeoning excitement.
He reached for her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. Her skin felt soft, smooth against his calloused palm. “You’re beautiful, you know.” The words came out easily, heartfelt.
She squeezed his hand, her gaze lifting to meet his. A shy smile touched her lips. “You’re not so bad yourself, Y/N.” Her eyes twinkled. “For an awkward guy.”
He laughed, a genuine, unburdening sound. “Awkward is my brand.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder, her hair tickling his chin. The scent of her shampoo, a faint floral aroma, filled his senses. “I like your brand.” Her fingers traced patterns on the back of his hand. “Are you… nervous?”
“Terrified,” he admitted, his voice low. “And excited. All at once.”
She lifted her head, her expression softening. “Me too.” Her hand moved from his, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt. Her touch was feather-light as she slowly pulled the fabric up, revealing a sliver of his skin. He shivered, a pleasant tremor.
He mirrored her action, his fingers finding the soft cotton of her oversized sweatshirt. He pulled it gently, revealing the curve of her shoulder, then the delicate line of her collarbone. Her skin, bathed in the lamp’s soft glow, seemed to radiate warmth. He watched her breath hitch as the fabric rose higher, exposing the thin strap of her bra.
“Can I…?” he asked, his voice barely audible.
She nodded, her eyes wide, trusting.
He peeled the sweatshirt over her head, then her bra, his movements slow, reverent. Her breasts, full and round, rose and fell with each shallow breath. Her nipples, small and perfectly pink, firmed almost imperceptibly. He felt a surge of tenderness, a desire to cherish this moment, to make her feel nothing but safety and pleasure.
He leaned in, his lips finding the soft skin of her shoulder, then the hollow of her throat. He tasted the faint salt of her skin, the subtle sweetness of her, and felt a profound connection. She arched into his touch, a soft murmur escaping her lips. His hand, still trembling slightly, found her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple. A small gasp left her, her body tensing, then relaxing against him.
“Feels… nice,” she breathed, her eyes closed, a small smile playing on her lips.
He explored her with his fingertips, tracing the curve of her ribs, the soft expanse of her stomach. She shivered, her body responding to his touch with an innocent eagerness. He pulled away slightly, his gaze lingering on her face, on the flush that now colored her entire chest.
“Your turn,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering open.
He smiled, a genuine, unforced smile. He pulled off his t-shirt, then his pants, leaving him in just his boxers. Her eyes, which had been shyly averted, now met his, a spark of curiosity replacing the shyness. He felt a warmth spread from his chest, a sense of being truly seen, truly desired, not just for his mind or his humor, but for his body too.
He reached for her jeans, his fingers fumbling with the button. She laughed softly, a bright, clear sound. “Let me.” She unzipped them herself, then pushed them down her legs, her movements fluid and graceful. Her underwear, a delicate lace, was next, revealing the soft curve of her hips, the dark triangle between her thighs.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He had seen pictures, of course, but this was different. This was real. This was Eunchae.
He leaned in, his lips finding hers. The kiss was soft, tentative at first, then deepened as she responded, her lips parting under his. Her tongue, shyly at first, then more confidently, met his, a dance of exploration. He tasted her, a sweet, fresh taste that made his head spin. His hand found the small of her back, pulling her closer, until their bare chests pressed together, skin against skin. The warmth of her body seeped into his, a comforting, intoxicating heat.
He pulled away, just slightly, to catch his breath. Her eyes were glazed, her lips swollen and red. “Wow,” she breathed, a little breathless.
He smiled, a feeling of pure joy bubbling up inside him. “Wow, indeed.” He kissed her again, a softer, lingering kiss. His hand drifted lower, over her stomach, then to the soft curls at the apex of her thighs. He felt the dampness there, a testament to her growing excitement.
“You’re… wet,” he whispered, his voice thick with wonder.
She nodded, a soft moan escaping her. “I think so.” She shifted, pressing herself against his hand.
He knelt between her legs, his gaze locked on hers. He wanted to make her feel good, to understand what she liked, what made her sigh and arch. He lowered his head, his tongue tracing the delicate folds of her vulva. Her breath hitched, her fingers digging into his hair. He tasted her, a musky, sweet flavor, and felt a primal urge to bury himself in her.
She whimpered, her hips beginning to undulate slightly. He continued his ministrations, his tongue flicking, swirling, then sucking gently on her clit. Her legs parted wider, her body arching off the bed. A soft cry escaped her lips.
“Oh, Y/N…” she gasped, her voice thick with pleasure.
He felt her body tense, then convulse, a series of small, delicious spasms. She cried out, a pure, uninhibited sound, her fingers clenching in his hair. He continued until her body relaxed, a soft, contented sigh escaping her.
He lifted his head, a triumphant grin on his face. She looked at him, her eyes shining, a soft flush still coloring her cheeks. “That was… amazing.”
He beamed, his heart swelling. “I’m glad.” He moved up, lying beside her, pulling her close. His hand found the condom again, still on the bedside table. He picked it up, his earlier awkwardness returning.
“The condom,” she said, her voice a little breathless. “Do you… want me to help?”
He nodded, a grateful smile on his face. “Please.” He held his flaccid penis out, and she, with a surprising confidence, took the condom, pinching the tip, and slowly unrolled it down his shaft. It felt strange, a cool, constricting sensation, but also a sense of readiness.
He moved above her, supporting his weight on his forearms, his eyes never leaving hers. He felt the tip of his penis against her, warm and wet. He pushed gently, but it felt… tight.
She winced slightly, a small, involuntary sound. “It’s a bit… much.”
He paused, his heart sinking slightly. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, not really,” she said, her voice soft. “Just… a bit much, all at once.” She reached down, her fingers finding his shaft, guiding him. “Slowly.”
He nodded, taking a deep breath. He pushed again, a little slower this time, a little more deliberately. He felt the resistance, then a yielding, a soft give as he slid inside her. He was in, fully, completely. A strange mix of relief and profound connection washed over him.
He lay still for a moment, just feeling her around him, the warmth, the soft embrace of her body. It wasn't the explosive sensation he'd read about in books or seen in movies. It was soft, intimate, a gentle pressure that filled him.
“Okay?” he whispered, his voice a little strained.
She nodded, her eyes closed, a small smile on her face. “Okay.” She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He began to move, slowly at first, then with more confidence. Each thrust was a learning curve, a careful exploration. He felt the friction, the warmth, the subtle shift of her body beneath his. It wasn't mind-blowing, not yet. It was awkward, a little clumsy, but infused with a tenderness that made it profoundly beautiful.
He tried to find a rhythm, a pace that felt right for both of them. He felt a slight discomfort, a dull ache that wasn't pain, but just… new. He glanced down, seeing their bodies joined, a raw, vulnerable sight.
“Does it… feel good?” she asked, her voice breathy.
He paused, a little unsure. “It’s… warm. And… nice.” He tried to be honest, to not overstate anything. “Is it for you?”
She nodded, her eyes closed again. “It’s… new. And I like that it’s you.” She shifted her hips, a small, involuntary movement. He felt a slight increase in pressure, a deepening of the sensation.
He continued to move, trying to match her subtle cues. The condom felt a little thick, dulling some of the sensation, but the intimacy, the sheer closeness of their bodies, was overwhelming. He felt himself building, a slow, steady climb. He focused on her, on her soft gasps, on the way her fingers clutched his shoulders.
He felt a sudden shift, a tightening around him. He looked down, and saw the condom had slipped, pulling back slightly. He froze, a wave of panic washing over him.
“Oh,” he said, his voice a little high-pitched. “It… it slipped.”
Eunchae opened her eyes, a flicker of confusion. She looked down, then back at him. “Did it come off?”
He shook his head, pulling out slowly, carefully. The condom was still on, but it had retracted, leaving a small amount of pre-cum on his shaft. He felt a flush of embarrassment. “No, but… it almost did.”
He pulled the condom off, the rubber making a soft, squelching sound as it came free. He felt his erection lessen slightly, the moment broken. He sighed, a mix of frustration and awkwardness.
Eunchae giggled, a soft, innocent sound. She reached for him, her hand warm on his arm. “It’s okay. We’re learning.” She pulled him back down, her lips finding his. “We have all the time in the world to learn.”
He kissed her back, a profound sense of love overriding the awkwardness. This wasn't about perfection. It was about connection, about two people figuring things out together. He felt his erection returning, a little softer, but still present.
He lay beside her, pulling her close, his arms wrapping around her. “I love you, Eunchae.”
She snuggled into his embrace, her head resting on his chest. “I love you too, Y/N.” Her voice was soft, contented. “Even if you’re a bit clumsy.”
He chuckled, a warm feeling spreading through him. “I’m a work in progress.”
She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Good. Because I plan on sticking around for the whole project.”
Years later, the sky still glowed, but now, the lights in their house were strategically dimmed, creating an intimate cocoon. Y/N watched Eunchae from across the room, a familiar warmth spreading through him. Her laugh, still a bright, clear sound, filled the space as she recounted a funny story from her day. She still possessed that youthful energy, but now it was tempered with a quiet confidence, a knowing grace that came with age and experience.
He had learned her, inch by inch, over the years. He knew the exact curve of her spine, the way her breath hitched just before a laugh, the subtle tension in her shoulders when she was tired. And she, in turn, knew him. She knew the way his jaw tightened when he was deep in thought, the exact spot behind his ear that made him shiver, the slight tremor in his hand when he was truly excited.
She finished her story, her eyes, still wide and expressive, finding his. A playful challenge danced within them. “What are you staring at, Mr. Awkward?”
He pushed off the sofa, a slow, deliberate movement. “Just admiring my wife.” He walked towards her, his gaze never leaving hers. Her eyes, those beautiful doe eyes, held his, anchoring him, drawing him in. He wouldn’t look away, not for anything. It was an unspoken pact, a silent language they had perfected over a decade.
He reached her, his hands finding her waist, pulling her gently against him. Her body, familiar and beloved, fit against his as if designed for it. He lowered his head, his lips finding the soft skin just beneath her ear, a place he knew would send shivers down her spine. A soft sigh escaped her, her body relaxing into his.
“You know what that does to me,” she whispered, her voice husky.
He smiled against her skin. “I know.” His lips trailed down her neck, then to the hollow of her throat. He felt the pulse quicken beneath his touch. His hand drifted lower, over the familiar curve of her hip, then to the delicate inner thigh. He kissed the spot, a light, teasing brush of his lips, and felt her entire body shake, a delicious tremor that resonated through him.
“Y/N,” she gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “You’re playing dirty.”
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. “Just getting started.” He lifted her into his arms, carrying her effortlessly towards their bedroom, towards the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
He laid her on the bed, her eyes still locked on his, full of an intoxicating blend of trust and desire. He stripped away her clothes, then his own, his movements fluid, unhurried, each touch a testament to years of shared intimacy. There was no awkward fumbling, no hesitation. Just a deep, abiding understanding.
He moved above her, his body already hard, throbbing with anticipation. He kissed her, a deep, consuming kiss that spoke of years of shared laughter, whispered secrets, and quiet comfort. Their tongues danced, intertwined, a familiar rhythm. He tasted her, a flavor that was uniquely Eunchae, a taste of home.
He entered her slowly, deliberately, feeling her open to him, welcoming him. The sensation was immediate, profound, a deep thrumming that resonated through his entire being. There was no condom now, just the raw, uninhibited connection of skin on skin, body on body.
He began to move, a slow, languid rhythm that built steadily, each thrust deeper, more powerful than the last. He felt her clench around him, her inner muscles contracting, pulling him in further. Her hips rose to meet his, her legs wrapping tightly around his waist, urging him on.
“Yes,” she breathed, her voice a low moan. “Just like that, Y/N.”
He watched her face, the way her eyes fluttered closed, the small, breathless gasps that escaped her lips. He knew every flicker of emotion, every subtle shift in her body. He knew when to slow down, when to speed up, when to plunge deep and hold.
His balls slapped rhythmically against her ass as he thrust, the sound a soft, wet shlick against the growing squelch of their bodies. He felt the friction, the delicious heat building between them. He could feel her getting wetter, the slickness increasing with each stroke. He lowered his head, his lips finding her ear, whispering reassurances, words of love.
He felt her body begin to tense, a familiar signal. Her hips began to buck against his, her breathing ragged. He increased his pace, pushing deeper, faster, driving into her with a primal urgency. Her cries grew louder, more insistent.
“I’m… oh, Y/N… I’m so close,” she gasped, her nails digging into his back.
He felt the tremors begin, a delicious tightening around his cock. He pulled back, then plunged forward one last, powerful thrust, burying himself deep inside her. He felt her climax, a series of exquisite contractions that gripped him, squeezing him, milking him. Her body convulsed, a profound release that sent shivers through his own.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, and then, with a final, shuddering thrust, he spilled his seed deep inside her, a warm, pulsing wave of pleasure. He collapsed onto her, his body heavy, sated, their breaths mingling in the quiet room.
He lay there for a long moment, feeling the warmth of her body beneath his, the slow thrum of their hearts synchronizing. He kissed her temple, then her lips, a soft, lingering kiss of pure contentment.
“Still awkward?” she whispered, a small smile playing on her lips.
He chuckled, his voice thick with emotion. “Never with you.” He held her tighter, pulling the blanket over them. The city lights still glowed outside, but inside, their world was soft, warm, and perfectly in sync. They had learned, over the years, that love wasn't about perfect beginnings, but about the beautiful, messy journey of learning each other, day by day, touch by touch. And in that, they had found their own perfect rhythm.
Synopsis: While on a space expedition, you make a shocking discovery
Notes: Special thanks to mint and woolly for making this happen.
One last rock. You pulled the lever, and your wonky rover–excavator hybrid bent down, grabbing the large stone and pulling it out of the hole. As soon as it left its bed, the mass started floating, smoothly gliding up before drifting back down. You bumped it with the machine’s hand, letting it bounce to the side where you’d been collecting all the other rocks.
You sat back, looking proudly at your work. You’d made it just in time to still see the two planets in the sky. That was your sign that it was time to head back to base.
You jumped up and made your way to the other rover, built for transportation. The drive back wasn’t very long—good practice was to keep everything close to home—but it still took a considerable amount of time. The problem with living on a new planet was that there wasn’t anybody before you to build streets, lights, or signs you could normally follow to know where you were going.
Poles and boxes were scattered across the landscape as an attempt at landmarks, but if those were all you had, it was hard to tell which direction you were facing. Fortunately, the people smart enough to build the rocket that shot you up here were also smart enough to build a solid GPS system.
When you started seeing the trees, that’s when you could finally relax. The whole planet was like a sea of islands, with deserted land instead of water and small patches of plants serving as islands. Your base was built next to the largest one you could find.
You parked the rover outside and walked in, sealing the door behind you with an exhale.
“Water system looking good?” your teammate asked. He was pouring himself a hot cup of coffee, glancing at documents on his tablet.
“I’ll install it tomorrow. The hole is done,” you answered.
“Good.”
“Are you guys leaving today?” you asked.
“Yeah. I’m reviewing the last papers before we get on the ship. The other crew should arrive shortly after we leave.”
“At least Sakura will stay,” you laughed. “It would be quite lonely.”
Your friend chuckled and set the tablet down. “It’s just five of us already—we couldn’t leave you here alone,” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “She actually volunteered to stay.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. She said she liked the atmosphere.”
“Huh.”
“It’s really nice, especially compared to how hectic things are back home. You can’t even breathe there.”
“I remember.”
“Anyway, you should get some sleep. You’ve been working on that hole forever.”
“You’re right. I’m exhausted.”
You dragged your boots back to your room, fatigue slowly building in your back and shoulders, pulsing with pain. You placed your palm on the wall. A light flared, tracing the shape of your hand, and the door clicked as it slid open.
Your room was less of a living space and more of a functional nook. A small desk cluttered with spare bolts and a machine you were trying to repair took up most of it. There wasn’t much room for decoration—just a plant near the “window” and a science poster.
You stripped off your dusty jumpsuit, tossing it toward the sanitizer channel embedded in the wall. The suit was sucked into a tube and sent off to be cleaned.
Then you climbed into the pod. The gel mattress hissed as it contoured to your spine, and the lid slid shut with a pneumatic click. As cooling mist circulated, smelling faintly of ozone and mint, your eyes grew heavy. The last thing you saw was the status display: Optimal Recovery Cycle Initiated.
When the pod hissed open, you opened your eyes and stretched yourself awake. Your joints didn’t ache anymore, and the stiffness in your lower back was gone.
You sat up, listening for any sound, but the base was deathly silent. No muffled arguments over logistics, no electric hum—nothing at all. You threw on a fresh shirt and stepped into the main hub.
The table where your teammates had been sitting was cleared. Chairs were pushed back into place, plates and cutlery put away. Through the window, you could see that the transport ship was gone, leaving only a trace of dust on the landing pad.
You walked toward the comms station. “Sakura?” you called out. “You still around?”
You waited, listening to the hum of the air recyclers. Then the greenhouse door hissed open. Sakura stepped out, wiping her hands on a grease-stained rag. She smiled and stopped in front of you.
“They’re gone,” she said. “Left about three hours ago, while your pod was doing its magic. It’s just us now.”
You rubbed the back of your neck, trying to ease the awkwardness settling between you. “Right,” you said. “Well, it’s not bad. We can focus—you know how loud they could get,” you added with a forced chuckle.
Sakura only smiled.
You cleared your throat. “I’m gonna grab some food before I finish the water system. Have you eaten yet?”
“I am not hungry,” she said flatly.
“Suit yourself,” you muttered, heading toward the kitchen to grab the usual prepackaged meal—but Sakura stopped you.
“I prepared a meal for you,” she said.
You turned to look at her. She still wore that calm, satisfied smile. She gestured toward a small table in the corner. You hadn’t noticed it before, but a tray sat there.
“Oh. Thank you, Sakura. You didn’t have to.”
You sat down. Normally, you’d be staring at rehydrated mash and protein shreds sealed in plastic bags. There wasn’t much food to go around—only a few plants from the greenhouse, carefully tended by Sakura, and even those were scarce.
In front of you stood a pyramid of perfectly diced protein blocks, with greens arranged neatly on the side. Real vegetables. Even the water was filled exactly to the brim.
You were intrigued. First came astonishment—she must have spent a considerable amount of time preparing this. The second thought followed quickly after: why? You couldn’t bring yourself to ask.
Sakura was always precise in everything she did. That was why she was here in the first place. You just hadn’t realized the extent of it.
She moved closer, almost gliding instead of clumsily bouncing like you still did under 0.8 gravity.
“It looks… really good,” you said. “Thank you.”
Sakura smiled, watching you with expectant eyes. You picked up the fork and took the top cube from the pyramid as she stared you down. You took a bite. It was warm. It tasted like it always did, really.
“So,” you said, chewing slowly. “Must be weird, huh? Just the two of us. Gonna miss the Captain’s jokes.”
Sakura pulled out a chair and, instead of sitting across from you, took the spot right next to you. “The jokes were very bad,” she said, chuckling.
“True,” you hummed.
“They were distracting.”
“Distracting from what?”
“From the observation.”
You let out a short, nervous laugh, tapping your fork against the metal tray. “You sound so serious. We’re just digging holes, Sakura. You finished the research a while ago. Not much to observe except dirt and rocks.”
“There are always variables.”
“Right.”
You finished the meal with awkward attempts at keeping the conversation going, since she didn’t take your silence as a cue to leave.
“Alright, I’ve got to get the filtration unit running,” you said. You got up, dumped the tray into the scullery slot, and headed to the gear room. You put on your suit, grabbed the heavy tool belt, and drove the transport rover the short distance to the excavation site.
The “hole” was a massive crater you’d spent the last week carving out with the excavator. At the bottom lay humid soil, indicating that you’d hit water.
You parked and hopped down. First, you had to install the pump’s initial layer, which would insulate everything. Then you’d attach the “snake,” the unit that would guide the pump back to the base. There was no way you’d dig an entire channel, so they’d designed a mole-like machine that burrowed through the earth and pulled the tube along behind it.
You were tightening the first flange when a shadow fell over your hands. You jumped, dropping the wrench, which clattered against the pipe. Sakura stood on the rim of the hole, looking down. You hadn’t heard her. She was just standing there.
“You forgot the pressure regulator,” she called.
She tossed it down. The heavy brass regulator sailed through the air and landed with a soft thump in the dirt. You squinted up at her. “Shit, I did forget, huh? Thank you.”
Sakura slid down beside you. “I will assist,” she said as she reached the bottom.
“Uh, look, Sakura, I work better alone,” you said, picking up the regulator. “I’ve got my own rhythm, you know?”
“I know,” she said.
She bent down, grabbed the coupling, and set it in place. She didn’t even grunt. Sakura held the steel piece steady with one hand, effortlessly. You fit the wrench onto the bolt and cranked the torque.
“You’ve been working out?” you asked. “You’re really strong.”
“I was made this way.”
“Got it.”
You worked in silence for the next twenty minutes. Every time you needed a tool, it was there before you could ask. It was incredibly efficient. She knew every detail. You hadn’t expected that, given she’d been assigned to the biology side of things.
“Okay,” you said, wiping your forehead with the back of your glove. The planet’s atmosphere allowed you to go without a helmet, and there was enough pressure not to kill you. The problem was the lack of nitrogen, so you had to use small respirators plugged into your nostrils to compensate.
You reached over and pressed the button. The machine groaned, then the piston fired. The display jittered before the levels began to rise.
“We have water,” you said with satisfaction. “Not bad for a two-person crew, huh?”
Sakura straightened up. “We did good!” She raised her hand toward you.
You stared at it for a moment before realizing she was asking for a high five, then slapped your palm against hers.
“Yeah, we did.”
You gathered your tools, tossing them into the bag. You and Sakura climbed out of the crater and headed to the rover. Off to the side sat the bike Sakura had used to reach you. You took your seat, she took hers, and you drove back to base.
She really was an odd one. Probably the smartest person on the planet, but so strange. Sometimes she seemed completely normal, and everything felt fine. Other times she felt disconnected, unable to understand jokes or read the room. It had to be lonely, being that smart.
Back at the base, you lay down on the couch in the center of the structure and checked the clock. A lot of time had passed—almost half a day—and still no one had arrived. That was strange. The Captain had clearly said the next crew would show up within a few hours. The asteroid wave paths were well charted, and sudden delays were rare.
It was then that Sakura asked you to come to the greenhouse.
“Do you want to see the plants I’ve been working on?”
Truthfully, you hadn’t seen much yet, and curiosity got the better of you.
You followed Sakura through the airlock, and the humidity hit you like a thick, wet blanket. On your left was the Earth sector, bathed in nostalgic yellow light. Tomatoes, wheat, spinach, lettuce, carrots—every kind of vegetable you could think of. On your right, however, were the alien crops: neon-colored growths with thick roots burrowing into the concrete beyond their soil beds. Pink moss crept along the walls, slowly spreading outward.
When you reached the end of the pod, the door behind you slid shut.
“You know why I stayed?” Sakura asked calmly.
“You liked the atmosphere…?” you replied.
“Yeah, that was true,” she said. “But it wasn’t the whole story.”
She raised her hand toward you, and her skin seemed to melt, becoming a greenish, smooth material as translucence spread beneath it. Everything shifted, and her body began to change form.
You stumbled back, hitting the edge of a planter.
“What the fuck,” you breathed.
Her face followed next. Just like her hand, her skin turned bluish, marked with lighter patterns, though it still maintained the humanoid appearance of the Sakura you knew. Uncanny as it was, her pupils expanded until they filled her entire eyes, turning them completely black. Her hair shifted into a pink-silver gradient, and two antennae emerged from her forehead.
“I am not from your species,” she said. “I was assigned to observe it.”
Your mouth was dry. Your hands shook. “By… who?”
“My people from the planet Askura. But I’ll tell you when it’s the right time. It’s a long story, my dear,” she said. “What matters is that I was supposed to leave.” Sakura stepped closer again. You looked around. There was no chance of escape. This was your end.
“I was meant to collect data. Behavioral patterns, language, stress, culture…” Her gaze softened. “But then I met you.”
“You were kind. Interesting. You always worried about me.”
She smiled.
Her fingers brushed your wrist. Warm.
“I have studied you long enough to know what to say right now. I like you,” she said, without hesitation or embarrassment. “Whenever I was around you, I only felt dopamine. I was fixated. Obsessed.”
“That’s not good.”
“For you humans, maybe,” Sakura agreed. “For us, it’s a clear sign. I found my mate.”
“I am staying on this planet. In this base. With you.”
“Sakura… I… I don’t know you.”
“You do. Nothing changes. Nothing at all,” she said as her hand came up to your face, brushing it. “Would you allow me to show you how much I love you?”
You thought about it carefully. You had assumed she was going to kill you, but if she truly liked you… something inside you told you to go ahead.
“Yeah,” you said.
Sakura gently brought her hands to either side of your face, cradling your cheeks as she rested her forehead against yours. You felt a force moving inside your brain, like acceleration, like a magnetic field. Then her antennae began glowing at the tips. A pleasant emotion flooded your mind—unlike anything you’d ever felt before. It wasn’t overwhelming, just completely unique.
“This is how we say ‘I love you’ where I am from,” Sakura said.
“It feels nice,” you said.
Sakura giggled. “But I’ve learned that you humans enjoy kissing?”
“Uh… yeah.”
She leaned in and kissed you with soft lips. They weren’t much different from human lips, though you were sure they were warmer, more moist. You melted into her, the nervousness of being in front of an alien slowly fading away.
Sakura felt your body relax and held onto you.
“Do you feel it?” she asked, pulling back slightly.
“Yeah… I do,” you said. “What is it?”
“I think you humans call it love,” she answered. “We can share emotions with each other for empathy. Understanding feelings only through behavior can be… challenging.”
That explained everything.
“Now that we’ve gone through the formalities, we have to mate.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Mate. You’re my mate.”
“That can’t be right.”
“Or girlfriend, wife, side chick—whatever you humans call it,” Sakura said.
“Okay, I definitely understand now.”
Sakura rubbed her hands along your body before touching her forehead to yours again. Your hormones surged, and you were suddenly rock hard. It felt like you’d swallowed three honey packs at once—completely and utterly aroused.
Her emotional-sharing ability played a role, but mostly it was you: very horny, very aware you were about to fuck an alien.
“Relax, honey,” Sakura said. “I promise it will feel good.”
You understood what she wanted and lowered yourself onto the grass beneath you. You hesitated, unsure about doing this here after all the work Sakura had put into the greenery—but the sensation surprised you. The grass was incredibly soft, almost like synthetic fur, slightly humid, sending a shiver through you. Nothing like the rough park grass you remembered from Earth.
“Are we really doing this?” you asked, uncertain.
“We are,” Sakura said. “Can you show me your appendix?”
“My… penis?”
“Yes.”
“Alright,” you agreed, pulling down the pants of your suit. You were left in your thermal boxers, your erection clearly straining against the fabric. You glanced at Sakura. It was hard to read her expression with her black eyes, but her posture and parted lips made her interest obvious.
You pulled the boxers down and freed your cock.
Sakura gasped.
“So this is what it looks like,” she said, bringing her face dangerously close. You felt her breath on your skin. “It’s not very different from our version. Just as I thought—we’re compatible.”
“Can I touch it?”
You nodded. She wrapped her hand around your cock and began stroking it. Her touch felt strange—slightly sticky, like an invisible adhesive. Moments later, her other hand joined, and you felt her skin warm as her pores secreted a slick, lubricant-like fluid.
That’s when your first moan came out. The sound seemed to please Sakura very much as she let out a surprised yelp. “Oh, you like it?”
She kept stroking you, letting her fingers rub around your tip and shaft. You could see your cock getting wet now as the pleasure increased. Sakura smiled brightly and proudly, pleasing you with passion.
“I believe this is called a handjob?” Sakura asked.
“Yes, it is,” you said. “Fuck, that’s good, Sakura.”
“Are you aroused now?”
“Yeah, I am.”
As soon as she heard that, Sakura stopped.
“No… why did you stop?” you said, disappointed.
“I got you aroused, we have to copulate now,” Sakura said. “That’s the whole point.”
“I guess…”
Sakura quickly slipped out of her suit, revealing her naked alien body. It wasn’t much different from a human body, other than the color of her skin with the fluorescent patterns on her body. Sakura sat down on her knees and invited you with a gesture.
You got up and got closer to her. “Can I touch your body?”
“Of course you can.”
Your hands came to her, cupping her alien breasts. They were firm and soft under your palms, the texture slightly different from human flesh. Her nipples were stiff and pointed, pressing into your palms as you kneaded the soft flesh.
It was her turn to moan now. You took your time exploring her body. Your thumbs plaid with her nipples, testing how stiff they were, squeezing the breast to understand how firm they were. All in the meanwhile, your dick kept getting harder and harder. Unknown to you, Sakura was getting wetter too.
It wasn’t much later that she stopped you. She was in a hurry.
“Let’s do it,” Sakura said. She laid down on her back, right on the grass, and spread her legs. Her hands came down to stretch, what looked like a vagina, open for you. It was similar to a human one, pink and wet.
You couldn’t lie to yourself; you were extremely aroused and couldn’t wait any longer.
You positioned yourself over Sakura’s body, her leg spread wide to accommodate you. As you pressed our head against her entrance, she gasped, her eyes widening with excitement. In the meantime, you were gritting your teeth, trying not to cum immediately from the tightness of her pussy.
You pushed forward slowly, and you could immediately feel it, the incredible suction, actively pulling you in. The walls were textured with tiny, almost imperceptible, fleshy protrusions that gripped your shaft like a vice. Then you realize the interior has its own musculature, rippling and contracting around you.
You can’t believe the sensation around your cock. Her pussy seems to have a mind of its own, squeezing you in rhythmic pulses. The texture is incredible, soft yet firm, wet and slippery, all the while gripping on you like a vacuum.
“Fuck, Sakura, this is crazy,” you exclaim.
Sakura responds by putting her hands around your neck in an encouraging gesture.
You do your best to find a rhythm. Her pussy clenches around you harder with each thrust. You abandon every plan of lasting longer and thrust as hard as you can, fueled by Sakura’s moans. She looks so happy and excited, you couldn’t let her down.
Suddenly, Sakura arches up, and a long, serpentine tongue comes out from her mouth, easily twice the length of a human tongue.
“Kiss me,” she demanded breathlessly. You can only obey.
You lean down, and her tongue slides into your mouth, tracing your teeth, battling with your own tongue. She has a weird aftertaste, but you don’t care and keep thrusting into her.
Your hands were locked around her small waist as you lifted her off the ground, pounding her. That’s when you realize you were representing the whole humanity in that very moment. You might as well have been the very first human that was fucking an alien. There was no way you could have been remembered as having weak thrusts. No, you had to show her.
You slammed into her, fighting off the suction of her pussy with speed. The force of your entry makes her cry out, eyes widening with shock. You set a brutal pace like a wild animal. You pounded her again and again, her body bouncing with each impact, her breasts swaying and jiggling.
“Stars and moon! Human, you are wild!” she exclaimed.
She was gripping you even tighter now, and the force in your arms was running low, so you gently put her down and continued to fuck her with a more gentle pace. You could feel your orgasm building, your balls tightening, and there was no way you could hold it for any longer.
“Sakura, I have to cum,” you managed to say. As you were sitting back, Sakura locked her legs around your waist, and her pussy contracted painfully around you.
“Why?” she whimpered. “Why would you pull out? Don’t you love me?”
Your scientist mind was telling you to stop. This was an alien. You were a human. What were the ethics of what you were doing? You shouldn't even have been inside her in the first place. What if she got pregnant? Then what?
The genetics, ethics, and morals were storming your mind, but when you heard Sakura's words, one thing was clear.
She grabbed your face. “Please.” The greenhouse ceiling turned transparent, revealing stars, moons, and distant supernova glowing above. “On the grass of Askura, under the stars—just like we do. I waited so long. Cum inside me, human.”
You had to breed her.
“Fuck,” you roared, as thick ropes of cum shot out of you. You spilled into her, your hot seed flooding her alien pussy.
Her legs were still locked around your waist, holding you deep inside her as you emptied yourself into her. You could feel her pussy massaging and stroking you even as you were cumming, milking every drop.
Finally, as your orgasm subsided, Sakura relaxed back down, and so did you, your body giving up and collapsing next to her.
“You’re mine now, human, you’re my mate,” Sakura comments. “And I’ll let you know, we mate with only one individual throughout our lives. You’re mine.”
You don’t know what to say and just fall asleep. That pussy was stellar.
Chaewon x Male Reader | 8k words
Tags: manager x idol, secret relationship, pent up, semi-public, sneaking away, horny as fuck, chaewon is hot as fuck, I wish it was me
Chaewon looks too good in that dress. Three weeks without sex. How long before you snap?
Jus sumn quick for yall.
Chaewon [1:42 AM]: I've been touching myself thinking about you every night this week. It's not enough.
Chaewon [1:43 AM]: Good luck keeping it professional tomorrow when you see what they have me wearing for the HOT trailer shoot 😈
You stare at your phone, heat flooding through your body. Three weeks without her. The longest you've gone since you started dating a year ago.
Fuck, she knows exactly what she's doing to you.
Three weeks without her touch has made every message like this a form of exquisite torture. You can practically hear her voice in your head as you read her texts.
You're dating Kim Chaewon. LE SSERAFIM's leader. And you're one of their managers.
It started on a company retreat last spring—a late-night conversation about music that turned into coffee, then dinner a week later, then her pressed against your apartment door, whispering that she'd wanted this since the moment you'd been assigned to their team.
You'd both agreed it would be just once.
That agreement lasted approximately 8 hours.
No one knows. Not the company. Not the members.
Not even Jiyeon, the other manager who works with you handling the girls' schedules.
And right now, your girlfriend is driving you fucking crazy.
The comeback prep for "HOT" has been exactly that—hot, intense, and keeping you both so busy you can barely catch your breath, let alone sneak away to be alone together.
You've tried everything to deal with the frustration. Late-night FaceTiming while she touches herself in her dorm room, biting her pillow to stay quiet. Watching the videos you've made together—her riding you on your couch, her bent over your bathroom sink, her on her knees looking up at you with those eyes.
None of it is enough. You need her. You need to taste her, feel her skin against yours, be inside her.
The warehouse set is all sleek white surfaces and ribbed glass partitions. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in cold natural light that makes everything look clean, sterile, and expensive. The perfect contrast to the fire they're trying to create with this concept.
Staff members in black hurry around with clipboards and equipment, speaking in hushed, urgent tones. This "BORN FIRE" trailer shoot has to be perfect—it's launching LE SSERAFIM's most ambitious album "HOT" yet.
You check your own clipboard, making sure everything's on schedule while trying not to think about Chaewon and whatever outfit has her texting you at 2 AM.
The irony isn't lost on you. Here you are, supervising the filming of a teaser—literally called "BORN FIRE"—while Chaewon herself is the true teaser. She's igniting something in you that's becoming increasingly difficult to contain. The line between her performance for the video and her performance for you is blurring dangerously.
"Manager-oppa, the director wants to run through the toy car scene again," Eunchae says, bouncing up to you in her feathered white outfit. "Have you seen Chaewon unnie? She's next."
"Still in wardrobe," you answer, keeping your voice steady. Like you're not thinking about how Chaewon moaned your name in that hotel in Jeju last month, her body shaking beneath yours as she came for the third time that night.
Sakura walks past with her stylist, the long white dress trailing behind her. You spot Kazuha already positioned on one of the white block structures that fill the set. The whole group is scattered around the space in various stages of preparation.
"Jiyeon-ssi," you call to your fellow manager, "can you check if hair and makeup are done with Chaewon?"
Jiyeon nods and heads toward the dressing area. You turn your attention back to the monitor, where the director is reviewing footage.
Then it happens.
The quiet murmur of the set shifts. You feel it before you see it.
Chaewon walks onto set, and your entire body goes rigid.
Your throat goes dry instantly. God, you love her in white—the way it makes her skin glow, how it emphasizes every curve you've memorized with your hands, your mouth. You force yourself to breathe normally even as memories flood your mind unbidden. She knows what this does to you. She's counting on it.
The white strapless dress is even shorter than it looked in the concept sketches and fittings you'd seen last week. It hugs her body perfectly, showing off shoulders you've kissed a hundred times.
The black belt cinches her waist—the waist you've held in your hands while she rode you until you both saw stars. But it's the boots that kill you. Thigh-high, black, lace-up boots that make her legs look endless.
You force yourself to look away, back at your clipboard. Professional. You're a professional.
But memories flood your mind anyway:
Chaewon straddling you in the backseat of your car, hand pressed against your mouth to keep you quiet while security guards walked past.
Chaewon pressed against your kitchen counter, panties around one ankle, begging you not to stop as you dropped to your knees.
Chaewon in your bed, hair spread across your pillow, eyes locked with yours as you moved inside her, whispering that she loves you.
You still remember the first time she said those words—three months in, both of you sweaty and breathless, her eyes wide with something like surprise at her own admission. You'd felt it too, that terrifying, exhilarating free-fall into something neither of you had planned for.
"You good?" asks one of the camera assistants, noticing how you've been staring at nothing.
"Fine," you say, the word clipped.
On set, Chaewon takes her position. In one scene, she stands tall on a miniature white car, the contrast of the boots against the white making her look like some kind of goddess. In another setup, she holds a diagram against her bare shoulder, eyes focused directly at the camera.
She's perfect. Professional. The director loves every take.
But then, during a lighting adjustment, when everyone's attention is elsewhere, she looks directly at you.
It's quick—barely a second—but in that moment, her professional mask slips. Her eyes darken. The corner of her mouth quirks up.
It's the same look she gave you the first time you told her to get on her knees.
The director calls for the next setup. Chaewon moves into position with the other members, all of them in white, creating a visual that's both innocent and somehow sinful.
You take a deep breath. You've been so good. So professional.
But when she walks past you, she whispers, "Bet you want to take this off me so bad," so quietly only you can hear it, you know exactly how this day is going to end.
You are completely, totally fucked.
You're in hell.
Not the burning, fire-and-brimstone kind. The sleek, white, glass-walled kind.
A special kind of hell designed with surgical precision by Kim Chaewon—your weakness, your fucking undoing.
The "BORN FIRE" shoot continues. It's been three hours. You've managed to stay professional for exactly none of them.
"Cut! Five minute break," the director calls.
The set erupts into controlled chaos—stylists rushing to touch up makeup, lighting techs adjusting gear, Kazuha and Eunchae huddled near the white blocks watching practice videos on their phones.
You stare at your clipboard like it contains the secrets of the universe.
Chaewon moves through the space like she owns it, boots clicking against the polished concrete floor. The sound alone makes your pulse kick.
She stands by the glass partition, sunlight catching on her hair, making it glow against all the sterile white. Your eyes follow her despite your brain screaming not to.
"Manager-oppa," she calls, voice sweet and professional. The sound hits you low in your stomach—the same tone she uses right before she begs you to fuck her harder.
"Can you bring me some water?"
She knows exactly what she's doing. Every staff member sees a hardworking idol asking her manager for a simple favor.
You know better.
You grab a bottle and walk it over to her. That's when she strikes.
Her fingers brush yours as she takes the bottle—deliberate, electric—the touch lasting a half-second too long to be accidental.
"Had a dream about you last night," she murmurs, voice pitched for your ears only.
The cap of the water bottle clicks as she twists it open. She drinks slowly, throat working in a way that triggers a vivid flashback—her on her knees three weeks ago, swallowing around you, looking up with those same dark eyes. You'd gripped her hair so tight she'd moaned around you.
Her tongue darts out to catch a drop on her lower lip. Her eyes never leave yours.
You say nothing. Your grip on the clipboard turns your knuckles white.
Jiyeon passes by, checking her watch. "Chaewon-ah, wardrobe wants to check your outfit before the next shot."
Chaewon nods, all professional sweetness. "Coming!"
She brushes past you, close enough that you catch her scent—something floral and expensive that you've tasted on her skin a hundred times before.
The stylist adjusts something on the back of her dress while she stands in front of the monitor. You try to focus on the schedule, on anything but the curve of her shoulder blades, the way the belt cinches her waist.
"Everything good?" the stylist asks.
Chaewon nods, then turns slightly. Her eyes find yours in the reflection of the monitor. "Perfect."
The tech walks away. You're about to do the same when—
"Woke up so wet this morning."
The words hit you like a physical blow. Your body responds instantly, a rush of heat that makes you grit your teeth.
She doesn't even look at you. Just keeps checking her reflection, adjusting a strand of hair like she didn't just set you on fire.
You step closer, voice low. "Watch yourself."
She smiles—sweet, sharp, fucking dangerous. "Always do. That's why I look so good."
The director calls everyone back. You retreat to the safety of the production table.
You adjust your clipboard, grateful for its coverage. This is what she reduces you to—a professional with years of industry experience hiding an erection like a teenager. The thought should embarrass you, but instead, there's a twisted pride in how she still affects you this way, even after a year together.
For exactly twelve minutes, you breathe. Focus. Reset.
Then she slides into the chair next to you.
"Can I see the schedule?" she asks, loud enough for others to hear. Professional. Proper.
You hand her your tablet without looking up. Three staff members hover nearby, discussing lighting for the next scene.
Sakura sits across the table, focused on crocheting something delicate and blue, her fingers moving with practiced precision. The click of her crochet hook provides a steady rhythm to the chaos around you.
That's when you feel it—her hand on your thigh under the table. Casual. Like it belongs there.
Your entire body goes rigid.
"Chaewon," you warn, barely a whisper.
"Mmm?" She leans in, pretending to point at something on the screen. Her fingers start to move. Slow strokes up, then down. Teasing.
You inhale sharply, willing your face to stay neutral.
The staff members move away. But Sakura is still there, focused on her project, the hook moving in and out of the yarn.
Chaewon's hand inches higher, bolder than she's ever been. Her pinky grazes dangerously close to where you're already hardening against your will.
"Stop," you hiss.
She leans closer, her breath against your ear. "I'm ovulating, you know."
Your vision blurs. Blood rushes in your ears.
"You'd feel it the moment you were inside me—"
Sakura looks up suddenly, her eyes meeting yours across the table.
Your heart stops.
Chaewon doesn't move her hand. Instead, she laughs at something on the screen, all innocent charm. "Manager-oppa, the schedule looks too tight. Don't you think?"
Sakura tilts her head, then returns to her crocheting, seemingly oblivious to the fact that your girlfriend's hand is still on your thigh, still dangerously high.
You wrap your fingers around her wrist under the table, stopping her hand but not removing it. A dangerous compromise.
Her pupils dilate. That's when you see it—she's not just playing with you. She's affected too. Her cheeks flushed, her breathing just a little too quick.
She's as desperate as you are.
The realization hits you like a kick to the chest.
"Two minutes!" someone calls.
She extracts her hand slowly, deliberately. Stands up, smooths down her dress. The movement pulls the hem even higher on her thigh.
"Think you can last the rest of the day?" she asks, a challenge glinting in her eyes.
Before you can answer, Jiyeon approaches. "Chaewon-ah, they need you for the car shot."
Chaewon nods, all business again. But as she walks away, she glances back—just once. Just enough for you to see the hunger there, mirroring your own.
The next hour is psychological warfare.
Around you, the set buzzes with activity. Makeup artists touch up the members between shots. The director argues with the cinematographer about lighting. A production assistant nearly trips over a cable, sending everyone scrambling.
And through it all, Chaewon wages her private campaign against your sanity.
This is high-stakes chess played under fluorescent lights.
Every staff member represents a potential career-ending leak. The director who's worked with three generations of idol groups and has seen every possible scandal. The company photographer who reports directly to the CEO. The stylists who know every whispered secret in the industry.
One wrong move, one lingering glance held too long, and everything you've both worked for collapses.
She steps onto the miniature white car, boots planted wide, the dress riding up her thighs as she poses. The camera loves her. Every angle is perfection.
You remember the first time you took her for a drive, six months into your secret relationship. She'd climbed into your lap at a deserted scenic point, the gear shift digging into her leg as she rode you, both of you half-clothed, desperate, her breath fogging the windows as she came.
Now, as she stands on that toy car, her eyes find yours between every take.
During the group shot with the white blocks, she trails her fingers along the edge of the structure, the same way she's traced paths across your chest in the dark of your bedroom. Her fingernails scrape lightly against the white surface, and you swear you can feel phantom scratches down your back.
Each pose becomes more provocative. Each glance more daring.
When the stylist adjusts her dress between shots, Chaewon stretches her arms overhead, making the hem ride dangerously high. The movement fills your nostrils with the scent of her perfume—jasmine and something deeper—that clings to your sheets for days after she leaves.
In the solo shot with the diagram pressed against her bare shoulder, she turns just enough that only you can see how her teeth catch her bottom lip—the same way they do when you're deep inside her.
Your heart hammers against your ribs. Your skin feels too tight. Every minute is torture, and the fact that you're surrounded by people—Jiyeon checking the time, Eunchae asking you questions, staff members constantly brushing past—only makes it worse.
This isn't just teasing anymore. This is Chaewon pushing both of you to the edge.
Then comes the final blow.
During the last break, when the set is buzzing with activity, she passes by the narrow space between the equipment cases where you're checking inventory.
No one can see you here. Just a sliver of space hidden from the main floor.
She stops, just for a second. Leans in.
"Just fuck me in the changing room already."
The clipboard nearly snaps in your grip.
She walks away, satisfied smirk playing on her lips.
And something in you—the last thread of your control—finally snaps.
You count to ten. Wait until she's back in position on set.
Then you move through the space with purpose, face composed, steps measured.
Professional.
You reach her just as the director calls for a lighting check.
Your fingers wrap around her wrist—firm, decisive.
She looks up, triumph flashing in her eyes.
"Do you wanna get caught, you stupid bitch?" you whisper, the words harsh but your tone almost loving.
Her lips part. A small gasp that only you can hear.
"Manager-nim, is something wrong?" the director asks.
"Wardrobe issue," you say smoothly. "Won't take long."
You pull her away from the set, past curious eyes, past Jiyeon's raised eyebrow.
The changing room is too exposed. Too many people.
Five years in this industry has taught you one thing: discretion isn't just preferred, it's survival.
You've built your reputation on professionalism, on being the manager who anticipates problems before they happen.
Chaewon is the one variable you can never fully calculate, the one risk you can't mitigate. And God help you, you wouldn't have it any other way.
You spot it—a storage room door, slightly ajar. Dark. Empty.
Perfect.
Her breath catches as you change direction, leading her toward it.
"What are you—"
You push the door open. Pull her inside The storage room door closes with a soft click.
And finally—fucking finally—you're alone.
One second passes.
Two.
Then Chaewon launches herself at you.
Her hands grab your face with bruising intensity, fingernails digging into your scalp, your jaw, anywhere she can grip. The heat of her palms sears your skin as her mouth finds yours with desperate precision. The kiss is nuclear—all teeth and tongue and hunger. She bites your lower lip, hard enough to make you taste the metallic hint of blood, then soothes it with the velvety warmth of her tongue, exploring your mouth like she's trying to devour you whole.
Her body presses against yours, tits crushed against your chest, her hips grinding with shameless need. She grabs your hands and places them on her ass, demanding your touch without saying a word.
"Fuck, I missed your mouth," she gasps, her breath hot against your lips as she pulls at your clothes, fingers trembling and scrabbling at your belt, nails occasionally scraping against your abdomen. She can't seem to decide where to touch you—her hands moving from your chest to your shoulders to your neck, back to your belt, frantic and greedy. "Missed your hands. Missed your cock."
You slam her against the shelves, the metal rattling with a satisfying clang that echoes her gasp. Your hands are everywhere—her face, flushed and warm beneath your palms; her throat, pulse hammering wildly under your fingertips; the soft swell of her breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath; the dramatic curve of her waist that fits perfectly in your grip. Every touch relearns the terrain you've been starved of for three endless weeks.
She reaches behind and grabs your wrists, dragging your hands to her ass, forcing you to squeeze the firm flesh. "Touch me everywhere," she demands, voice thick with need. "I've been dying for it."
"You took too fucking long," she pants against your lips, her voice vibrating through you as her hands finally get your pants open, the sudden coolness of air a sharp contrast to the heat of her touch. Her fingers brush against your cock, a teasing touch that makes your jaw clench.
The storage room closes around you—metal shelves on one wall digging into her back, garment racks crowded with costumes exhaling the scent of fabric softener and makeup, cardboard boxes stacked in the corner threatening to topple with each movement. A single fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting harsh shadows that carve her features into something almost feral with need, highlighting the sheen of sweat beginning to form at her temples, at the hollow of her throat.
She makes quick work of the black safety shorts beneath her dress, the fabric making a soft whisper as it slides down her legs before she kicks them away. The movement is so fluid, so urgent, that your mouth goes dry with anticipation. She grabs your hand, guiding it between her legs, letting you feel how ready she is. "See what you do to me?" she whispers, eyes locked on yours.
You spin her around, the quick motion making her gasp. For a moment, you just look at her—the elegant column of her neck where a few baby hairs escape her bob cut, curling with perspiration; the delicate slope of her shoulders, pale and perfect under the harsh light; the dramatic curve where her waist meets the swell of her ass, emphasized by the black belt that begs to be gripped. The white dress clings to every inch, revealing the heat she's generating beneath it. Your mouth waters just looking at her, tongue dragging across suddenly parched lips.
Your hand comes down on her ass with a sharp crack, the sound startlingly loud in the confined space. She jerks forward, a surprised gasp escaping her lips. The pale skin instantly flushes pink under your palm.
"Hurry up," she demands, looking back at you over her shoulder, eyes dark and glassy with impatience, pupils blown wide until only a thin ring of brown remains. She arches her back, pushing her ass against your hand, silently begging for more.
You grip her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave impressions. "Shut the fuck up."
Her breath catches with an audible hitch. You know she loves it when you talk to her like this—can feel it in the goosebumps that rise under your touch, in the way her thighs tremble slightly.
You run your hands up her sides, feeling the heat radiating through the thin fabric, then down to the hem of her dress, bunching the material as you start to lift it. The fabric makes a soft rustling sound that seems obscenely loud in the small space. Your hands slide up her thighs, skin like silk beneath your calloused palms, finding the lace edge of her panties. Black, of course. The contrast against her pale skin is stark and mouthwatering.
Another smack lands on her ass, harder this time. You watch the flesh jiggle under the impact, the imprint of your hand blooming pink against her porcelain skin. "You like that?" you ask, already knowing the answer as she pushes back against you.
"Yes," she hisses, grinding back against your hand. "Again. Harder."
You comply, landing another sharp slap, watching the way her body jerks forward before pressing back, seeking more. "Look at you," you murmur, "So perfect for the cameras, but in here, you're just a dirty little slut who gets wet from being spanked."
She moans at your words, the sound vibrating through her entire body. "Only for you," she whispers, the admission hanging heavy in the air between you.
Spinning her back around, you claim her mouth again, tasting mint and desperation on her tongue as your hand slips between her legs, pressing the lace against her. The fabric is soaked through, warm and clinging to her folds. Her hands are everywhere—gripping your shoulders, sliding down your chest, grabbing at your ass to pull you closer, like she can't get enough of touching you.
"Goddamn," you mutter against her lips, the words a vibration between your connected mouths. "Your pussy's fucking drenched."
You hook your fingers into the lace and yank it aside, the elastic snapping against her thigh. Your middle finger slides through her folds, gathering her wetness, feeling how swollen and ready she is—hot and slick and perfect against your fingertips.
"Look how fucking wet you are," you murmur, watching her face contort with pleasure as you circle her clit, feeling it harden beneath your touch. "Been thinking about this all day, haven't you?"
She whimpers, a high, needy sound that goes straight to your cock as she grinds against your hand. "I told you I've been wet since I woke up," she pants, her breath coming in short, hot puffs against your face. "Thinking about you. About this. About you bending me over and fucking me until I can't remember my own name."
She tries to reach for you, but you catch her wrist with your free hand, her pulse jumping beneath your grip as you pin it above her head against the shelves. The metal is cold against her skin, making her hiss.
"Not yet," you tell her, voice dropping to a growl. "I want you desperate first."
"I'm already desperate," she hisses, trying to rock against your hand, the movement making her belt buckle clink against itself. Her free hand grabs at your shirt, your arm, anywhere she can reach. "Just fuck me already."
You turn her again, pressing her face-first against the metal shelving. The cold surface makes her gasp, back arching instinctively away from it. She braces herself, legs automatically spreading wider on the concrete floor, the heel of her boots making a sharp click as she repositions.
You grab her belt from behind, leather warm from her body heat, using it to arch her back, positioning her ass higher. The positioning makes the dress ride up further, exposing more of her thighs, making her stance more obscene, more perfect.
Another smack lands on her exposed ass, harder than before, the sound cracking through the small room. She jerks forward, a moan ripping from her throat.
"Fucking perfect," you mutter, kneading the flesh you just struck, watching the pink handprint fade and bloom again under your touch. You land another blow on the opposite cheek, evening her out, making her squirm.
The scent of her arousal hits you fully now—musky, sweet, unmistakable. Your mouth waters at the smell of her, cock throbbing painfully in response.
You reach up, fingers finding her hair, gripping the short strands of her bob at the nape of her neck. Not pulling, just holding, controlling. The sensation makes her moan, her head falling back into your grip.
"Please," she whispers, the word a broken, ragged thing as she tries to push back against you.
You keep her in place with your dual grip on her belt and hair. "Please what?"
"Please fuck me," she begs, all teasing gone from her voice, replaced with raw need. "I need your cock inside me. Now."
You release her hair to lean over her, your chest pressing against her back, trapping her heat between your bodies. Your mouth finds her ear, teeth grazing the sensitive lobe. "After all that teasing? All those filthy little comments with people right fucking there?"
You land another hard slap on her ass, watching the flesh redden under your palm. "This what you wanted? Getting your ass slapped while the whole crew is just outside?"
"Yes," she admits, voice small but sure. "Needed it so bad."
You drag the head of your cock through her slick folds, the sensation making both of you groan—her wetness hot and silky against you, making everything gloriously frictionless. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't make you wait longer."
"Because," she pants, voice vibrating with need, "you want this as bad as I do."
She's right, and you both know it.
You guide yourself to her entrance and thrust in with one brutal stroke, burying yourself to the hilt in her tight, clinging heat.
The sound she makes is primal—half gasp, half moan, pure fucking need. Your hand clamps over her mouth immediately, palm registering the warm wetness of her breath, the softness of her lips.
"Shhh," you warn even as you pull back and drive in again, the slick sound of your joining obscenely loud in the small space. "You want the whole fucking staff to hear how you take cock? How their perfect Kim Chaewon is just a dirty little whore in here?"
She shakes her head, but her pussy clenches around you at the words, a vice-like grip that sends stars exploding behind your eyelids. You know she loves the risk, the filth, the knowledge that just outside this door, she's Kim Chaewon of LE SSERAFIM, but in here, she's just yours to use.
"That's what gets you off, isn't it?" you growl against her ear, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. "Knowing they all think you're so sweet, so professional, when really you're in here letting me fuck you raw in a storage room."
Moving your hand from her mouth to her throat, you feel her swallow against your palm, her pulse racing beneath your fingers. You don't squeeze, just hold, feeling the vibrations of her moans traveling through her slender neck.
"That's right," you growl against her ear, teeth scraping the shell. "Remember who you belong to."
Her response is a full-body shudder, her inner walls clenching around you, making you groan at the sensation.
You fuck her hard, each thrust making her body jolt against the shelves. The metal creaks ominously, the sound mixing with the wet slap of skin on skin, the harsh sounds of your combined breathing. Your hand comes down on her ass again, the sting making her gasp, her pussy clenching around you in response.
"You love that, don't you?" you murmur, watching the red handprint bloom on her pale skin. "Love getting your ass slapped while your tight little pussy gets stretched around my cock."
"Yes," she admits, voice breaking around the word. "Love it. Love everything you do to me."
Without pulling out, you grab her left thigh and lift it, the smooth leather of her boot sliding against your palm as you plant her foot against a lower shelf. The new position opens her up, lets you sink even deeper into her molten core.
"Fuck," she whimpers, head falling forward against her braced arm, the tendons in her neck standing out in sharp relief.
"That's it," you growl, watching yourself disappear inside her over and over, mesmerized by the sight of her taking you, by the glistening evidence of her arousal coating you. "Take it deeper."
You grip her belt with one hand, bunching her dress even higher with the other until it's completely out of the way. The sight of her perfect ass jiggling with each impact makes your head swim, blood rushing in your ears. It's already pink from your earlier attention, the skin warm to the touch.
Your hand slides up her spine to grip her hair again, this time with purpose. You gather the short strands in your fist, tugging just enough to make her back arch further, to make her gasp, throat exposed and vulnerable.
"Look at you," you say, voice rough with exertion, the words punched out of you with each thrust. "LE SSERAFIM's perfect leader, taking cock in a storage room, being such a whore. Such a pretty little slut with your ass all red from my hands, your pussy dripping all over my cock."
She pushes back against you, taking you deeper, her body greedily swallowing every inch. "Harder," she demands, voice breaking on the word. "Fuck me harder. Make me feel it tomorrow."
You grip both her hips now, fingers digging into soft flesh, and pick up the pace. The new angle has you hitting that spot inside her that makes her whole body tremble, makes her walls flutter and clench around you. The wet sounds of her pussy taking your cock fill the small space—obscene, filthy, perfect.
"You're so fucking tight," you groan, feeling her walls grip you like a silken vice. "Squeezing my cock like you're trying to milk it dry."
You switch your grip, one hand finding her throat again, feeling her swallow against your palm as you apply the gentlest pressure. Just enough to remind her who's in control, to make her breath catch. Your other hand comes down hard on her ass again, the smack loud enough to make you both freeze for a second, worried it might have been heard outside.
"You've been a fucking menace all day," you growl, your pace relentless, the sound of your bodies coming together a wet percussion. "Strutting around in this dress, whispering that shit in my ear, touching me under the table."
Your grip on her throat tightens fractionally, making her pulse jump against your fingers. Her only response is to push back harder, taking you deeper, her body yielding and demanding all at once.
"You'd let me do anything to you, wouldn't you?" you ask, voice low and rough in her ear. "Slap your ass, pull your hair, fuck you where anyone could walk in and see you—see what a desperate little whore you really are."
"Yes," she admits, the confession barely audible. "Anything. Everything."
The tension builds between you, a tangible thing in the small, overheated room. The air is thick with the scent of sex, with the sounds of pleasure barely contained, with the electric certainty that this is exactly where you both need to be.
You change the angle again, leaning over her back to reach around to her front. The new position grinds your pelvis against her ass with each thrust, your cock hitting new spots inside her. Your fingers find her clit, circling it in tight, firm motions, feeling it swell and harden under your touch.
"Oh fuck," she gasps, her inner walls fluttering around you like wings. "Right there, don't stop."
You don't stop. You keep up the relentless pace, feeling her get wetter around you with each stroke, her arousal making everything slick and hot and perfect. Your fingers on her clit get slicker, the combination of her arousal and your spit making obscene wet sounds that mix with the slap of skin on skin.
"That's right, take it just like that," you encourage, voice strained. "Take it like the cock-hungry little slut you are."
Instead of being offended, she moans louder, her body responding to your words as much as to your touch. You know exactly what she likes to hear, exactly how far to push the fantasy of degradation that excites her so much.
The pleasure is so intense you have to grit your teeth to keep from coming too soon. Three weeks without this—without her tight heat squeezing you, without her desperate little sounds, without the feeling of being buried inside her—has left you balanced on a knife's edge of control.
"You close?" you ask, voice strained, the words feeling like they're being ripped from your chest.
"Yes," she pants, the word almost a sob. "So close."
You reach up with your free hand, tangling your fingers in her hair again, carefully pulling her head back to expose the elegant line of her neck, watching the muscles work beneath the skin as she swallows. You bend to press open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder, right where the dress leaves her skin bare, tasting salt and sweetness.
"Think about this tomorrow," you murmur against her skin, lips dragging over the goosebumps your breath creates. "When you're sitting in meetings, when you're in practice, when you're smiling for the cameras—remember how fucked you look right now. Remember how your ass felt getting spanked while my cock was inside you. Remember what a perfect little whore you are for me."
Her breath catches. Her pussy clenches around you. She's right on the edge, her body wound tight as a bowstring.
"Remember you're fucking mine," you growl, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that makes her cry out before she can stop herself, the sound sharp and startling in the quiet room.
You cover her mouth again, palm feeling the heat of her breath, the wetness of her lips, but it's too late—the sound echoed in the small room. Both of you freeze, hearts pounding, listening for any reaction from outside.
Nothing. Just the continued sounds of the busy set.
The moment of fear transforms quickly back into desperate need. Your thrusts become harder, deeper, more deliberate. Her body responds with renewed hunger, pushing back to meet you stroke for stroke, the rhythm between you perfect and instinctive.
Your hand slips from her mouth to her throat, not squeezing, just feeling her pulse race under your palm, feeling the vibrations of her moans travel through your fingertips.
"You gonna come for me?" you ask, feeling your own orgasm building at the base of your spine, heat coiling tight and insistent. "Gonna come all over my cock like the needy little slut you are?"
She nods frantically, beyond words now. Her body tightens around you, clenching with each thrust, the pressure building visibly in the arch of her back, the tension in her thighs, the way her fingers curl against the metal shelf.
You can feel your own release building, the tight grip of her pussy dragging you toward the edge. You've been thinking about this for weeks—dreaming about it, jerking off to memories of it—and now you're finally here, buried inside her, both of you desperate and filthy and perfect.
Her breath hitches. Her pussy flutters around your cock. You know the signs—she's right there, teetering on the precipice.
One more hard slap on her ass, the sting making her gasp, her inner walls clenching around you in response.
You lower her leg from the shelf, repositioning her with both feet on the ground, but spread wide. You grip her belt again with one hand, keeping up the pressure on her clit with the other. The new angle has you grinding against that spot inside her that makes her go crazy, makes her whole body tremble.
"Come on," you urge, your own control slipping, voice rough and broken. "Come on my cock, Chaewon. Let me feel it. Let me feel what a fucking whore you are for me."
Her body responds instantly, like your words were the final trigger she needed. She buries her face against her arm to muffle the sound as her orgasm rips through her, her pussy clamping down on you in rhythmic pulses, a flood of warmth surrounding you. Her legs shake so hard you have to hold her up with the grip on her belt, feeling the tremors travel through her entire body.
The sight of her completely wrecked, the feel of her convulsing around you, the knowledge that you did this to her—it all sends you over the edge. You thrust deep one last time, grinding against her ass as you come, filling her up with pulse after pulse, the pleasure so intense it's almost pain, radiating from your core to the tips of your fingers, the backs of your knees, the top of your skull.
"Fuck, Chaewon, fuck," you chant, forehead pressed between her shoulder blades as you empty yourself inside her, feeling the way she milks every drop from you, her body greedy even in its exhaustion.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just the sound of ragged breathing, your heartbeats gradually slowing from their frantic pace, the distant muffled voices of the set filtering back into your awareness.
You're still inside her, softening but reluctant to break the connection. Her body occasionally trembles with aftershocks, her pussy giving your cock little squeezes that make you hiss with oversensitivity, the sensation bordering on too much.
You run your hand gently over her ass, soothing the skin you'd been striking moments ago. It's still warm to the touch, a faint pink that will fade before she has to be back on set. Your touch is gentle now, a stark contrast to the roughness from before.
"You okay?" you murmur against her ear, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her neck.
"Better than okay," she whispers back, voice wrecked but satisfied.
Eventually, you pull out slowly, both of you groaning at the sensation. You watch as a trickle of your come leaks from her, sliding down her inner thigh. The sight sends a possessive thrill through you, primal and satisfying.
She straightens, turning to face you. Her makeup is smeared, her lips swollen and red, her cheeks flushed. Her eyes have that dazed, satisfied look that only comes after she's been thoroughly fucked. A thin sheen of sweat makes her skin glow under the fluorescent light. Her short hair is disheveled where you'd gripped it, sticking up in places that you smooth down with gentle fingers.
You grab tissues from a box on the shelf, gently cleaning between her legs. She watches you, a soft smile playing on her lips—so different from the smirk she's been tormenting you with all day.
"Did I hurt you?" you ask, suddenly aware of how rough you were, eyes searching for marks on her throat, her wrists, her hips, ghosting your fingers over her ass where you'd struck her.
She shakes her head, running her fingers through your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp in a way that makes you shiver. "Babe, It was perfect."
You retrieve her safety shorts from the floor and help her back into them, then smooth down her dress. Your hands linger on her waist, not quite ready to let go, feeling the warmth of her through the fabric.
A smirk forms slowly on her face, eyes glittering with mischief as she leans in close, her breath warm against your ear. "Think they heard?"
You press a final kiss to her shoulder, lingering there, inhaling deeply—tasting salt and perfume and her, that essence that's uniquely Chaewon beneath the expensive fragrance. Your lips trace a path to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, feeling her pulse still racing beneath your mouth.
"Not if you keep your mouth shut next time," you murmur against her skin, unable to resist giving her one more gentle bite.
She hums, the sound vibrating against your lips. "But where's the fun in that?" she whispers, that familiar playful defiance in her voice.
As she attempts to take a step back, her legs buckle. She grabs your shoulders to steady herself, her usual composure completely absent, the bratty confidence from seconds ago vanishing.
"I can't move," she whispers, voice wrecked, blinking up at you with unfocused eyes. All the sharp edges of her personality momentarily dissolved, leaving her soft and vulnerable in a way no one else ever sees. "My legs won't work."
"Good," you murmur, unable to hide your satisfaction as you press a kiss to her forehead, supporting her weight. You hold her close for a moment, feeling the way she melts against you, completely undone.
After a moment, that familiar glint of mischief gradually returns to her eyes. The transformation is beginning; the desperate, wrecked woman slowly rebuilding herself into the polished idol.
In this moment, with her guard completely down, she looks younger, softer. The harsh fluorescent lighting should be unflattering, but somehow it just makes her look more real—smudged eyeshadow, faint red marks on her throat where your fingers were, her hair disheveled despite her attempts to smooth it. For a few seconds more, she's just yours.
She reaches up, her hand cupping your cheek with surprising tenderness. Her eyes, usually sharp and mischievous, soften as she looks at you. She leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips—so different from the desperate ones you shared minutes ago. This one is deliberate, unhurried.
"I love you," she whispers against your mouth, the words barely audible but unmistakable. It's not something she says often—both of you knowing how dangerous those words can be in your situation.
Your hand comes up to cover hers where it rests against your face, holding her there for a moment. "I love you too," you reply quietly, the words filling the small space between you. "Even when you're being a menace."
Her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Especially when I'm being a menace," she corrects, and you can't help but smile.
You glare at her playfully, and she giggles—the sound at complete odds with what just happened, with the filthy things you both just did, with the woman who was begging for your cock and calling herself your whore minutes ago. The contrast is jarring and perfect; this duality of hers that only you get to witness.
She leans in and kisses you deeply, but without the desperate edge from before. This kiss is softer, a promise.
When she pulls back, you can see the clock ticking in her head. Reality intruding.
"You go first," you say, checking your watch. "They'll be looking for you. The shoot needs to wrap in twenty minutes."
She nods, takes a deep breath, and you watch in fascination as she transforms back into LE SSERAFIM's leader right before your eyes. Her shoulders straighten, her chin lifts, her expression becomes more controlled. It's like watching an actress step into character—except you know both versions are equally real.
She checks her reflection in her phone, adjusts her belt, smooths her hair with practiced precision. Only you would notice the slight tremble in her fingers, the pink marks on her hips where your hands were, the satisfied glow in her eyes that the camera won't quite catch but you can see clearly.
"How do I look?" she asks, voice steady now, almost back to the professional tone she uses with everyone else.
Like she's just been thoroughly fucked. Like her thighs are still sticky with both of you. Like she's hiding a universe of secrets behind that poised expression. Like she's yours.
"Perfect," you say instead, swallowing the possessive thoughts.
She smiles—not the coy smirk from before, but something genuine that crinkles the corners of her eyes. Then it's gone, replaced by the polished mask she wears for everyone else.
Just as you think she's about to leave, she presses one last kiss to your jaw, her fingers trailing down your chest with deliberate slowness. Her lips move to your ear, breath hot against your skin.
"I'll be thinking about this all night," she whispers, voice dropping to that register that makes your pulse quicken despite your recent release. Then, even lower, just for you: "And touching myself the second I get back to the dorm."
Before you can respond, she's slipped out the door with a final squeeze of your hand, leaving you alone in the storage room with her promise echoing in your mind, the scent of sex still hanging in the air, mingling with her perfume.
You give it two minutes before following, clipboard held strategically in front of you, expression carefully neutral as you adjust your own mask—the efficient manager, all business.
By the time you return, Chaewon is already back on set, taking direction for the next shot, nodding professionally at the photographer's instructions. Her posture is immaculate, her expression perfectly calibrated—looking as composed and professional as if she'd just been touching up her makeup instead of being bent over a shelf with your hand prints on her ass.
No one looks at her twice. No one notices the way she stands slightly differently, favoring one leg. No one sees the slight darkening at the base of her throat where your mouth had been.
You watch from behind the monitor, maintaining a careful distance, occasionally checking your phone or making notes on your clipboard. The perfect picture of professionalism.
She gets into position, poised and beautiful under the lights, following direction flawlessly. The camera loves her—captures her elegance, her poise, but misses completely the woman you know.
Then she glances directly at the camera, and for just a second—
The look she gives—half-lidded eyes, the barest hint of teeth catching her lower lip, a fleeting microexpression of remembered pleasure—that's just for you.
And you know, watching her seamlessly return to her perfect idol persona, that you'll both be counting the minutes until you can be alone again.
...
AN: Yes I'm a certified CHAEWON simp. This is strike 3 chaewon from me with more coming.
