#and believe me in polish it looks very wrong

[youryanderedaddy]

When Life Gives Lemons

tw: female reader, technically non con because of stealthing, baby trapping, breeding, obsessive behavior, reader being a bit rude

You couldn’t believe the irony of your life. You were about to break up with your immature boyfriend, and he still managed to be grossly late to the date, unconsciously digging his own grave deeper. You had put on your best white shirt and the tightest skirt you owned, and you even went through the trouble of booking the latest hipster coffee shop close to the centre. He had been fifteen minutes late, to be exact, and when you brought it up, he simply shrugged a long sleazy smile, dragging his skeleton - shaped metal rings against the edge of the table.

“All in due time, princess.” He took a sip off his coffee - a single shot of espresso with no creamer, as always. “All in due time.” He repeated, reaching in his pocket for a pack of off - brand cigarettes. He really couldn’t afford any of the fancy ones. Once the cigarette was lit, he slowly brought it to his lips and inhaled deeply, letting his head relax against the chair. His thick neck tightened as he swallowed the deadly smoke, and even the sun seemed to avoid his messy dark locks, instead keeping the man in the shadows.

“What does that even mean?” You threw your hands around helplessly, sinking into your chair. “Don’t you want to know?” Axel teased, taking another puff. Although his expression was one of mild amusement, his sharp blue eyes were carefully following your every movement - wondering what will tip you off the most. “You know, you’re so fuckin’ hot when you’re mad, mami.” He smiled in a playful boyish way that once would have made you melt, but now only served as a reminder of his unserious nature.

“Stop playing around. I need to discuss something imp–”

“Shhh, don’t talk, babygirl. I need to show you something.” Axel interrupted, gripping the big guitar closer to his lap. ”I wrote you a song.” His thin fingers grazed the delicate transparent strings, forcing a catchy, although not fully polished melody out of the old thing. He took a deep breath, wetting his lips so the lyrics would come out softer. 

My girl knows how to set me

on flames she goes through 

the motions of the wind she

is a fireball, a fireball, on fire

“What the fuck, Axy.” You pounded your fists at the table, shaking the glasses and spilling coffee all over the wooden surface. You could feel everyone’s judging stare across your back, all of the other patrons were jeering and whispering about the two of you, and your cheeks were heating up by the moment. “I’ve told you countless times to stop writing those shitty songs. They don’t even rhyme, for fuck sake.” You whined, suddenly overwhelmed by helplessness. He was never going to change, was he? “This is exactly why I want to break up.”

The music stopped entirely. His dark sunglasses ended on the ground. 

“You wanna break up?” The musician repeated slowly, suddenly appearing awfully composed - so composed it made you look crazy. After that question he remained silent for a very long time, taking long drags off his cigarette while studying your face for any sign of your true feelings bleeding out. “Real’ funny, babe, real’ fun joke.” He forced a crooked smile, reaching in to squeeze your hand all the way through the table. “Now tell me, what’s wrong with the song? I stayed real’ late to compose it just for our date today.” He winked, which only made you feel worse.

“I am being serious, Axel. Let go of me.” Your tone turned icy and your ex boyfriend quickly released you, eyes filling with raw fear. “Wait, baby, we can talk about–”

“There is nothing to talk about. You’re such a child!” You blurted out, too frustrated to spare energy on fluttery words and sweet apologies. “I want to do my masters soon. You know I’m applying to Metwyorth - I can’t be seen hanging around with a high school dropout who does Saturday gigs for a living.” You continued, pursing your lips together. You knew you were being harsh, cruel even, but this was the only way to push him away. The musician could be awfully clingy, so you needed to be firm.

“A highschool dropout who made you scream your brains out.” Axel responded bitterly through clenched teeth, eyes growing dark with anger. You shook your head bashfully, avoiding his fiery gaze. “Sure, we had our fun,” You gestured vaguely at nothing in particular, trying to hide the shame blossoming on your sides. “But it’s time to wake up. I mean, be realistic. We live in different worlds.” You began to collect your things quickly, standing up to leave.

“Y/N!” He called out to you, causing you to turn back just for a second - you owed him that much for all the good memories you knew you both would have trouble forgetting. “You’re making a mistake. Please, think it through.” The man took a hold of your hand, caressing your fingers gently. “I know I can’t offer you much right now, but I really love you!” His eyes dilated, honest and clear like an untouched sea on a quiet day. 

“Goodbye, Axel.”

***

You meet him sooner that you’d like.

Two weeks later you’re drunk off your mind, dancing the night away with some of your girlfriends when you catch a pair of familiar eyes fluttering across your body from the other side of the room. It makes you feel hot all over - despite what you said back then, you felt each agonising moment of the break up. Even if the logical part of your brain knows you have no future with such a man, your body needs him, craves him. 

Axel keeps staring at you intensely, burning holes through your neck, your thighs, your lips. His yearning gaze lingers, completely miserable, and yet as lustful as the night he first wrapped his arms around you and claimed you as his. He can still feel your nails scratching his back red and bloody, sending shivers down his spine and setting fire in his loins. This staring game of yours lasts for approximately thirty minutes before he gives in and comes over to your table. He doesn’t say anything - doesn’t look at you or greet your friends, doesn’t even pretend to have any reason to approach you. He simply grabs you, swallows an airy pant, and drags you inside the bathroom.

You’re all over each other in no time. His hands are tangled in your hair and your nails are sinking into his warm flesh once again. You can’t breathe for a second, suffocated by a deep, longing kiss that he only spares you of once your lips start to turn blue. He licks your neck and bites at any spot vulnerable enough to steal a gasp out of you - and you return it by sucking on his collarbone until a purple hickey adorns his skin. You swiftly unzip his loose pants and start taking your dress off, but as you try to spread your legs, he turns you around facing the wall. 

“Fuck, I wanna do you from the back, princess.” Axel mumbles, one strong hand gripping your throat as the other gropes your breasts freely. You nod weakly, too turned on to comprehend any of the words he’s saying. “Ngh, wanna be able to pull your hair n’ shit.” His fist wraps around your ponytail, pulling slightly so you expose your neck to his teeth. You can already feel his throbbing manhood prob at your thighs, slowly moving towards your entrance. “Y-you have a condom on, right?” You manage to whimper through the little electric bursts of pleasure running through your whole body as he plays you like an instrument. He mumbles something like “yeah”, and in this state of mind that’s enough for you.

He starts sinking into your heat slowly, letting you adjust to his hard length inch by inch, then once you’ve settled, practically begging him to just give it to you, he begins thrusting painfully slow - really making you feel it going in and out, in and out in a perfect rhythm. Each time his cock brushes against your most sensitive spot, you’re reduced to a slick, desperate mess, but just as your thighs begin to go numb and you slip down, Axel catches both of your wrists and pins them to the wall, keeping you in place. You’re so wet you can hear the slap of skin on skin every time your gummy walls hug his member, but you’re too far gone to care about the nasty sound.

“F-fuck, baby, you’d be so fucking hot as a mother. Have you ever thought about it?” Your ex whispers against you, picking up the pace. You shake your head - kids have never been your priority, since you’re still so young and your education would always come first. “I thought about it. A lot, ‘n fact, when we were separated.” His heartbeat fastens. “Ugh, you’re still so tight, god…” His free hand dances at your hips, ogling and caressing any curve it can find. “When you dumped me, I was completely lost, ya know? Didn’t sober up for three days. But then I dreamt that I knocked you up accidentally. S-shit, did you just tighten up?”

Your whole body stiffens at his words. Your stomach fills with unexplainable dread - this whole conversation is turning you off, but somehow your body seems to have a mind of its own. 

“Q-quit it with the small talk, asshole.” You groan, pushing back so you’d get more friction between your legs. “Just fuck me, okay? I don’t need to hear your weird fantasies.” You hear yourself saying confidently despite the provocative position you’re currently stuck in - you can’t even see his face, but you know he’s probably laughing at your bossy comment. But instead he keeps blabbering on as if you’re not even there. “You were so beautiful, princess. So big and–” He bites his lower lip. “So fucking needy for me - just like now. You were dripping everywhere. You were so excited for our little baby.” He grunted hoarsely, reaching in to stroke your clit - and despite your best efforts, you let out a soft moan. 

“And we were a family - just you, n-ngh, me and the little guy.” Axel utters through clenched teeth, trying to hold out for as long as possible - savouring you in tiny little bites. “No stupid degrees or anythin’, just us two against the world.” He slows down further, now barely moving inside of you. It’s driving you crazy with anticipation - both his story and the way he’s fucking you. “And it made me think, we could really have all that - if it wasn’t for your stupid pride. All I need to do is knock you up. Just think about it.” The man grips your hips roughly, impaling you on his thickness. 

“Your tits will swell, your thighs will thicken; you’ll be so tired you’ll have to lay down all the time. You won’t even be able to touch yourself because of your belly.” He smiles at you gently, although you can’t see it. At this point you’re already so close to climax you can’t break through the cotton cloud haze that’s taken over your mind to truly focus. This is one of the reasons you had to break up with the musician - he could get you cockdrunk with a simple touch, and that vulnerability felt terrifying.

“And I will take care of you through every-” He kisses your cheek. “single–” He kisses you again. “step of the way.” He inhales deeply, thrusting in one final time before he spills inside you. “I love you, baby. I really can’t let you go.”

[jupiterpilgrim]

Damage Control

Hyeju x Male Reader

word count: 12.8K

It's a very important day for her, and you couldn't care less.

The gallery is a monument to pretension. Pristine white walls, the kind that seem to say: if you don’t get it, that’s on you, with polished concrete floors, where every heel echoes like a hammer of self-doubt. The lights dangle from the ceiling at precise angles, spotlighting the photos with calculated exactness, but also highlighting the insecurities of the photographers pacing back and forth, trying to look more confident than they actually feel.

Hyeju, for example, is dressed in something that is clearly not part of her natural wardrobe. Normally, she’d be seen in practical clothes, loose coats, comfortable pants—something she could lose herself in while exploring the world through her camera. But tonight, oh, tonight she’s a woman wrestling with a dress that’s undeniably expensive and likely borrowed from a friend too rich to care. The dress is black, too tight in the wrong places, and shiny enough to make her feel like a piece of art—not the interesting kind. The heels are high, torturous, and with each step, Hyeju wonders if it wouldn’t be easier to take the photos lying on the floor, where, at least, she wouldn’t have to balance like a drunken acrobat.

Her hair, normally loose and wild, has been tamed into an elegant updo, something that seems more like a modern art attempt than a style choice. She feels as if she’s disguised as someone who knows what they’re doing, an impostor among the real artists—or at least those confident enough to pretend.

And yet, as she catches her reflection in the gallery’s display cases, she tries to convince herself she’s worthy. After all, her series is hanging on the walls, among the others, and maybe, just maybe, that means she belongs here, dress or no dress.

But deep down, all Hyeju can think is: this is too much champagne and too many heels for someone who just wants to be a photographer.

—

She’s standing in the corner, beside her exhibit, her fourth glass of champagne disappearing in nervous sips. She watches the movement around her, but her mind is too occupied to register any useful details. The selection hasn’t started yet, and the photographer, the main critic of the night, is running late. Of course he is.

Important people always are.

Hyeju aspires to be among the top five winners of the contest. The prize? Well, merely having her work published in one of the world's most renowned photography magazines, plus a special tour with her essay showcased in various galleries worldwide; the doors this contest could open for her are endless. And what makes things even more thrilling is that she genuinely believes she has a chance this time. Five people out of twenty will be chosen. She'll be one of them.

But...

Before basking in the glamour, however, she must face evaluation by a judge with an unknown temperament. Still, she's confident that anyone with an ounce of sense will recognize the exceptional quality of her work, transcending subjective interpretations.

She turns to her photos on the wall. The series, the work that might define her career, is there, fixed and unchanging, awaiting the unforgiving judgment of a room full of pretentious people. The black-and-white images of dockworkers—strong arms, faces weathered by salt and years of invisible labor, staring down containers that don’t ask questions. The world’s transience captured there, with cranes bearing the weight of global needs as if countries exchanged desires with the clasp of metallic hands. Each container holds a secret, a demand from the other side of the ocean, and the workers, small figures in the photos, turn the wheels of the world unnoticed.

Hyeju tries to find flaws. Maybe the lighting in this shot is too strong, or perhaps the framing is slightly off. Or maybe...

No, maybe it’s just the champagne.

“Excuse me,” a female voice interrupts, pulling her out of her self-deprecating thoughts. It’s a young woman, likely an assistant, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, with the programmed friendliness of someone who’s delivered the same news dozens of times today: “The selection is about to begin.”

Hyeju mutters something that could be a “thank you” and tries to steady her breathing, handing her champagne glass to a passing waiter with such force she nearly topples the tray. Each contestant will get their five minutes of attention. She surveys the other exhibits—some incredibly well-composed, others almost amateurish. She might have a chance, maybe, if the stars align and the critic isn’t a complete jerk—or worse, utterly pretentious.

Time passes.

Then, suddenly, the group appears. Journalists and other professionals in similar fields, all carrying that aura of critical wisdom. The same assistant from before is in front, efficiently guiding the flock. Hyeju sees them approaching her wall, and her mouth instantly goes dry. The assistant begins explaining the series’ theme. “The port as a hand reaching across the ocean…”

Hyeju smiles at everyone, trying to appear friendly, interesting, accessible. She barely hears the words, lost in growing nerves. But then… she sees him. The last person in the group, hanging slightly behind the others. An unreadable expression, with a gaze that seems to measure the worth of everything in the room—including her.

It’s you.

She trembles slightly as she shakes your hand, and the moment your fingers touch: Hyeju knows. It’s you the critic.

Great. Of course, it’s you.

But would you… nah, impossible. Completely impossible.

It was years ago.

Hyeju wasn’t anyone in the photography world then.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” you say, in a gentle yet distant tone, almost too professional.

“Nice to meet you too, I am Hyeju,” she replies, trying to sound steady, but her voice falters slightly at the end.

"Yeah, I know."

You’re there, standing before Hyeju’s photos, pacing like an inspector evaluating construction work—only here, what’s being judged isn’t a building but someone’s soul. Each photo on the wall seems to scream in silence, as if trying to convince you of its importance, of its worth.

But you’re in no hurry.

You never are.

The first photo shows a gigantic crane, its mechanical arm hovering over containers like a titan ready to devour the world. The overcast sky in the background gives a sense of melancholy, of an industrial late afternoon, and there’s something intriguing in the way the black-and-white contrasts highlight the weight of the scene. Not bad.

You take two more steps, looking at the next image: a worker, face covered in sweat, calloused hands gripping a rope. The detail in his face is impressive, each worry line drawn with precision. The guy looks like he’s contemplating every economic crisis of the last century all at once.

Points for drama.

And then, of course, Hyeju tries to make small talk. Like they all do. As if conversation could save a photo that can’t defend itself.

“I chose black and white because I think it brings a kind of… timelessness, you know? Something that transcends the digital era we live in. Color can sometimes distract from the real meaning. I wanted the shadows to be… the main narrative.”

“Hmm.” You don’t look up, your eyes fixed on a third photo, an aerial shot of the port. The docks, packed with stacked containers, resemble a game of Tetris gone incredibly wrong. Thousands of boxes, ready to carry the anxieties of an entire world. “Transcendence, huh?... Got it.”

She watches you, uneasy, as you use your iPad, seemingly indifferent to her tense existence. Hyeju has that glimmer in her eyes all young artists have—a mixture of desperation to be seen and the faint arrogance of someone who thinks they’ve discovered something others missed. You’ve seen it so many times you could give lectures on the subject.

She continues nervously. “I know your work, by the way. I really admire your series, especially the one you did on the desert. The way you capture emptiness…”

“Oh, really?” Another note on the iPad.

“Yes! Actually, it was one of the biggest inspirations for this project. The way you captured emptiness, solitude… it was, honestly, brilliant.”

You finally look up, but not at her. At another photo. “Interesting.”

Hyeju clings to the chance to extend the conversation, like someone fallen overboard reaching for a piece of driftwood. “I really admire how you can convey so much with so little. I mean, the desert is literally… nothing. And yet, you make emptiness feel full of meaning. I tried to do something similar with the port, you know? A place of transition, of constant flux, but full of invisible stories.”

“Hmm.” Another silence. You step back, observing the photos with a clinical eye, as if trying to determine if the thread holding the world together is hidden somewhere within them.

“That’s why I wanted to focus on the workers,” she continues, clearly desperate to keep the contact. “They’re like… the gears no one sees. Without them, nothing would work. They move the world, but they’re always in the shadows.”

“Yes, yes, shadows. Fascinating.” You type something more into the iPad, your fingers moving across the screen as if her words carried tons and you were determined to move them quickly. “It’s interesting how black and white can create this illusion of depth. Or it can simply look… dated."

She blinks. “Dated?”

“Hmm, yes. Depending on the intent, of course.” Your eyes are back on the iPad. “But many photographers turn to black and white when they want things to seem deeper than they are. You know, to give that air of seriousness. It doesn’t always work.”

Hyeju laughs nervously. “Yeah, of course. I wanted it to have that seriousness, but also… you know, without being pretentious.”

“And isn’t that everyone’s aim?”

And that’s it. A rhetorical question that falls like a stone into a quiet pond. Hyeju looks at you, hoping for a more elaborate reaction, some sign that you really grasped the depth she wanted to convey, but all you offer is silence as you study the final images of her series.

Finally, you turn to the assistant. “Shall we?” you ask with the calm of someone who’s already made up their mind long before the end of the exhibit.

She gives a brief nod, confirming. "Yes. Let's move on to the next exhibits."

You pause, and then, as if it were just a minor detail, add, "Afterward, I'll speak with you privately, Miss Hyeju."

The group begins to move, but Hyeju lingers, feeling as though she's been left hanging, your words hovering in the air without resolution. She watches you walk away, the iPad still in your hand, typing something that could very well determine the fate of her work. But what unsettles her most is the way you treated her, and something about your distant posture makes her wonder if you know anything.

—

The gallery is noisier now. Artists, finally free from the duty of guarding their works, gather in small groups, praising each other with enthusiasm that ranges from genuine to visibly forced. Glasses of champagne are raised in toasts barely disguised as self-affirmations, and the hum of voices fills the space, echoing off the high ceiling.

Hyeju, however, doesn’t join in. She remains near the wall, watching from a distance as you, surrounded by journalists, finish evaluating the last of the exhibits. Her hands are clasped tightly, nervousness etched into each small movement. Her eyes track your every motion, trying to read the verdict that awaits.

From afar, she witnesses the first decisive moment. An older photographer, whose work felt like an ode to glorified boredom, receives a hug from you, smiling with a relief that only someone who’s faced countless failures can mask. Further ahead, a young woman with an eccentric look shakes your hand, her eyes sparkling with joy.

But not everyone is so fortunate. Some walk away from you with mixed expressions, caught between polite disappointment and the certainty that their work simply wasn’t understood. The more courteous ones offer faint smiles—the kind that are more social reflex than genuine feeling. Hyeju recognizes the tension even from afar. But when you finally start walking toward her, the anticipation becomes suffocating. Each of your steps seems to echo across the gallery like a solemn march, and Hyeju feels time slowing down.

You stop in front of her, a slight, formal smile on your face. It’s a smile she’s seen so many times that night it might as well be part of your uniform.

"Hyeju." Your voice is soft, almost cordial. "I liked your theme."

The words strike like an electric shock. For a moment, her world comes into focus. She smiles, surprised and, for a second, relieved. Maybe all that anxiety was for nothing.

"Thank you," she says, her voice trembling with barely-contained emotion.

You tilt your head slightly, as if acknowledging a job well done. But then, you continue, in that calm tone that only serves to prepare the ground for the fall. "However, I have to be honest... As I said, the theme you chose is already dated."

The word dated hangs in the air for a few seconds, like a blade poised to drop. Hyeju's smile falters.

"What do you mean... dated?" she asks, hope clearly trying to cling to something.

"Well, the port, the workers, industrialization... this idea was novel and revolutionary, let’s say, in the days of... the industrial revolution." You pause, looking at the photos on the wall as if re-evaluating the work for a moment. "Today, it doesn’t impact the audience the same way. It’s almost like you’re trying to remind us of something we all already know. In other words, the obvious."

Hyeju swallows hard, her mind beginning to race faster than she can handle. "But the point was precisely to show how these things are invisible today. People ignore what goes on behind the goods they consume, as if everything just magically appears on store shelves and—"

You raise a hand, cutting her off politely. "Of course, of course. But the problem is, in trying to revive this concept, you end up reaffirming what's already established. There’s no novelty, you see? The port as a symbol of global flow… it’s been debated to exhaustion. The challenge is finding a new perspective on the obvious, and, unfortunately, your exhibit got stuck in trying to remind the audience of something they’re already tired of hearing."

Hyeju blinks, stunned. "But… the black and white, the aesthetic I used… I wanted to convey a sense of timelessness, as if these figures were almost ghosts, invisibly moving the world…”

"Yes, timelessness." You nod, and the formal smile reappears, almost paternalistic. "The problem is, timelessness can also look like unintentional nostalgia. And, in the end, the modern audience wants something that speaks to the present, something that challenges them. We can’t just revisit the past expecting the same impact."

She tries, desperately, to find a loophole. "But… and the contrast? The shadows, the workers… I wanted it to be a reflection of the gears that drive the world, even today. Isn’t that relevant?"

You sigh, a bit more impatient now. "Look, the concept is good. I’m not saying it isn’t. It’s just that your execution felt… too predictable. Of course, you have a very competent technical eye, and your photos are good, but it lacks that element of… surprise, of innovation." You look at her directly, your patience waning. "It’s the kind of work we’ve seen many times before, understand?"

"But I can improve!" Hyeju insists, her voice a little louder than she intended. She seems on the brink of collapse, trying to cling to what little hope remains. "I know I can. If you’d just give me a chance to revise—"

"Look, Hyeju," you interrupt her, this time with a slightly firmer tone, tired of the discussion. "I really appreciate your passion. That’s great. But the decision has been made. Try again next year. Maybe with a different perspective."

There’s a long pause. Hyeju looks at you as if waiting for you to reveal that this was all an elaborate joke, that she’d actually won. But you say nothing of the sort. You simply extend your hand, ending the conversation with a smile that seems to say you did your best, but it wasn’t enough.

She shakes your hand, her grip firm, masking what she feels inside. As you walk away toward the next artist, Hyeju stands there alone, trying to grasp how, even with all her effort, it all ended like this: dated, predictable, insufficient.

But soon, that feeling of disbelief gives way to a growing rage, building in her chest like a volcano ready to erupt. Heat rises up her throat, making her face flush with anger, her hands clenched so tight her nails are nearly digging into her skin. Months of her life dedicated to that project. Endless visits to the port, earning the workers' trust, listening to their real stories, their calloused hands more genuine than any pretty, empty magazine spread. And now? Thrown in the trash. All because her theme was dated?

She’s not going to accept this. She can’t.

You’re heading toward Miyeon’s exhibit, and Hyeju, still fuming, decides to follow you. She already knows Miyeon is a fraud; the rich girl who travels the world and thinks snapping photos with her luxury camera is some kind of artistic statement. Pathetic. Hyeju’s sure you’ll see through it too. So, she waits, hides behind a column, and listens, her body still trembling with anger but with a hint of expectation. You’re going to tear her down too; it can’t be any other way.

"Miyeon, I really liked your theme."

Hyeju barely holds back a bitter laugh. Of course, liked the theme. You say that to everyone; it’s the prelude before you destroy them. She crosses her arms, waiting for the blow.

You continue, your voice sounding... more animated? Lighter?

"The flowers in the urban landscape, this attempt to create small pockets of nature in a space dominated by concrete, by modern life… it’s a powerful metaphor."

Hyeju raises an eyebrow. Powerful metaphor? Flowers?

Miyeon, always with that doll-like expression, smiles as if she’s about to receive a cherished jewel. "Oh, thank you! I wanted to show how, even in places where everything seems artificial, nature still finds a way to exist, to bloom."

"Yes, yes!" you respond, your voice clearly animated. "The idea that these flowers represent a little hope, a breath of life amidst the chaos of cities… it’s really touching. The audience is going to connect deeply with this vision; you managed to bring a softness that contrasts with the brutality of the environment."

Hyeju feels her stomach twist. She can’t believe what she’s hearing.

You go on, pointing to one of Miyeon’s photos: a lone flower growing from a crack in the pavement in Paris. "Look, here. This flower shouldn’t even exist, and yet, there it is, asserting its presence against all odds. It’s an image of resilience."

Miyeon sighs, almost enchanted by her own work. "Yeah, exactly! I wanted each photo to feel like... renewal, you know? That nature, no matter how small, always finds a way."

Hyeju, squirming behind the column, almost laughs. "Renewal?" Miyeon must have just passed by and thought, "Oh, this flower is cute, I’ll take a picture," without understanding anything about what it means to fight for something

But what disgusts her most is your next comment. “You did a wonderful job, Miyeon. Your photos truly captured that sensitivity. It’s one of the most unique approaches I’ve seen in this contest.”

Miyeon lights up like a Christmas tree. “Wow, I don’t even know what to say!”

And then, the bombshell.

“Well, I’m telling you—you’re one of the winners.”

Hyeju nearly chokes on air.

She… won? Idiotic flowers won?

Miyeon, of course, explodes with joy, throwing her arms around you like you just handed her the universe’s biggest gift. “Oh my God! Really? That’s incredible! Thank you so much!”

“You deserve it, Miyeon. I was really moved by how you found beauty in those small moments. And, you know,” you lower your voice, almost… casually, “I’d like to learn more about your creative process. What do you say to dinner tomorrow to celebrate your victory?”

Miyeon blinks, clearly charmed. “Oh, I’d love to! Wow, that would be amazing. You know, I’ve always wanted to learn more about what inspires you. Your work is so… deep.”

You smile, looking perfectly at ease. “Well, I try. And I must say, you look fantastic today. That outfit… elegant, yet simple. Really suits your style.”

Miyeon blushes slightly but takes the compliment easily. “Thank you! And, ah… you’re even more charming in person.”

Behind the pillar, Hyeju feels her pulse pounding. Each word feels like a slow, cruel stab. She was sure her defeat was already a massive injustice, but this… this is outrageous.

You keep chatting with Miyeon, now totally at ease, a brutal contrast to the coldness you offered Hyeju. She realizes, in that moment, what really happened here. He's a perverted son of a bitch. And Miyeon, with all her art girl pretense, is just another pretty fish he wants to hook and take to bed.

She can barely breathe, her anger suffocating.

Miyeon leaves, already brimming with plans for the dinner, and you follow, smiling just as brightly. Hyeju, however, takes a deep breath, trying to rein in the overwhelming fury overtaking her.

—

Hyeju looks at herself in the mirror, her reflection blurred by tears dragging away any dignity her makeup still held. The flawless eyeliner she spent so long perfecting now looks like a bad abstract painting. She dabs a tissue over her face, trying to erase the tear stains, but only makes it worse, smudging everything. Frustrated, she mutters to herself, too lost in her own ruin to notice the bathroom door opening.

She freezes, turning her back, trying to gather what little composure she has left.

“Oh, Hyeju! Hey, isn’t today amazing?”

Miyeon, of course.

Her sweet voice floats through the restroom like a sickeningly sweet perfume. Hyeju mumbles something unintelligible, anything to mask the sensation of being shattered.

Miyeon, radiant as always, places her bag and phone on the counter before going into one of the stalls. The metallic sound of the lock echoes louder than it should, which could mean something symbolic if this were a movie. Hyeju takes a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down, and walks over to the trash to throw away the stained tissue.

And then, she sees it.

Miyeon’s phone screen is unlocked, and Hyeju, despite herself, feels her gaze drawn to it like a magnet. Curiosity is a treacherous thing. She takes a step, then another. Just a little peek. She’s not really invading privacy, just… checking something that was already open.

And there you are. Your name at the top of her Instagram chat, with a thread of messages that makes Hyeju want to vomit in pure disgust. A time, an expensive restaurant, the promise of a dinner to celebrate Miyeon’s “big win.”

The stall flushes like an alarm. Hyeju jumps back, quickly distancing herself from the phone. She pulls herself together, struggling to control the torrent of emotions as Miyeon emerges.

The human doll opens the door with a casual smile, washing her hands while tossing compliments into the air. “Your photos, Hyeju, were so beautiful. Really, you captured the essence of the port workers in a way that was very… how should I say… real.”

Hyeju simply nods. “By the way, congratulations on your win, Miyeon. You deserved it.”

Miyeon dries her hands and finally looks at her, noticing Hyeju’s devastated state. The swollen eyes, the makeup entirely ruined. She tilts her head slightly, in an almost childlike gesture, and asks, “What happened? Are you… okay?”

Hyeju takes a deep breath, trying not to sound like she’s on the verge of a total breakdown. “It’s… nothing. Just… frustration, I think.”

Miyeon’s expression softens, as if dealing with a wounded child. “Oh, you’re sad you didn’t win, huh? I get it, it’s hard. But don’t be like that. There are so many opportunities left to show your talent.”

Hyeju wants to roll her eyes but holds back. Opportunities? This coming from Miyeon sounds like a bad joke. But before she can respond, Miyeon, ever helpful, opens her purse and pulls out a makeup kit. “Here, let me fix that for you.”

Before Hyeju can protest, Miyeon is already holding a brush, touching up the mascara smudges with efficiency that only irritates her more. “You’re so talented, you know? Your work has a depth that few have. Just need a little more luck, maybe? It’ll work out, you’ll see.”

Miyeon’s sweet, condescending tone feels like a silent scream to Hyeju. She can hear the fake sympathy behind the words, the barely hidden superiority of someone who’s never had to struggle for anything. Every brushstroke is a painful reminder of how absurdly far she is from Miyeon’s privileged world.

“All done,” Miyeon says, stepping back to admire her work. Hyeju looks at herself in the mirror. There she is, a sad, generic version of Miyeon. Even with the makeup fixed, she’s still just a shadow. “Looks better, right?”

Hyeju mumbles a “thank you,” but something in Miyeon’s sweet tone makes her want to scream.

Miyeon smiles, satisfied, and puts the kit back in her bag. “Well, see you around, okay? Don’t get discouraged, all right? You’ll get there.”

With a wave goodbye, Miyeon floats out of the restroom like she’s on a cloud.

Hyeju stands there, staring at the mirror. The makeup is flawless, but she doesn’t recognize herself. Only one thought passes through her mind in that moment as the heat of her rage boils beneath the surface:

This isn’t over.

—

Hyeju sits at an outdoor table, the evening breeze ruffling the menu in her hands. The restaurant, one of those gourmet traps with plates priced higher than any decent meal should be, offers a spectacular view of the city, the urban lights twinkling below like stars trapped in concrete. Exactly the type of place you’d choose to impress a girl like Miyeon. She’s not there to eat, of course, but she orders a glass of wine, something to keep up appearances.

Time passes slowly, and Hyeju watches as Miyeon arrives. She sits nearby, but with her back to Hyeju, making the plan even easier. Hyeju can barely contain a smile as she hides behind the menu, her eyes keenly watching the pampered, spoiled girl’s every move. Miyeon makes a quick call—obviously to you.

“Oh, of course, always late,” Miyeon sighs, her melodic voice tinged with slight annoyance. “It’s fine, I’ll wait for you. I’m at one of the outdoor tables, remember?”

Hyeju wonders if the lateness is part of the charm, like a cheap trick to make a grand entrance. Always the diva. She sighs. Nothing worth having ever shows up on time.

Miyeon continues to scroll on her phone, seemingly indifferent to the world around her, but Hyeju is on high alert. She lowers the menu just enough to peek, keeping herself discreetly hidden, especially now that a couple sits nearby, offering a bit more cover. She flinches as she hears your voice in the distance.

Finally, you arrive.

“Sorry I’m late,” you say with a smile that should be banned for public safety. And then, of course, a kiss on the cheek. A casual gesture, but enough to make Hyeju’s blood rise. “You know I’m naturally unpunctual,” you add, sitting down with the confidence of someone who’s sure the world revolves around them.

“Yeah, but I’m getting used to it,” Miyeon replies with a light laugh.

—

The conversation flows with a lightness that almost makes Hyeju shrink with discomfort. The two of you laugh at silly jokes, and the flirting... the flirting is ridiculously cringeworthy from a third-person perspective.

She also concluded that what you and Miyeon had for dinner was bad and ridiculously expensive (even without any real evidence).

"So," you say after a few glasses of wine, "I was really impressed with your work, Miyeon. It has a rare sensitivity, you know? The way you captured the delicacy of flowers in the urban environment... so poetic."

The only thing poetic about Miyeon is her endless privilege, which she doesn’t even know she has. Hyeju discreetly takes out her phone, pretending to be uninterested but already positioning the camera.

“Oh, thank you!” Miyeon replies, blushing in a way that seems rehearsed. “I really wanted someone to understand that, you know? You really summed up the essence of what I wanted to convey.”

Captured the essence… Hyeju practically screams internally. If that photo series had any more essence, it would become a perfume. She tilts her phone to a better angle and starts snapping discreet photos. Tiny clicks that get lost in the hum of the restaurant.

The two of you order dinner and keep talking, each word a dagger to Hyeju’s pride.

"By the way, you look stunning tonight," you say casually, and Miyeon smiles, lowering her gaze like a princess in a cheap fairy tale.

"Oh, thank you! And I have to say, you're so handsome. Well, I already knew because of the photos and interviews of yours that I watched, but when I saw you in person yesterday, wow..." Miyeon responds, throwing back the compliment like a golden frisbee.

Meanwhile, Hyeju continues to document it all, like a private investigator who decided ethics are optional. Every shared smile, every tilt of the body, every not-so-innocent wink. She watches the story unfold before her, barely containing her disgust.

This will be beautiful.

—

The night goes on with you and Miyeon in a dialogue that, to Hyeju, might as well be nails scraping a chalkboard. Sitting at a distance, she keeps her eyes on you, wondering for the thousandth time how the universe could be so cruel. It’s not like she wants to be in Miyeon’s place—of course not—but if you had to hit on someone, it could’ve at least been her.

At least her work was good.

"So, what's the secret?" you ask with a charming smile, leaning forward slightly, your voice low and intimate. "How does someone like you, so young and talented, manage to capture these... hmm... deep layers of meaning in your photos?"

Miyeon giggles, a sound that reminds Hyeju of coins clinking in a deep well. "Oh, you're flattering me! I don’t know if it’s all that. I just... observe the world, you know? Try to see what no one else sees." She gives a small sigh of exaggerated modesty, which makes Hyeju roll her eyes. What no one else sees? Is she kidding? Flowers on the streets? Everyone sees that.

Literally everyone.

You don’t back down, your attention fixed on every word from Miyeon as if she were the center of the world. “Humility... I love that in an artist. So many people out there are just pretentious. I already knew you were special just from looking at your photos, but now… well, I can see you’re as impressive as your work.”

Impressive? Hyeju nearly chokes on her wine, forcing herself to keep a neutral expression.

You’re practically drooling over Miyeon.

"Oh, you're very kind," Miyeon replies, blushing again. "I... I just try to do my part, you know? Show the world the beauty that's hidden. That people forget to notice. And I have to say, having your recognition is... well, it’s rewarding."

You smile and, without missing a beat, reach over to touch her arm lightly. "You know, Miyeon, I have to be honest... when I saw your work, I felt something I rarely feel. Like the photos were speaking to me, saying something I didn’t know I needed to hear."

Hyeju squirms in her seat. Speaking to you? About what exactly? 'Buy a flower vase'? 'Do urban gardening'?

Her work had explored the depth of human transience and the flow of life, while you let yourself be captivated by flowers and a rehearsed smile.

She bites her lip, growing anger as she thinks: If you had to pick a contestant to hook up with, you could at least have chosen someone with a decent series. Like mine. At least it would look like a fair and professional decision. Am I not attractive enough? Or maybe I just don’t have that... doll-like quality you seem to like?

You lean over the table again. “You know, Miyeon, I have to admit... I don’t usually feel this way at professional events. Honestly, I think I’ve lost patience with a lot of pretentious photographers. But you... you’re different.”

Miyeon pretends to be modest, covering her mouth with her hand as if she’s shy. “Oh, I just do what I love. Maybe that’s what makes me... different.”

Hyeju narrows her eyes. Different? Only if we’re talking about her bank account.

"Well," you continue, your tone softer, as if you were just chatting with a close friend. "I don’t know... there’s something about you. Your lightness. The way you see the world, through the lens and, of course, in person." You smile, clearly implying something deeper. "I’d love to see more of that."

Miyeon smiles sweetly, as if she doesn’t understand the double meaning that anyone within ten feet could catch. "I’d love to show you more of my work. I think there’s a lot we could share, not just as artists but as people."

Oh, wonderful, Hyeju thinks, holding her phone strategically, ready to capture the perfect moment. She almost feels her camera in her hands again, anger sharpening her focus in a twisted way. She wonders again why you chose Miyeon. What does she have that I don’t? Does this fool just like girls who look like dolls? Or is he afraid of a woman who won’t fall for this fake charm?

"This is perfect, Miyeon," you say, your voice sweet enough to sugar-coat a lemon. "By the way, I was thinking... we could continue this evening somewhere a bit more... peaceful." You lean a bit more over the table, your fingers sliding casually along the rim of her wine glass. "My hotel has an amazing view of the city at night. It would be a crime not to enjoy it."

Miyeon giggles, and Hyeju feels it’s the kind of giggle only someone completely clueless could give. “Oh, that would be wonderful, wouldn’t it? But... I have to go to that birthday party afterward,” she says, making that practiced pout again, like she’s breaking the heart of a poor little puppy. “From that friend of mine, remember? It’d be rude not to show up. I need to be there in less than an hour.”

“Oh, such a shame... I thought there’d be time...” Your tone is so forcedly disappointed that it almost sounds ironic. “You know, I’m leaving tomorrow. Who knows when we’ll get another chance to... enjoy the moment. It would be a pity to waste this night.”

Miyeon holds your hand with almost unbearable sweetness, leaning a little closer. “Oh, don’t worry,” she says, her eyes shining like she’s just made a solemn promise. “We’ll see each other again, for sure. And next time, no parties to interrupt.”

"I’ll hold you to that promise."

“You can count on it.”

Hyeju, until then lost in her thoughts of revolt and frustration, almost misses the moment. No way… Are they leaning in for a kiss? Her phone camera is already ready, and Hyeju quickly adjusts the focus. She almost fumbles but, at the last second, manages to capture the exact moment your lips meet. Bingo.

The kiss is brief, almost innocent, but enough for Hyeju to get what she needed. The final nail in the coffin of your reputation, or at least that’s what she hopes. She feels a wave of cold triumph wash over her. Now she had proof. Proof that you chose Miyeon not for her art, not for photographic genius (which was absurd enough), but simply because you were interested in her for... less artistic reasons, to say the least.

Miyeon pulls back with a rehearsed smile. “So we stay in touch?” she asks, already turning her attention back to her phone as if nothing important had happened.

“Yeah, sure. See you, Miyeon,” you say, your tone warm, but with a barely concealed note of frustration. “And I hope it’s soon.”

"Bye honey, thanks for this wonderful night."

Miyeon gets up, grabs her purse, tosses her hair back, and leaves the restaurant as if she’s walking off a runway. Hyeju watches her every step, feeling a strange mix of disdain and envy.

And there you are, still seated, momentarily lost in the direction Miyeon went, until you eventually come back to reality, calling a waiter to ask for the bill. And Hyeju, in that moment, knows she has the perfect weapon in her hands. A picture is worth a thousand words.

Revenge won’t just be sweet... it’ll be public.

You swipe your credit card, and as you wait for the receipt, your gaze lands on something interesting. Comical, really. There, sitting near you, hidden between two tables, is a woman trying to cover her face with the menu—a move worthy of someone trying to blend in like a plant in the middle of a desert. A mysterious woman, let’s call her that. You remember seeing her when you arrived; she’s been sitting there for quite a while without ordering anything, judging by the pristine table. You chuckle softly, intrigued by this peculiar figure.

Who acts like they're in a comedy film?

Maybe it’s the wine or perhaps the high that success brings, but you decide you have to find out what’s going on here. After taking the receipt, you stand up and approach her table. She hasn’t seen you, or maybe she’s pretending not to. Doesn’t matter. You throw yourself into the seat across from her with the confidence of someone who thinks the world revolves around them—because, let’s face it, for you, it does.

“Good evening,” you say in a casual tone, as if invading someone’s space were a natural extension of your personality. “Are you alone?”

She lowers the menu just enough to reveal her eyes, which are, incidentally, quite striking and sharp. But her expression shows the reluctance of someone who knows they’re about to enter a situation they don’t want but have no way out of. “No,” she replies, firm but a bit hesitant. “I’m waiting for someone.”

You smirk, a mix of mockery and sympathy, as if you’ve just heard the world’s lamest excuse, yet you’re willing to play along. “Ah, of course. Waiting for someone. Because, you know, I’ve seen you here alone for... what? An hour? I think, whoever this person is, they’re not showing up. Happens.” You sigh dramatically. “I know the type. Busy people, missed connections... But you know what’s worse? Being alone on such a lovely night.”

She looks at you as if you’ve just claimed the sky is purple. “I’m not alone,” she repeats, her voice sharpening. “My boyfriend is on his way.”

You raise an eyebrow, visibly interested. “Boyfriend, huh? Well, if he’s kept you waiting this long... maybe he’s not as interested as he should be.” You lean slightly forward, a faintly mocking smile on your face. “But if he doesn’t show, I could keep you company. I’m told I’m an excellent conversationalist.”

She gives you a look that suggests she’d rather have coffee with the Devil. “No, thank you. I saw you with a girl just now. Isn’t one enough, Mr. Meddler?”

You chuckle, as if she’d just accused you of a minor, harmless offense. “Ah, that lovely woman? Just a friend. Work-related, you know how it is. We just went out to celebrate her win in a contest she entered. Entirely professional.”

The way you say “professional” suggests the exact opposite, but she doesn’t comment, still skeptical.

“Can I know why you’re hiding your face like that? I’d love to see more than just those pretty eyes.”

“I’m shy,” she replies abruptly, trying to cut the conversation short. “Besides, when my boyfriend arrives, he won’t like to see you here.”

You raise your hands in an exaggerated surrender gesture, though the smile remains. “Alright, got it. I don’t want to cause any problems, especially with possessive boyfriends. It just seemed like you might have been... lonely, perhaps? But alright. Lucky you that he’s on his way, then. Hope you both have a magical evening.” You get up slowly, still keeping your eyes on her, clearly trying to decipher the enigma that is this woman with her face hidden.

As you walk away, Hyeju lets out a deep sigh, as if she’d just escaped a scene from a bad spy movie. That was too close, she thinks, her heart still racing.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have hidden,” she whispers to herself as a waiter approaches, still wearing that polite—and slightly irritated—smile he’d shown before.

“Ma’am, would you like to order something now?”

She forces a smile, though it’s obvious her appetite vanished long ago. “I... lost my appetite. Just the bill, please.”

The waiter walks away, and Hyeju remains there, looking at her reflection in the restaurant window, trying to understand how her day, which was supposed to be glorious, led her to this point.

“Well, since I won't be able to sleep tonight, then neither will he.”

—

You’re in the bathroom, brushing your teeth with more force than necessary, as if trying to scrub away the bitter taste of the evening. Miyeon is gorgeous, but empty, you conclude. It wouldn’t be the first time you regretted being led by your eyes instead of your head. After all, sleeping with her would’ve just been a tedious side note in your record of bad decisions. You finish, splash water on your face, and are about to settle into bed when a distinctive knock on the door interrupts your thoughts.

“Who the hell...?” You grumble, frowning. It’s late, and you weren’t expecting anyone.

You head to the door, ready to send away whoever’s disturbing you.

But what you see makes you hesitate. Standing at your door is Hyeju, eyes blazing with a fury you hadn’t seen before. Before you can process it, she storms into the room with the grace of a storm about to break.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You shut the door, stunned, as she strides in without so much as a glance, her presence filling the room faster than you can comprehend it.

“You’re fucked,” Hyeju declares.

You turn, confusion turning to indignation.

“How did you even get in here?” you demand, voice rising.

She pauses, as if savoring your disbelief. “Reception,” she begins, as if it were obvious. “I told them I was your assistant and had something urgent to give you before your trip tomorrow. People trust good lies.” She gives a small, humorless smile.

Trip? How the hell does she know you’re leaving tomorrow?

Forget it, doesn’t matter now. You just need to make sure you never stay at this poorly secured hotel again.

Your mouth opens and closes, trying to piece together the absurdity. “Let me guess, you’re here because of the damn magazine, right?”

“Exactly. I demand you put me among the winners.” She crosses her arms, her tone as sharp as a knife.

You laugh, but it’s a harsh, humorless sound. “You’re a sore loser, Hyeju. You lost. Failed. Were defeated. Accept it and stop bothering me.” You step forward, indignation rising within you, but she doesn’t back down.

She laughs, too, but it’s a bitter sound. “Lost? Of course, I lost. Because the brilliant critic was more interested in sleeping with one of the contestants than doing his job.”

The comment hits like a punch, and you freeze for a second. “What?” you stammer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I bet you know exactly what I'm talking about. I saw you two at the restaurant.” She says it with such certainty that a chill runs down your spine. The woman hidden behind the menu... Of course. It makes sense now. “I have proof. Took photos. I was going to expose it publicly, but first, I wanted to see your face... before I ruined your life.”

Your heart pounds, pressure building in your chest. “Proof?” The word barely makes it out of your mouth. Of course, she took photos. And of course, she didn’t just come here to provoke—you’re here to be blackmailed.

“Exactly. And my demand is simple: you remove Miyeon or any other winner and place me there. Though I’d prefer you remove Miyeon, if you don’t mind.”

You try to regain your composure, take a deep breath, and shoot her a scathing look. “You think you can blackmail me like this? I can’t change the results, Hyeju. Even if I wanted to. Besides, why the hell do you think you deserve to win? Besides being a crybaby, you also have a lot of arrogance.”

Hyeju’s grip on your shirt is as sudden as it is forceful. Her fingers curl around the fabric, pulling you closer, and for a moment, you’re so surprised you just freeze. She didn’t just confront you; she dominated you. The proximity is suffocating, and the fury in her eyes brings a sensation you’d never admit: a flash of fear.

“Why didn’t you choose me?” Her voice, low and laced with restrained anger, fills the room. The question isn’t just a demand for an answer; it’s an order. You, the esteemed critic, a giant in your field, feel small for a second.

You try to speak, but your mouth is dry. How did things spiral so far out of control? She pulls you closer, her breath hot against your face, and your heart races, not from fear of what she might physically do, but from her intensity. That intensity burns in a way you find disturbingly thrilling.

"I'm talking to you!" she says, each word leaving her mouth with a fierce heat. "Why did you pick her? The porcelain doll you wanted to take to bed? And why did you leave me out? Because I'm not as 'pretty' as she is? Because I don’t have the shiny veneer of someone who can spend money on stupid trips around the world?"

You feel your shirt tighten against your chest, and though your mind wants to resist, your body… obeys. There’s a pulse of adrenaline you didn’t expect, and for the first time, you genuinely don’t know how to handle this.

“No... that’s not it,” you attempt to protest, but your voice sounds weaker than expected.

"Oh, isn't it?!" Hyeju laughs, but it’s far from amused. "Then explain it to me, acclaimed critic. Why her and not me? Because if your excuse is that my series was outdated, then what was that farce with flowers on concrete? An insult to anyone with half a brain!"

The sarcasm drips from her voice, but you’re more focused on the growing pressure. She pulls you even closer, your faces almost touching, and you feel sweat trickling down your temple, your body tensed between panic and a strange exhilaration. She’s in control, and for the first time in a long time, you’re left without solid ground.

She stares at you with a fierce smile. "So, tell me. Why? What did I do wrong? Oh, let me guess: I’m not some rich doll with a perfectly symmetrical face? Is that it? That I'm not the kind of woman you'd want to take out to dinner and then have sex with?"

You try to regain control, because this is throwing you off balance. You let out a forced laugh, trying to project the confidence that slipped away minutes ago. "It has nothing to do with beauty, Hyeju."

"Oh, no?" She yanks your shirt again, and you stumble forward. "Then why did you pick her? Am I less of an artist because I didn’t give you a seductive glance? Speak up, because that’s exactly how it feels!"

Your body leans forward, practically collapsing under her strength, and for a second you feel the power shift. Her anger is almost tangible, like a force you can feel pressing against you. And you… are at her mercy. Your mind races, but every thought is drawn back to the grip of her hands, to the look in her eyes, a fury that threatens to consume her whole.

You make one last attempt. "You want to know the real reason?" Your voice comes out stronger this time, though still tinged with exhaustion. "Fine, I’ll tell you, you wild thing! I saw that damn tweet of yours."

Hyeju pauses, her grip loosening slightly, eyes narrowing. "Tweet...? What tweet?"

You finally exhale, your chest expanding with momentary relief, but the tension remains. "The one you posted years ago. Calling me a narcissist, arrogant, wedding photographer, saying I had no talent. Conveniently on the same day I won a big award. Remember that? Yeah, I saw it. And yes, I knew it was aimed at me."

She falters, surprised. The intensity is still there, but for a second, you see a flicker of doubt in those previously blazing eyes. "That… that was years ago." Her voice is lower now, almost unsure. "I was just a dumb teenager. I didn’t even know your work properly."

You take a step forward this time, the balance of power shifting again. "I don’t care, Hyeju. You think you can say whatever online and, years later, cozy up to me when you need something? Not to mention this sailor-level crudeness of yours, barging into my room trying to intimidate me. You’re a fake artist. And you know what? This is what you deserve. You’ve already lost. And if you don’t leave now, I swear I’ll ruin your career before it even begins."

She hesitates, biting her lip, her eyes darting toward the door. But the anger is still there, bubbling beneath the surface. "Oh, that’s it? You think you scare me?" she mutters, but her tone wavers a bit. “Fine, if that’s how you want to play it, then goodbye. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She turns on her heels and heads toward the door.

You take a deep breath, thinking the worst is over, but then the memory of the photos hits you. You move quickly, locking the door, and Hyeju, surprised, takes a step back.

"Not so fast," you say, your tone laced with a new kind of certainty.

She hasn’t finished with you, but you aren’t done with her, either.

Hyeju raises an eyebrow, suspicious. She crosses her arms and looks at you as if she’s seen it all. The air between you isn’t exactly cold; it’s more like that stifling heat before a storm.

“Look,” you start, adjusting your collar as if that might ease your discomfort. “Maybe we started off on the wrong foot, really wrong. How about we try doing this right? Something positive, something that’s mutually beneficial.”

Hyeju narrows her eyes, unimpressed. “I’m not interested in anything other than you pulling Miyeon from the winners and putting me in her place.”

“I can’t do that. You know that. If I backtrack now, what would be left of my reputation? As a critic, I can’t afford to look... indecisive or, worse, corrupt.”

She laughs, but it’s not a pleasant one. It’s the kind that says you got yourself into this mess. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before deciding to screw me over.”

You swallow, feeling the blow, but you persist. “I... I was immature, Hyeju. Honestly. When I saw that tweet... I don’t know, it hit me in a way I didn’t expect. It was stupid of me to hold onto it and let my bruised ego guide my decision. It wasn’t professional, and I know that.”

Hyeju seems surprised but tries to hide it. Her anger, which was so visibly intense before, seems to give way to an internal conflict.

"So it was all because of a tweet?" She lets out a disbelieving sigh. "A tweet? That was years ago! It was just a quick jab. I was frustrated at the time; nothing was going right in my life. Seeing someone around my age achieving so much… I didn’t really mean those things.”

“I get that. And I should’ve realized it. But I couldn’t. I was childish, let my pride get in the way, and ended up… I made a big mistake. And you didn’t deserve that.”

Hyeju hesitates, the words lingering in the air as she decides whether to forgive you. “And I... I don’t see things that way anymore. I criticized you before really understanding your work. What I said—or rather, tweeted—was shallow. I changed my opinion after, started admiring your work and being inspired by it. If it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t even be here. So... I’m sorry.”

She seems to swallow her words with difficulty, but there’s something genuine in the apology. You see it, and something in you softens.

“I’m sorry too,” you say, your voice lower, less defensive. “For the way I treated you. I could’ve been fair, but I let something petty from the past cloud my judgment. Now, I can’t just undo it all. But I can admit your work is excellent. You deserved more.”

Hyeju turns her face, looking out the window, contemplating her next words.

“Alright... so... what do you suggest?”

You take a step forward, seizing the small opening. “I suggest we do something together. A project, a collaboration. Something that shows your talent, without needing any favoritism, where nobody loses. A chance to prove you’re far more than just a frustrated competitor.”

Hyeju looks at you, her head tilted. She’s processing, considering the offer. “And how do I know you won’t screw me over again?”

You smile, tired but sincere. “Because, honestly, I don’t want to screw you over. I did it once and… frankly, it didn’t do me any good. I want to make things right.”

She shakes her head slowly, as if the idea is taking shape in her mind. “Okay. Okay, fine. But don’t think that makes you a saint. I still think you acted like an ass because of a tweet.”

You laugh, a light laugh, almost relieved. “I was. No doubt about it. A total ass. But one who now wants to make things right.”

Hyeju finally sighs, as if accepting that there’s nothing left to do but move forward. “Alright then. Let’s see where this goes.”

The atmosphere in the room starts to relax. You feel the tension drain away slowly.

“And, just for the record,” she says with a wry grin, “Miyeon’s series? Horrible. A disaster. You need to admit it."

You laugh. “You have no idea the sacrifice. I nearly drowned in metaphors trying to explain to journalists that it was at least acceptable.”

“Acceptable? For that series to be called bad, it still has a long way to go!”

“You’re tough with your critiques—I respect that,” you say. “Now, since there’s no more conflict, how about you be a good girl and delete those photos?” you add with a wink.

You watch as Hyeju reaches into her bag for her phone, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She scrolls through her gallery until she lands on the shots she took of you and Miyeon, that innocent kiss in the restaurant now preserved in pixels. And when she turns the screen toward you, the sight of those images suddenly makes you painfully aware of your own foolishness.

“So, what do you think?” Hyeju teases, her tone laced with the knowledge that she has the upper hand. “Should I take up your collaboration offer, or… let these photos go public? It’d make for a juicy career-ending scandal, wouldn’t you say? The photography prodigy, brought down by a cheap affair.”

You laugh nervously, mostly because that’s what’s expected. Inside, your brain is already calculating the damage. “Alright, alright… Hyeju, let's not act on impulse...”

She shrugs, clearly enjoying your discomfort, then taps the screen and deletes the photos with a theatrical gesture. “Relax. I just wanted to see you sweat a little. Poetic justice, you know?”

You blink, caught off guard, unsure if you should feel relieved or resentful. “You really enjoy playing with fire, don’t you?”

“If you knew me, you’d know I do it all the time.” She slips her phone back into her bag, glancing around the room like she’s already bored. “Guess that’s that. I’ll be going, then.”

Something about her words gnaws at you more than it should. Almost on impulse, you reach out and grab her wrist. “Wait. Stay.”

She looks at you, half wary, half confused. “What are you doing?”

You chuckle softly, as if catching yourself in a slip. “I’d like to talk more with you. About… photography, art, whatever. You seem interesting. Now that there’s no drama, there’s no harm in getting to know each other better, right?”

“I still think you’re a jerk, you know.”

“I can live with that.” You smile—that smile that usually softens people up, the one that says, Yes, I’m a jerk, but a lovable one, right?

She hesitates, her gaze wandering to the mirror across the room. The reflection shows someone who clearly put effort into looking their best: the elegant dress, the perfect hair, all planned for an occasion that now feels like a waste of effort.

“Fine,” she finally replies, with a kind of resigned reluctance. “But only because I’m already here.”

You stand up, victory masked on your face, and head to the mini-fridge. Grabbing two beers, you gesture vaguely toward the bed. “Have a seat. I don’t bite… unless you ask, of course.”

She sits on the edge of the bed, still upright, as if ready to leave at any moment. You open one of the bottles and hand it to her as you sit beside her with your own.

“So,” you begin, taking a sip, “how does a promising photographer and an award-winning jerk end up here after a disastrous evening?”

Hyeju takes a sip, mulling over her answer. “Promising, huh? Look at that, the jerk knows how to recognize talent.”

“I always have,” you shrug, “but sometimes, circumstances… complicate things.”

“Circumstances like… sabotaging me over a grudge and favoring another girl just for a hookup?”

“In my defense she is as beautiful as she is empty, she has a beautiful smile and a lovely laugh… Fuck, you end up liking her…”

“That explains a lot. I knew your choice was questionable, but I didn’t know you had a fetish for wax dolls.”

“Ouch! And impressively accurate.”

Hyeju smirks, a small smile that carries a certain pride. “I’m good with words, as well as photos. Maybe I should consider a career as an art critic?”

“Oh, no, please. We have enough critics as it is. Most of them are bitterer than bad beer.”

She takes another sip, relaxing a bit more. “I don’t have the patience for it. I’d rather be on the other side, creating.”

“I can see it in your photos. They have soul.”

“Trying to impress me?”

“Maybe,” you admit, winking. “Maybe I’m just trying to make up for being a jerk earlier.”

“Keep trying, but it's not like I trust you anyway.”

You feign an offended look, hand dramatically on your chest. “Me? Incredible! Talented! Award-winning! Humble! And you still don’t trust me?”

Hyeju rolls her eyes so hard you almost expect her to get dizzy. “Award-winning? Congratulations on flattering people enough to get awards.”

“First of all, I never flattered anyone to get where I am. And, hey, look who’s talking about flattery,” you retort, taking a sip of beer. “Someone who’s already tried to ruin me with 280 characters and then spent the entire day trying to play nice. What happened to all that digital hostility, sweetheart?”

She leans in a bit, her lips curved into a smile that feels more like a threat. “You want me to be hostile again? Because I can.”

“No hostility,” you respond, smiling with a calm air. “But I’ll admit, I’m enjoying this side of you. Way more interesting than Miyeon.”

“Oh, so you like stressing people out?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. “You know… life would be boring without a good argument.”

She takes another sip of beer, like she’s deciding whether or not to keep going with this. “If it weren’t for the tweet,” she starts, in a casual tone, “would you have hit on me instead of Rich Girl Barbie?”

You chuckle, a little surprised by the directness, but not exactly bothered. “Hard to say. You don’t strike me as the type to fall for my usual charm. It would’ve been a challenge.”

“So right now I'm just a challenge to you?” she fires back.

“Hey, hey,” you raise your hands, grinning. “Not at all. But I admit I like someone who keeps me on my toes. Easy people… honestly, they put me to sleep.”

“So you sleep with Miyeon and literally fall asleep right after?” Hyeju shoots back dryly.

You burst out laughing, unable to help yourself. “Well, that’s pretty much what almost happened.”

Hyeju snickers, one of those laughs she tries to pass off as disbelief, but you catch the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. “You’re pathetic.”

“I know,” you agree cheerfully. “But a charming kind of pathetic, or so they say.”

She shakes her head, smirking. “I don’t know how you can be so cocky and somehow a little likable at the same time.”

“It’s a rare skill,” you reply, leaning back a bit, studying her expressions as if trying to capture every detail. “And you, Hyeju, are very good at being… difficult.”

She meets your gaze, her expression firm. “Difficult? No. I’m just honest.”

“Yes, you say exactly what you think, all the time. And you know what? That’s kind of… refreshing. No one does that.”

“That’s because the world’s full of brown-nosers and idiots,” Hyeju replies, and you realize she genuinely believes that. “I don’t have time for that kind of people. If I think something’s crap, I say it.”

“Like my work,” you say, laughing. “You thought it was crap and tweeted about it.”

She takes a long sip, her eyes never leaving yours. “Exactly. And it wrecked you.”

“Wrecked? Me?” You raise a hand as if making a vow. “I thrive on criticism—it’s my fuel.”

“Didn’t look like it when you ignored me in the exhibition,” she shoots back.

“Maybe,” you admit, smiling. “But, honestly? That tweet was the best backhanded compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

Hyeju tilts her head, intrigued. “And how did you reach that brilliant conclusion?”

“Because you only went after me because you were envious of my accomplishments,” you say, looking straight into her eyes. “And I can assure you, I worked hard to get where I am.”

She pauses, biting her lip as if weighing her thoughts. “Okay, just as I'm honest about offending your work, I'm also honest about stepping back and reconsidering my opinion, so yeah, I admire your art. And maybe a hundred years from now I'll admire you too.”

“Oh, so there’s a chance you’ll change your mind?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe,” she replies, feigning disinterest. “If you stop being a jerk, I might consider it.”

“Now I have a new goal,” you laugh. “Stop being a jerk for Hyeju. That’s a harder project than any photoshoot.”

“Good luck,” she says, raising her bottle in a toast. “You’ll need it.”

The toast feels like a silent pact. A truce between two forces who clearly enjoy challenging each other. And you realize, against all odds, that you’re genuinely enjoying the night.

"You know," you start, leaning in slightly toward her, "that impossible way you have about you... I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like that."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" she asks, crossing her arms like she's expecting another sarcastic remark.

"Good," you reply, serious for a brief second, before breaking the mood with a playful smile. "Good, but unbearable. I think you're getting me addicted to fights."

"It's an addictive drug, this whole 'brutal honesty' thing," she says, tossing her hair back. "But I can’t promise you’ll handle the addiction."

"Now I want to find out," you answer, not missing a beat.

You lean back on the bed a little, looking at Hyeju with a smile that's half-charm, half-tease. She stares right back, clearly unwilling to drop her guard, though the playful gleam in her eyes is undeniable.

"Look," she starts, still holding the empty beer bottle between her fingers, "You said I’m more interesting than Miyeon, but, let's face it, she's perfect. So perfect it's annoying. If she's your type, then I’m definitely not."

You raise an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "Who said she’s my type? And who said you're not?"

She shrugs, as if it’s obvious. "If you like porcelain dolls, I’m definitely in a different category, dude."

"I'm a man of varied tastes," you counter, leaning in a bit. "And honestly? You’re very much my type."

"Oh, sure. I'll pretend to believe that."

You chuckle, but there's something more serious in your voice as you look at her a bit more closely. "I’m serious. You’ve got those eyes... those eyes that are hypnotizing. It’s like you’re a wolf, ready to pounce."

She lets out a low laugh, her skeptical expression barely shifting. "I'll really pretend to believe that."

"No, seriously!" you insist, laughing too, though your voice drops slightly, almost conspiratorial. "When you grabbed me by the shirt earlier, looked me dead in the eyes like that, I swear my heart skipped a beat. Really."

Hyeju looks at you for a moment, then one corner of her mouth curls into a mischievous smile. "You're saying you like dominant girls, is that it?"

"I’d say so, yeah. And I think a woman with enough power could put me in my place. Some people unfortunately only learn the hard way."

She is silent as she places the empty bottle on the nightstand, then she looks at you with an unreadable, yet quite sexy expression. "You make me laugh," she says, her voice a bit softer now, but with that sharp, mocking edge. "And it’s hard for a guy to make me laugh." You feel oddly complimented, but before you can respond, she continues, "But I think it's because you're kinda pathetic.”

"Pathetic, huh?"

She smiles back, eyes locked on yours as she approaches you on the bed. "Yes, pathetic. In a... charming way, as you said.”

You let out a short laugh, lowering your head for a moment before looking back at her. "Well, there’s something pretty sexy about the way you humiliate me. It makes me feel strange things."

"Oh, yeah?" Her tone is teasing, but her eyes study you with an intensity that wasn’t there before. "I make you feel that way, huh?"

You swallow, but keep the smile on your face. "You do. And I need to be honest, I’m enjoying it a lot more than I expected."

"Okay, you really are pathetic."

"Maybe," you answer, looking directly into her eyes. "And I think that's a good thing for a tough girl; you know, she can do whatever she wants with a guy like that." Hyeju stares at you for a moment as if she's deciding what to do next, but instead of saying something, she just smiles subtly. You feel the atmosphere in the room shift again, this time into something more electric, something that makes your heart beat a little faster. "Oh, and maybe," you add, your voice almost a whisper now, "getting under your skin was the smartest thing I did today."

"Smart or suicidal?”

“Well, I’m hoping to find out soon if it was smart or suicidal," you reply as you hand her your bottle so she can put it on the nightstand.

Hyeju, more relaxed now, slips off her heels and, without ceremony, puts her legs across your lap. You can't help but take a good look at her toned thighs before starting to massage her feet, noticing how tense they are. "You know," you start, your voice casual, "you would have been way better company than Miyeon at that restaurant."

“If you’d slept with Miyeon, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

You pause the foot massage for a moment, reflecting, before shrugging. “Maybe. But, honestly? I think I would’ve regretted it. She’s... well, pretty, but she’s like a hardcover book with blank pages."

“So, what? I’m the more interesting option, but clearly the second choice.”

“Second choice? Look, maybe you’re seeing this the wrong way.”

“Oh, yeah? And what’s the right way to see it?” She crosses her arms but keeps her legs on your lap.

You take a dramatic pause, your hand still resting on her thigh. "Well, who knows... maybe the universe got involved in this whole thing just to make sure we’d end up here, now. Maybe Miyeon was just the excuse."

"That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. If that’s the best you can come up with, I think I understand why your art judgment is so... questionable."

You smile, charmed by how easily she can tear you down with a single line. "It might not work for you, but I’m good at adapting to circumstances. And speaking of adapting..." Your hand slides a little further up her leg, an almost innocent move, if not for the way your fingers rest on her soft skin. "I have to admit, you looked absolutely stunning at the exhibition yesterday."

“Oh, yeah? What exactly did you find so stunning?"

"Everything. Your dress, your hair, your perfume, you also look quite cute when you're nervous. It was hard for me to be rude to you… Seriously, I’m sorry for being such a jerk.”

Hyeju laughs, a low, almost gentle sound this time, like she's testing you. “You don’t apologize often, do you?”

“It doesn’t happen a lot,” you admit, feeling a wave of genuine honesty that doesn’t usually come up. "But now I want to apologize as much as necessary for you to forgive me."

She uncrosses her arms, and suddenly, the tension in the air shifts again. "It’s in the past," she murmurs, as if she's more focused on the present than on what happened before.

Then, before you know it, she takes her legs off your lap and leans in closer, your faces so close you can smell her soft perfume. "You know," she says, her tone half-mocking but with a hint of gentleness, "for a jerk, you’re actually pretty cute."

And without warning, her lips touch yours.

The kiss starts almost playfully, a silent dare that Hyeju seems intent on winning. She's dangerously close, her hand on your chest, and you can feel your heart pounding. She smiles between the press of her lips, as if she's reveling in your reaction. You feel the texture of her lips, soft yet firm, a kiss with that unstable tension that only makes things more thrilling. Then Hyeju decides to escalate, her fingers tracing the nape of your neck, and your hand squeezing the soft flesh of her thigh, absorbing that delicious heat. The sexual tension isn't just a spark; it's a full-blown inferno. You feel the heat rising from your lips to your face, to every inch of your skin. You try to hold back, to maintain your composure, because right now she's simply enjoying the game, and you don't want to spoil her pleasure. She pulls away for a moment, long enough for you to think the kiss is over, but it's just a cruel tease, because she's back, and this time the touch is gentler, as if she's toying with you, controlling the intensity with maddening precision. And you're convinced this is the kind of kiss that should be studied, because it's layered with meaning—a subtle provocation, a hint of irritating attraction, and an unexpected honesty that doesn't belong to two people who, just hours ago, could barely stand each other. Hatred transformed into pure desire, and it's in everything—the fine sheen of sweat, the exchanged saliva, the air, in the curious hands... The night is just beginning.

"Did you like it?" Hyeju asks.

You smile, that half-sly, half-entranced grin. “The universe definitely knows what it’s doing,” you reply.

“You’re a scoundrel, you know that?” Hyeju mutters, her voice low, as if she’s talking more to herself.

“Scoundrel? Yeah, a scoundrel with no salvation... unless some girl touches my heart.” You chuckle, that self-deprecating tone that just makes the moment even more fun.

She gives you a light slap on your chest. "Stop trying to be romantic. It doesn’t suit you.”

You laugh, genuinely, and run a hand through her hair, moving down to her shoulder. "Who said I’m trying?"

She looks at you with a mixture of disbelief and... something else. Something warmer. "Maybe you’re more interesting than I thought," she admits, almost reluctantly.

"And you," you say, your voice lowering slightly, “are much more than just interesting.”

Hyeju smiles in a way that can only be described as dangerously charming. Without warning, she moves quickly, and before you understand what’s happening, she’s sitting on top of you. Her weight on your lap is both comfortable and destabilizing, like at that moment, the control of the situation has shifted hands. And clearly, it has.

"Oh, so this is how you want to play?" you ask, trying to keep some control over your own voice.

She tilts her head, her hair falling to the side, that smile still firmly on her lips. "Me? Play? Honey, I already won."

And then she kisses you again, this time with an intensity that catches you off guard, Making you lie on your back in bed. There’s no hesitation, just desire carved into every move, every touch. Her tongue meets yours as if she's marking territory, and the sensation is electrifying. Your hands, as if they have a mind of their own, slide up her thighs, feeling the firmness and softness of her skin, moving up her waist until they reach her back.

She leans in more, her lips now moving to your neck, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. Every kiss feels like a small conquest, as if she’s claiming pieces of you inch by inch.

"You get goosebumps so easily, don't you?" Hyeju murmurs against your skin.

"Not my fault," you reply, your voice rougher than usual. "You know exactly where to touch."

She lets out a low chuckle, her teeth grazing lightly along your skin. "You haven't seen anything yet."

When she kisses you again, it's a mix of desire and absolute control. Her hands cradle your face, her lips moving with precision, and you can't help but think, in the heat of that moment, it's utterly addictive. Your tongues tangle frantically, as if every second holds a newfound urgency.

"I’m going to teach you a lesson," she murmurs between kisses, biting your lip gently. The brief pain only intensifies your longing.

You chuckle low, trying to keep a trace of your mocking personality amid the chaos. "And what kind of lesson would that be?"

She pauses, looking into your eyes with an intensity that almost undoes you on the spot. "The lesson that you can’t underestimate someone like me," she says, her hands sliding down your chest. "Because, in the end, I always win."

You give her a lopsided grin, still trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it's clear you've already lost. "Confident, huh?"

"More than you," she responds with a smirk, resuming her kisses as her hands explore every inch of your body. Your own hands are back on her thighs, moving up, feeling every curve, every line. She moves with a fluidity that can only be described as fierce.

For a moment, you try to catch your breath, but she doesn’t give you room. "You really love having control, don't you?"

Hyeju stops and looks at you, that mischievous smile still on her lips. "And you love losing it. Admit it."

"Maybe I’m learning to like it," you reply, your hand sliding along the curve of her waist.

Hyeju pauses, and slowly pulls away, as if she knows exactly what she’s doing to you, before climbing off your body. With a sly smile, she stands, eyes blazing with mischief.

"Hold on, bad boy, we’re doing this my way." She says, raising her hands to finally remove the dress. The zipper slides smoothly down, and with one firm motion, the fabric falls to the floor, revealing her flawless lingerie. Her body is a living masterpiece, the kind that makes your heart both skip and race.

You watch, mouth slightly open, unable to hide your awe. "Damn… I can't take my eyes off you, you're so fucking perfect, Hyeju," you murmur.

"And you think I don’t know that?" She steps toward you, her eyes locked on yours, stopping just in front of you. "Now take off those clothes. Quickly."

Her voice is firm, almost commanding, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. "Looks like someone’s in charge today, huh?"

"Are you still talking?" she counters with a half-smile, leaning over you. "I thought you’d already figured out who calls the shots here."

You laugh, but comply without argument. You start to take off your shirt and pants quickly, trying to keep your usual charm, though you know she already has the upper hand. When you're down to just your boxers, Hyeju gives you an appraising look from head to toe, releasing a playful sigh.

"Much better," she says, placing a hand on her hip as she assesses you critically, like she’s judging what's in front of her. "But it’s still not quite good enough."

"Care to give me a hand here?" you tease.

Hyeju shakes her head, stepping forward until your bodies are almost touching. “Are you really incapable of doing anything on your own?" she says, her tone cool, but her face still wearing that wicked smile. "Fine, I’ll help you with this."

She gives your chest a light shove, making you lie back on the bed.

Hyeju approaches, her steps slow, almost like a huntress, until she easily straddles you, pressing her body against yours.

She starts kissing you, her lips hot and hungry, and you respond in kind, running your hands along her back, feeling the delicate fabric of her bra. Her kisses travel down your neck, swift and sure, until she begins to explore your chest with her mouth.

"And to think all that anger at Miyeon was really jealousy," you say, laughing between breaths as she moves lower. "Gonna deny that seeing her with me drove you crazy?"

Hyeju pauses, her lips hovering over your abdomen. She meets your gaze with a sharp look, her smile dangerously mischievous. "Crazy? Yes. But don’t get cocky. It drove me crazy for all the wrong reasons."

She continues her trail of kisses along your body, unhurried, as if she knows exactly the impact she's having on you. Her warm lips slide across your skin until she stops just above the line of your boxers.

"Are you really going to make me wait?"

"I love watching you lose control," she murmurs, before trailing her tongue slowly along your stomach. "And it looks like it's already happening."

She places a teasing kiss just above the bulge in your boxers, pressing down lightly with her fingers, and you can’t hold back a low moan. "If you keep this up, I'll have to pay you back," you threaten, but it's clear you have no intention of changing the dynamic.

Hyeju laughs, squeezing a bit more firmly, her eyes never leaving yours. "I love when you try to act tough. It’s actually cute." She plants another kiss over your boxers before lifting her head. "But we both know who’s in charge here."

She leans forward, kissing your chest again, her skilled hands toying with your nipples as your body responds to her every touch.

"You’ll thank me later," she whispers, her mouth descending again to your boxers, eyes locked onto yours. "You can bet on that."

"Or maybe I’ll be the one making you thank me," you retort, trying to keep up appearances, but knowing she’s already winning.

"Nice try," Hyeju says with a wicked grin, her fingers hooking onto the waistband of your boxers. "Now, let’s see if you can last."

She slowly and deliberately pulls down your boxers, revealing your hard cock, completely at her mercy. She releases an exaggerated sigh, her eyes fixed on you, savoring every second of your anticipation.

"Well, look at this," she taunts, tilting her head slightly as she lightly trails her hand along the length. "All this, just for me? What an honor."

You chuckle, trying to keep your cool. "Feel flattered all you want, but I want to see what you're going to do with it."

She smiles, that familiar look of pure mischief flashing across her face, before lowering her head slowly. She stops just as her lips are about to touch the head, hovering mere millimeters away, and looks up at you. "You're going to learn to stay quiet."

And before you can respond with another joke, she wraps her warm, wet lips around the head of your cock, and you let out an involuntary moan. The sensation is instant, and you can barely hold back. Hyeju works with precision, starting slow, just the tip, swirling her tongue in circles that leave you breathless.

"Still feeling cocky?" she teases, pulling away for a moment, a thin line of saliva connecting her lips to your cock. She smirks, wiping the saliva with her finger and licking it off, maintaining eye contact. "Or have you given up on playing tough?" You try to reply, but with the pleasure surging through you, you only manage an incoherent mumble. This only makes her smile grow. "Thought so."

She goes back to sucking, now taking more of you, swallowing most of your length with ease, her eyes never leaving yours. She makes sure to stay in control, adjusting the intensity and speed according to what she wants from you. Every time you moan louder, she slows down, as if testing your limits.

"How are you feeling, baby?" she asks, pulling away briefly to stroke your wet cock. "I know you love it when I make you wait."

"Not gonna lie," you admit, breathless, your mind spinning from the building pleasure. "But... you’ll have to try harder if you want to break me."

"Oh, I’ll break you, don’t worry."

She leans back down, licking along the entire length, slowly, savoring every part of you. "I'll teach you the lesson you deserve."

Her pace begins to increase, the movements faster and more intense, her mouth sliding up and down in an intoxicating rhythm. She takes you all the way, the wet sound and her soft moans filling the room. You feel the heat and pressure building, as though she's drawing the life out of you.

"Getting close, aren’t you?" she asks between licks.

"You... you know it," you admit, barely able to speak.

"Then get ready," she murmurs, focusing on the head, sucking with intensity while her hand moves to cup your balls. "Because I want to watch you lose control."

And you do. The pleasure is overwhelming, your whole body trembling as she keeps sucking, relentless. The way she alternates between licking, sucking, and squeezing your balls pushes you to the edge. You feel the pressure mounting, your body preparing to explode, but she slows down once again, pulling away and chuckling softly.

"You want to come, don't you? But not so fast," she teases, her lips still grazing the tip of your cock. She kisses the head softly, almost like she's rewarding you for holding out this long. "I'm going to end up killing you with all this teasing, you know that?" She laughs, resuming with a slower, yet equally devastating rhythm.

Each time she takes back control, the intensity climbs gradually, until you're at a point where your mind can barely keep up. Her mouth doesn’t stop, her eyes fixed on you, as if savoring the power she has in her hands—or rather, in her mouth.

Hyeju intensifies her movements, her mouth sliding over your cock with a practiced ease, not letting up. The way she switches between firm suction and long licks is unbearably good, and you feel the pleasure building up to explosive levels.

She watches you from below, a sharp gaze that knows exactly what it’s doing. "I can feel you shaking. You’re almost there, aren’t you?"

"Fuck... yeah, almost," you moan, your body arching involuntarily as pleasure reaches a peak that feels impossible to contain.

She smiles, clearly reveling in the control she has over you. "I know you can’t hold out much longer. But you’re only going to come when I let you. Got it?"

"Got it..." you manage to reply, your voice breaking as your breathing grows heavier. Each second feels like an eternity, your body begging for release, but she keeps dictating the pace, keeping you on the edge.

She leans down again, sucking harder, as one hand wraps around the base of your cock, gripping and controlling every movement. Her other hand caresses your balls, squeezing lightly, pushing you even closer to the edge.

"You’re going to come so hard for me," Hyeju murmurs, pulling your cock from her mouth for a moment. "But only when I want you to. I want to feel that power I have over you."

"You already have all the power," you groan, practically pleading. "Please..."

"That's how I like it," she says with a satisfied smile, going back to sucking, as if she wants to consume you entirely. "Now, get ready. When I give the order, you’re going to give me everything you've got."

She picks up the pace, sucking with devotion, her wet, firm lips around you, each second bringing you closer to the edge. Her eyes never leave yours, as if she's feeding off your expression of pure desperation and ecstasy.

"Are you ready?" she asks, her voice low and commanding. You can only moan in response, already incapable of forming words.

"I want you to come for me... now!"

Her words are the final trigger. The control you’ve been struggling to maintain shatters completely. Pleasure overwhelms you, and you let out a loud moan, your whole body convulsing as the first wave of orgasm crashes over you. Hyeju doesn’t let up, continuing to suck with the same intensity, taking each spurt of cum with a blend of satisfaction and triumph.

"Yes... give me everything," she murmurs between movements, her voice muffled as she keeps sucking, swallowing every drop without hesitation, as if she's feeding off you. "Good boy... I knew you’d give me everything I wanted."

Your whole body trembles as she continues, pushing you beyond your limits, until pleasure melds with exhaustion. Hyeju finally pulls her mouth away, slowly licking her lips to clean off the last traces of your cum.

"Wow..." you gasp, unable to keep from smiling, your mind still reeling. "If that wasn't a perfect blowjob, I don’t know what is."

Hyeju laughs, satisfied, leaning over you, her body warm against yours. "I warned you I’d knock you out, didn’t I?"

You nod, still catching your breath. "I underestimated you. But now... I’m completely convinced."

Her lips find yours with renewed heat, the slight salty taste of your cum mingling in the kiss. She explores your mouth with an almost animalistic hunger, her body pressed against yours as your hands trace her back, sliding down to her hips.

You feel yourself respond again, your erection returning quickly under her touch, as if your body has been trained to react to the slightest stimulus from Hyeju. She notices instantly and smiles against your mouth, breaking the kiss to gently bite your lower lip, then sliding her tongue to your earlobe, nibbling it lightly.

"Is your dick getting hard again already?" she whispers, her breath hot against your ear. "But I barely let you rest."

You let out a sigh, somewhere between a smile and a moan, feeling the pressure in your cock build as she moves slowly over you. "You leave me no choice. With you, resting is impossible."

She chuckles softly, giving your earlobe another bite before pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, her smile full of mischief. "That’s how I like it, baby."

As you try to catch your breath, your mind still spinning, a thought crosses your mind, and you let out a low, teasing giggle. "You know, Miyeon would never swallow like you did... Not even if I paid her."

Hyeju raises an eyebrow, her smile turning into something more disdainful. "Miyeon?" She laughs, throwing her head back for a moment. "That little porcelain princess? Please... Not only would she never swallow, she’d never let you come on her perfect little face."

"Yeah, she’d probably have a meltdown just thinking about the mess," you respond, laughing along.

"Exactly," Hyeju says, bringing her face close to yours again, her lips almost brushing yours. "And do you think she could survive a second with me? I’d destroy the princess."

She kisses you, more intensely this time, as if to drive her point home. Her tongue plays with yours, and you taste a mixture of challenge and possessiveness that only she can convey. As the kiss deepens, Hyeju's hand slides slowly down to your erection, which is fully hard again. She strokes your cock with a skilled touch, but without rushing things.

You let out a sigh, breathless, feeling your body respond more and more to her touch. "And I won’t even lie... Cumming on your face would be way more fun."

Her body presses a little harder against yours, and you feel the rising heat between her thighs as the friction makes you throb even harder.

"You talk about cumming on my face like it's the ultimate goal," Hyeju murmurs against your mouth, while her hand continues working your cock, her fingers gripping lightly. "But you haven’t even started to discover what I can do to you."

You moan softly, your body reacting automatically to her touch. "Oh, I’ve seen enough. And what I’ve seen... has already driven me crazy."

She smiles, biting your lip lightly once again. "Then it's time to show you more, don't you think?"

Before you have the chance to respond, Hyeju lets go of your erection and pulls back just enough to slide her hands down to her panties. With a swift motion, she pulls the fabric to the side, revealing her wet pussy, and just the sight makes you harder than you thought possible.

She positions herself over you, her panties still pushed to the side, and without hesitation, she lowers herself until the head of your cock touches her lips. Her heat and wetness are almost overwhelming, and you bite your lip to keep from moaning. Hyeju looks into your eyes, that expression of pure control on her face, as she starts to sink down slowly, taking you in inch by inch.

"Ah... fuck," you gasp, unable to hold back. Her tightness is intense, her warmth making your head spin, and the way she moves down slowly, with total control, only heightens the torment.

Hyeju bites her own lip, letting out a quiet moan as she feels you fill her. "Feels good, doesn’t it? Damn, you got my pussy so wet..."

She begins moving slowly, riding with a steady, confident rhythm, her hips undulating as she dictates the pace. The wet sound of her body meeting yours is intoxicating, and you feel your hands instinctively gripping her waist, trying to keep up, but Hyeju doesn’t allow it.

"Oh no," she says in an authoritative tone, stopping her movement and placing her hands over yours, pushing them away from her waist. "I told you I’m the one in control here. Don’t even think about rushing me."

You obey, smiling with a mix of submission and provocation. "Yes, ma'am. Who am I to argue?"

She smiles back, satisfied with your surrender. "Good boy."

She resumes her movement, gradually increasing her speed, her body sliding over you with devastating precision. Each time she sinks down, you feel her tightness intensify, her whole body vibrating with pleasure as she controls every rise and fall. The sight of her bare breasts only heightens the eroticism and anticipation.

"This... has nothing to do with Miyeon," Hyeju says, her voice slightly breathless, but still with that commanding tone. "She’d never be able to leave you like this... completely at her mercy. You know that, right?"

"You’re right," you admit. "Only you can do this to me, Hyeju.”

She smiles again, her ego swelling with your confession, and begins to ride you harder, the rhythm now faster, the movements more intense. The sound of bodies colliding fills the room, Hyeju’s moans growing louder, but she never loses control.

“That’s it, go on… feel how much you’re mine,” she murmurs, eyes closed as she sinks into the sensation, yet never relinquishing command. “Mmm, your cock goes so deep in my pussy, fuck!”

Hyeju speeds up her rhythm, her body rising and falling over you with a near-cruel precision, each movement keeping you on the edge of pleasure, but still far from release.

Suddenly, she pauses for a moment, her hips pressed firmly against yours, and with calculated calm, she reaches up to her bra strap. Her gaze locks onto yours, a challenging smile forming at the corner of her mouth. She slides the straps off her shoulders and, with a slow motion, unclasps the back. The bra falls away, revealing the breasts you’d been dying to see uncovered.

She holds them briefly, squeezing them lightly, fingers teasing her own nipples before letting out a low, provocative laugh. “Do you like them, baby?” she asks. “I know you can’t take your eyes off my tits.”

You feel your breath catch, the sight of her bare breasts swaying slightly as she keeps you trapped beneath her, mesmerizing. “Well… as a photographer I'm always observing things, and I appreciate natural beauty, if you know what I mean..”

She resumes riding you, now with a more deliberate rhythm, her free breasts moving with the sway of her hips, and you can’t look away. The pleasure builds slowly, but she knows exactly how to keep you on the brink, never letting you fall into the abyss.

It’s delicious torture.

“Go on, say it,” she whispers, eyes locked on yours. “Admit you love watching them bounce while I use you. Tell me how much you love being my toy.”

You moan in response, your whole body arching with the rising pleasure, still holding back as best you can. “Damn… I love it. You know I do.”

She smiles, satisfied, riding with more intensity now, her movements faster, her hips slamming into you with force. Her breasts bounce with every thrust, the sight driving you to the edge of desperation. She leans back slightly, planting her hands on your knees, her body displayed in all its glory, moving with complete dominance.

“That’s what I like to hear,” she murmurs, her voice breathless yet filled with authority.

You bite your lip, trying to stifle the moans threatening to escape, the pleasure building slowly but still just out of reach.

Then, she slows down, her movements becoming a tease, provoking you. With an expression of pure authority, she leans forward, her breasts swaying lightly, almost brushing your face. She grabs your chin with one hand and looks directly into your eyes.

“Suck them,” she commands, her voice low and commanding. “I want to feel your mouth on my breasts.”

No further invitation is needed. Without hesitation, you raise your head and bring your lips to her breast, capturing her nipple and sucking devotedly. The soft taste of her skin and the sensation of her so close make you even harder, if that were possible. Hyeju lets out a low moan of satisfaction as you comply, her fingers tangling in your hair, guiding your head firmly.

“Yes… just like that,” she murmurs, her tone filled with pleasure. “I knew you’d be good at this. Go on, suck harder!”

You suck on her breast with more intensity, your tongue teasing her hardened nipple, while your other hand slides up to her other breast, gently squeezing it. Hyeju’s body responds immediately, and she moans louder, pressing her breasts against your mouth as if she wants to be devoured.

“You love this, don’t you?” she whispers, her breath ragged. “You love when I tell you what to do… when I put you in your place. You love being your mistress's toy!”

You only moan in response, unwilling to release her breast, sucking with even more fervor as your hands explore her body. Hyeju laughs, pleased with your dedication, her fingers tugging at your hair as her body starts moving over your cock again, now slower but still tight enough to make you see stars.

“Yes! Keep going… don’t stop,” she orders, moaning as she moves with a calculated rhythm, her breasts still firmly caught in your mouth. “I want to feel your mouth on me while I use you.”

You feel her body tremble slightly as she rides you, and you can’t help but let out a muffled moan, your mouth full of her breast. The pleasure is overwhelming, but you know Hyeju is still in charge, and you have no choice but to follow her lead.

Hyeju keeps riding you with absurd precision, each movement designed to bring you closer to the edge, yet still far enough that she maintains absolute control. Her breathing is heavier now, but the superior smile never leaves her face.

“You know you’re mine, right?” she says, biting her lip as she speeds up her thrusts. “My toy. My slave. There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for me.”

You smile back, breathless, but with that cocky look she seems to adore. “Oh, you know, Hyeju. I’d do anything you want. I don’t have a choice, not with you like this.”

She lets out a low, wicked laugh, her hips moving almost mechanically, each thrust driving you deeper, more tightly into the grip she has on you. “Of course you don’t have a choice. Because you love being used. You love when I command. When I make a fool out of you with just a look.”

You groan in response, your hands slipping along her waist, trying to keep up, but she immediately slaps them away, stopping for a second.

“No! I’m the one who moves,” she says, with that authoritative tone that makes you shiver.

You try to hold back, savoring each second of this delicious torture, but Hyeju doesn’t let you settle in for long. Suddenly, she stops moving and lets out a satisfied moan as she leans back, supporting her hands on your knees. Her body, still enveloping you, glistens with a thin layer of sweat, and the sight alone could drive anyone insane.

"Now, I want something different," she murmurs, her eyes narrowing with an idea that already seems to put you in danger. "I’m going to show you what it’s like when I really take control."

She lifts herself slowly, letting out a sigh as your cock slides out of her, and then, without warning, she turns her back to you. Her hair falls over her shoulders as she positions herself again, this time facing away, and in one smooth motion, she lowers herself down, taking you in completely.

"Oh... fuck! I love the tightness of your pussy," you groan aloud, the sight of her back, her hips swaying as she wraps around you again, the kind of torture you’d love to endure far longer than you can manage.

She begins to ride you backwards, the pace fast and relentless, and you find yourself at the mercy of her precise movements. Each time she descends, the grip of her pussy around you feels tighter, more suffocating. The sound of bodies colliding fills the room, and Hyeju lets out moans of pleasure, but you know she’s still in control, even as she’s barely holding it together.

"Now... you’re going to watch," she says, her voice breathy but full of authority. "I’m going to do whatever I want... and you'll just keep lying like this, holding on, like the good boy you are."

You try to grip her buttocks, but Hyeju won’t allow it, pushing your hands away again with a smack, harder this time. "No! I already told you... I'm the only one who can move here."

She speeds up, riding you with force and precision, and you feel on the brink of collapse, pleasure reaching an almost unbearable level. "Damn, Hyeju... you’re going to kill me like this."

She laughs aloud, glancing over her shoulder with that smug smile. "Kill you? I haven’t even started. You’re going to beg for more before I’m done."

Her hips start moving more violently, the wet sound of her body slamming against yours filling the space. The sight of her, those perfect hips, the way she rides with mastery—all of it is a reminder of how completely she dominates you. Hyeju leans slightly forward, bracing her hands on your thighs to gain more balance, and starts dictating the rhythm with unyielding strength, and you get lost in the sight of her pussy going in and out of your cock.

"Tell me, you scoundrel," she says between moans, "do you like being like this? Completely submissive? Seeing that I do whatever I want with you?"

"You know I love it," you respond with difficulty, the moans mixing with your words. "There’s nothing better than being your toy."

She smiles, satisfied, and speeds up even more, the pace now frantic. "That’s how I like it... you adoring me, serving me…" Suddenly, she pauses for a moment, and you can barely breathe from the accumulated desire. Hyeju looks over her shoulder, a mischievous smile on her face. "Now, smack my ass," she commands, her voice full of command. "I want to see if you have the guts to give me what I deserve."

Hyeju moans loudly when the sound of the first smack reverberates through the room, the shock spreading warmth through her body that seems to fuel her. She doesn’t slow down; on the contrary, with each thrust, she presses her hips harder against you, riding even harder as if the smacks were the spark missing to ignite something primal in her.

"Yes!" she shouts, eyes closed in pure pleasure. "More! Don’t stop!"

You obey, your hand finding the soft skin of her ass with a crack. The second smack is even stronger, making her whole body shake, but Hyeju only laughs through her moans, grinding on you, her hips rolling with a mastery that drives you to the brink of insanity.

"Fuck, that’s what I want!" Hyeju demands, looking over her shoulder with a smile that mixes pleasure and challenge. "Hit me harder, don’t hold back. You like seeing my ass marked, don’t you? Go on, hit harder!"

You smirk. "Begging, Hyeju? I thought you were the one in control."

"I’m the one who calls the shots here. And I’m telling you to hit harder!" Her voice is a mix of command and desire, her body moving with an intensity that makes you tremble with pleasure.

Your hand comes down with force again, the smack echoing even louder this time. Hyeju arches her back, moaning so deeply it seems she’s losing herself in her own domination. Her ass jiggles with the impact, but she keeps riding, the sound of bodies colliding louder than ever.

"Go, don’t stop!" she shouts, moving her hips like a machine, not missing a beat for a second. "I want to feel your cock and your hands at the same time! Make me feel like I’m your owner... because I am!"

You don’t hesitate, your hand striking her ass again and again, the sound of smacks mixing with Hyeju’s desperate moans. She doesn’t stop riding; every hit on her skin makes her moan louder, her breathing ragged and movements almost frenzied now. She’s in complete control, even while begging for more.

"More! It’s not enough!" she shouts, her body shaking wildly, hair flying as she rides you like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do. "Hit me until I can’t take anymore!"

You feel her body trembling around yours; each smack you deliver seems to bring her closer to an insane climax, but she doesn’t slow down. On the contrary, she grips you with an intensity that makes your head spin, the wet sounds of her pussy, the smacks and bodies colliding all you can hear.

"You’re going crazy, aren’t you?" Hyeju taunts between moans, her breath labored but her voice still firm. "I can see it on your face… Mmm, it turns me on so much that you obey me without hesitation, you're so fucking pathetic.”

"Yeah! I’d do anything for you, Hyeju."

She laughs, her satisfaction evident on her face. "I know you would. And you will. Right now."

Suddenly, Hyeju stops riding and quickly gets up, pulling your cock out of her. The emptiness is immediate and almost unbearable, but before you can protest, she turns, facing you, and deftly removes her panties and tosses them aside; without wasting any time, she climbs onto your chest, her knees braced at your sides, with that look of pure authority. Her gaze drops to your face, and you know exactly what comes next.

Hyeju doesn’t even need to speak.

"Open that fucking mouth and do as I say,” she commands, looking directly into your eyes.

She slowly lowers herself, her pulsing pussy hovering over your face, and you obey without hesitation. Your mouth finds her center of pleasure, your tongue sliding between the warm lips as you suck and lick with devotion, her taste filling your senses. Hyeju’s body trembles at the first touch, but she remains in control, pressing her hips down to force you to lick deeper.

"Ah, that... that’s how I like it," Hyeju moans, her voice filled with pleasure. "Don’t stop..."

You move your tongue with precision, exploring every part of her juicy pussy, sucking harder as your hands reach up to grab her ass, squeezing it as if it were your anchor. Hyeju moans louder, her body moving to the rhythm she dictates, grinding against your face, her moans now uninhibited.

"That’s it... keep going... Faster!" she cries, her fingers tangling in your hair, pulling your head against her as she writhes in pleasure. "You love doing this, don’t you? Say it... say you love the taste of your owner."

You try to respond, but the words get lost as you lick more intensely, your mouth fully occupied in fulfilling her every command. Hyeju laughs, pleased with your dedication, but doesn’t let up the pressure. She moves up and down on your face, grinding herself harder each time, as her body nears its climax.

"Ah, fuck... you’re perfect," she moans, breathless, her whole body trembling. "I’m going to cum... and you’re going to swallow every drop of my juice, got it? You’re going to savor your owner like never before."

You can only groan in response, your mouth trapped in the frenzy of her body. Hyeju begins to move faster, her moans becoming almost screams, her hands still gripping your hair tightly as her body trembles above you.

“Oh, fuck, I'm gonna cum! I'm gonna cum in your mouth! That's it! Suck my pussy, don't stop!”

She’s completely out of control, her moans filling the room as she cums in your mouth with an intensity you’ve never seen before.

"That’s it... swallow it all… fuck!" Hyeju screams, her body shaking with spasms. "Taste your owner... every drop!"

You do exactly what she wants, drinking her juice, sucking every part of her as Hyeju comes down from her climax, her movements finally slowing The taste of her pussy fills your mouth, along with the smell in your nose, and you can’t help but feel satisfaction from having brought her to this point.

Hyeju collapses beside you on the bed, her chest rising and falling quickly as she tries to catch her breath. But the smile on her face is one of pure satisfaction. Without a word, she leans over, her gaze fixed on yours, and in a slow, deliberate motion, kisses you deeply, her tongue finding yours, tasting herself in your mouth.

"Mmm... so good," Hyeju murmurs against your lips, chuckling. "That's my taste you're savoring... and I want you to never forget it. Every time you serve me, it’ll be like this... I'll reward you."

She lightly bites your lower lip, her gaze gleaming with pure mischief but also a hidden tenderness behind her control. "You did so fucking well, but there's still more. I can't get enough of using you. Now, tell me... how did it feel? I want to hear."

You take a deep breath, still recovering. "It was... damn, it was like I was in heaven and hell at the same time. And I’d do it all over again, just to see you like that."

Hyeju smiles, her gaze satisfied and possessive. "I know you would. Because you know I’m everything you need." She pauses for a moment, eyes locked on yours, before adding with a devilish smile, "If I let you, you'd spend the rest of the night licking my pussy. Confess."

Your breathing gets heavy, your fingers sliding down her back, and you can't help but respond. "Fuck, Hyeju, I'd do it all day if you wanted."

"I know you would. And that’s exactly what’s going to happen now."

She starts to move, positioning herself over you, and suddenly, you understand exactly what she wants. Hyeju lifts one leg, turning her body to face away from you, getting on her knees over your head again, but this time she leans forward, her hands already reaching for your still-hard cock. You feel her warm breath close, desire building in the air around you.

"Time for 69, baby," she murmurs, her voice both sweet and commanding. "I’m going to use you again... and you’re going to worship me like I deserve."

Without waiting for a response, Hyeju lowers her hips, pressing her pussy directly against your mouth once more, her scent consuming you. At the same time, she grips your cock with one hand, not hesitating to slide her mouth over it, sucking with that same devotion you felt before. But now, the rhythm is different—more controlled, slower, as if she’s savoring every second.

"Ah, yes... so good," she moans between sucks, her words muffled by your cock in her mouth. "You love it when I suck, don’t you? Say it!"

You try to speak, but your mouth is occupied, licking and sucking her pussy like your life depends on it. Each movement of your tongue seems to make her body tremble, and Hyeju responds by riding your face with more intensity, while her mouth moves slowly down your cock, deeper each time, reaching her throat.

She pauses for a moment, pulling your cock out of her mouth just to speak, her voice breathless. "Fuck, you're so delicious. I’ll never get tired of doing this to you... never."

Hyeju returns to sucking with more intensity, her tongue swirling around the tip, her moans blending with the wet sounds of the blowjob as you keep licking her pussy. Her legs tremble around your head, her body tensing with pleasure, but she doesn’t stop for a second. Even in the midst of an imminent climax, she keeps control, her moans getting louder but never losing that authoritative tone.

"Yes... make me come again, damn it!" Hyeju demands, her voice full of lust. "I want to feel your tongue inside me, until I come in your mouth again."

You obey, moving your tongue with more precision, sucking harder as Hyeju shivers above you. She resumes devouring your cock, sucking with an insane devotion, every movement of her mouth bringing you closer to your own climax. But you know the focus right now is her—Hyeju is in control, and she’ll make sure you know that until the last second.

Hyeju begins to lose control as the rhythm between you intensifies. The heat of her wet pussy pulses against your face, her skin growing hotter as her movements become more desperate, almost frenzied. The pleasure you give her with your tongue pushes her to a point where all her dominance blends with raw vulnerability, visible in the increasingly hoarse moans she lets out.

"Ah... fuck... yes..." Hyeju moans, her voice almost breaking as she keeps grinding against you, her legs trembling around your head. She tries to maintain control, to hold onto her dominance, but you sense that she’s on the verge of completely losing herself in the pleasure you’re giving her. "Don’t... don’t stop... make me come aga—oh fuck!"

Your tongue works with precision, every lick and suck sending Hyeju deeper into this spiral of ecstasy. She tries to keep sucking you, but her movements become uncoordinated, as if the pleasure is stripping away her ability to focus on anything but what she's feeling. Even so, she still tries, her warm mouth wrapping around your cock as her hands attempt to maintain rhythm, though it's clear she’s being overtaken by sensation.

"Ah... fuck... you... you drive me crazy..." Hyeju murmurs, her breath ragged, her moans growing louder as the pressure of her hips against your face increases. "I... I can’t... ahhh...!"

Hyeju starts grinding uncontrollably against your tongue, her movements erratic as pleasure consumes her. She tries to speak, but the words get lost in louder and louder moans, her body trembling uncontrollably. Her mouth barely manages to stay on your cock, the rhythm completely broken, with muffled moans escaping with each attempt at a suck.

"I... fuck, I’m going to come again..." she cries out, her voice loud and hoarse, almost desperate. "Don’t... don’t stop! I’m going... I’m going to come in your mouth again!"

Hyeju leans forward more, her legs trembling around your head, her body on the brink of collapsing under the weight of pleasure. You feel the exact moment when she loses all control. Hyeju’s body arches violently, her muscles contracting with incredible force, and she lets out a scream that echoes through the room as the orgasm tears through her with almost brutal intensity.

"Ahhh... fuck, fuck, fuck!" Hyeju screams, her head thrown back as her hands grip the sheets tightly. Her pussy pulses against your mouth, and you taste the hot rush of her climax on your tongue once again. Hyeju grinds uncontrollably against your face, moaning loudly as pleasure fully overtakes her.

"That’s it... swallow it all... feel me..." Hyeju commands, even as her body trembles uncontrollably. "I... I want to feel you devouring me... I need more... ahh, more!"

Her moans become almost incoherent, and you feel each shudder running through her body as she continues to come intensely, fully giving herself to the sensation. The pressure of her thighs around your head is almost suffocating, but the sound of Hyeju’s screams of pleasure, combined with her desperate movements, makes it all worth it.

She tries to stay steady, but her body gives in to the pleasure and collapses onto you, her hips still lightly moving as the aftershocks of her climax ripple through her skin. Hyeju’s mouth lets go of your cock, now forgotten as she struggles to regain control over herself.

"Fuck... that was..." Hyeju can barely form words between gasps, moans still escaping involuntarily. She leans back, slowly lifting her pussy off your mouth, her muscles still quivering, but a satisfied smile on her face.

You're breathing heavily, lungs burning as you catch your breath. Her taste still lingers on your tongue, and the memory of those last moments is seared into your mind. You take a deep breath, relieved yet wishing it hadn’t ended. The intensity of her pressure, combined with the thrill of nearly suffocating while making her climax, has left you in a nearly unbearable state of excitement.

"Wow, Hyeju... I almost came just from feeling you like that," you say with a raspy laugh, your voice still broken by the lack of air.

Hyeju, still recovering, turns to you. "Oh yeah? You almost came, did you?" She chuckles softly, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Maybe you like seeing me like this, huh? Losing control because of you."

She leans closer, hand brushing your jaw as her lips near yours, giving you a soft kiss. "But... you haven't come yet, and I'm not done playing with you."

Hyeju slowly stands, giving you a perfect view of her body, her skin glistening with sweat. You notice her gaze fixed on your hard cock, and the way she bites her lip makes it clear she already has something in mind.

"Stand up," she commands, and you obey without hesitation, feeling the anticipation build in your chest.

Hyeju turns her back to you, her perfect ass arched and inviting. Her body presses against yours in a way that’s almost suffocatingly delicious. Your hands naturally find her breasts, and you grab them firmly, feeling their weight and softness as your fingers brush her hard nipples.

"Now... pay attention, because I'm going to make you beg," Hyeju whispers, tilting her head back, the lobe of her ear brushing lightly against your lips. She slides a hand down, guiding your cock between her thighs, squeezing it between the soft, sweaty flesh. The heat of her body and the pressure of her tanned thighs make you let out an involuntary moan.

"Damn... this feels so good," you murmur, your voice coming out lower than expected, as the wet heat of her thighs envelops your cock. Every little movement she makes, slowly grinding, is a slow but delicious torture.

Hyeju starts to tease with small hip movements as she tightens you between her legs. "I know," she replies, her tone almost arrogant. "I know exactly what you like. You're trembling. Is it from wanting me so much? From being desperate to come." She squeezes more, and you moan again, feeling the pressure build as she continues to tease. "You're going to come on my thighs... and you're going to love it," Hyeju continues, moving her body with a precision that makes you see stars. Every muscle contraction around your cock brings you closer to losing control, but she doesn’t let you relax. Every time you get too close, she slows down, chuckling softly as she keeps torturing you with her body.

Your fingers tighten around her breasts, and you lean forward to kiss Hyeju’s neck, gently biting the sweaty skin, then licking; licks that melt Hyeju, tilting her neck to the side so you have full access to her delicate skin, to worship her as she deserves… All this while the feeling of being trapped between her thighs pushes you closer to madness. "Hyeju, I’ll come if you keep this up... it’s too much."

She lets out a low, teasing laugh, the sound echoing in your mind. "That's exactly what I want! I want all your load on my thighs!" She picks up the pace, her hips circling in small, precise movements.

You moan louder, starting to grind your hips frantically, pushing your cock between her thighs, brushing against Hyeju's wet pussy with a desperate fervor. The friction is maddening, each motion pulling a moan from you that echoes through the room.

"Fuck, Hyeju... I... I'm gonna come..." you murmur, words broken by pleasure as your hands slide from her breats to her hips, gripping her tightly as you rub faster, your swollen cock pressing against the lips of her pussy, each pulsating heat of contact pushing you over the edge.

"Go ahead, baby... show me how much you want me," she responds, her voice sweet yet with that underlying malice, almost daring you to lose control entirely. "Come for me... I want to feel how much you adore me."

Your body completely loses control. With each erratic thrust between her sweaty, tight thighs, you feel the pressure build to an unbearable level. Every frantic movement of your hips pulls another moan from you, a clear sign that you're teetering on the brink of no return. The soft, slippery friction of her thighs gripping your cock tightly.

"Yes, baby... I want to feel it all," Hyeju whispers with that malice, grinding relentlessly. The heat radiating from her makes your head spin. And she's loving every second of it. "I want to feel you explode. Come for me."

You moan, voice thick with desire and desperation. The rhythm of your thrusts becomes uncoordinated, desperate, as if your body has completely lost the ability to keep any cadence.

Your cock presses deeper between her thighs, sliding against the wetness already mingling with precum. Each time you feel her pussy getting closer, the pulsing heat makes you moan louder. Hyeju's pace remains relentless, her movements precise as she revels in your desperation.

“I want to feel every drop of your hot load dripping down my thighs." She tilts her head back, laughing as she senses the power she has over you, and it only heightens your urgency.

You lose the last bit of self-control. With a final thrust, your cock presses harder between Hyeju’s thighs, nearly slipping into her pussy.

"Oh, fuck Hyeju! I'm... I'm cumming!" you shout, voice overtaken by pure pleasure. The climax hits you like a violent wave, and you let out a deep moan, your whole body tensing. The orgasm slams through you with brutal force, and your hands clutch Hyeju's body tightly, holding her desperately as your cock pulses between her thighs.

Hyeju lets out a satisfied moan, squeezing her thighs around you as she feels the hot cum spill, running down her legs. "Yes... just like that, baby. Come for me. Give me everything." Her voice is low, almost a whisper, but full of control as she keeps grinding slowly, prolonging your orgasm.

You're in bliss, every fiber of your body vibrating with pleasure that feels unending. The stream of cum drips down Hyeju’s thighs, and you feel the hot wetness sliding down her sweaty skin. Your hands grip her even tighter, as if trying to anchor yourself as your world spins with overwhelming pleasure.

"Oh, baby... I can’t take anymore... My cock is so fucking sensitive," you groan, barely able to form coherent sentences as her body continues to drain you completely.

Hyeju laughs softly, pleased with the state she's left you in. "I told you I wanted every drop, didn’t I?" She squeezes her thighs one last time, pulling the last shivers from your body. "You came so hard for me baby, good job! You are such a good boy…" You let out an exhausted moan, body still trembling as the final wave of pleasure courses through you. Hyeju, satisfied, smiles and turns around. "You're done... but you liked it, didn’t you? Tell me, baby."

"Yes... yes. I loved it... you destroyed me," you reply, voice still shaking.

Hyeju leans in to give you a deep, warm kiss. Her lips press against yours with a mix of sweetness and possessiveness, as if sealing what just happened.

"I loved putting you in your place," she whispers, her thumb stroking the corner of your mouth, wiping away a bit of saliva. "Seeing you lose control like that… there’s nothing better."

You smile, still panting, your head spinning with exhaustion and pleasure. "Damn, I loved that lesson... I don’t think I’ve ever felt so good being put in my place."

She raises an eyebrow, amused, and lightly drags her nails down your back, sending a shiver that makes you flinch slightly. "Good to know you’ve learned. And the next time I'm pissed... well, I know where I'll take it out."

"Anytime you want. If you need someone to take it out on... I’m available."

Hyeju laughs, pleased with your response, and gives you another kiss. "Oh, baby, you're easy to break... and I love that.”

You're leaning against the window, taking a drag from your cigarette, watching the city below as the buildings flicker their lights like they’re laughing at your somewhat… peculiar life. The room is wrapped in a cozy dimness, and the sound of the shower turning off fills the quiet. Then, Hyeju steps out of the bathroom, wearing one of your shirts that looks more like a dress on her. You admire her as she approaches, hair still damp, her skin glowing from the hot water. She stops halfway and raises an eyebrow.

“What are you staring at?” she asks, her voice thick with exhaustion as she dries her hair with a towel.

“I’m just… happy I managed to convince you to stay,” you reply.

“Oh, really? You think you convinced me? I only stayed because I’m dead tired. Going home right now would be asking to pass out on the subway.”

She steps closer, takes the cigarette from your hand without asking, takes a long drag, and then hands it back, heading back to toss the towel in the bathroom. “And don’t think this is going to become a habit. This sleeping-together thing… it’s a one-time deal.”

“Of course, of course,” you respond, stubbing out the cigarette and moving towards the bed. “Just this once, I promise.”

She turns off the bathroom light and shuts the door, leaving the room partially dark, and as she fluffs up the pillows, you let out: “Since it’s just this once, would it be okay if I… lay on your chest?”

She looks over at you with a mix of disbelief and sarcasm. “You’re asking to use my chest as a pillow? Are you serious?”

“Completely,” you answer, lying down beside her. “They’re way softer than any pillow. A once-in-a-lifetime chance, as you said.”

“Fine, go ahead. But only because it’s the first and last time,” she accepts as she throws herself on the bed, feeling the weight of tiredness.

You cheer and kiss her cheek before turning off the lamp. With a contented sigh, you lie down next to Hyeju and rest your head on her chest, feeling a warmth and softness that puts any five-star hotel pillow to shame.

“Mmm, you’re very comfortable,” you murmur, pulling the blanket over both of you.

“Oh, shut up,” she mumbles, her hand already moving to your hair, giving you a clumsy head scratch, as though she might stop at any moment, but unable to help herself.

“That’s nice; don’t stop,” you whisper, eyes closed.

“Say it one more time, and I’ll stop,” she replies, but the scratching continues.

A pleasant silence settles over you both until, after a few minutes, Hyeju breaks the moment, suddenly asking:

“You know something?” she begins, her voice softer than before. “My chest is definitely better than Miyeon’s for sleeping, right? Just compare the sizes.”

You chuckle softly, head still buried against her. “Absolutely. No contest.”

She smiles, satisfied, letting out a small sigh of triumph. “I knew it.”

“And let me say,” you start, your voice drowsy but playful, “it’s true you lost the competition to her, but in bed… no doubt, you won.”

“Yeah, right? That’s really an honor. Too bad it doesn’t pay the bills.”

You smile, pressing a little closer to her, absorbing her warmth. “Look, after tonight, I’ll make it up to you. Next week, I’m giving an interview about the great photographers of this generation… and I’ll be sure to talk about a certain Hyeju. Praise her work and invite people to check it out, too.”

“Wow, thank you so much, Mr. Art Critic. What would I do without this boost?”

“That’s what I want to know,” you reply in a tone that’s exaggeratedly serious but teasing. “But seriously, I’m excited to work with you. I bet after spending time alone… you’ll want to work with me again.”

“Oh yeah? And if I want to punch you after two hours alone? Does that count as ‘wanting to work together again’?”

You snicker. “Hey, maybe that’s part of the creative process?”

Hyeju sighs, visibly tired but also amused by the whole thing. “Okay, now shut up. Seriously. I want to sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you reply, obedient but with a hint of playfulness in your voice.

The room falls silent again, but you can’t shake the need to bother her just a little more.

“Hey, Hyeju,” you say softly.

She lets out a long, exasperated sigh.

“What now?”

“Hug me tighter. Please…”

Hyeju shakes her head, incredulous, and you can almost feel her eye-rolling even without seeing it. “If you open your mouth one more time, I’ll gag you.”

You can’t resist.

“Note to self: buy a gag for Hyeju to use on me.”

She gives you a light slap on the shoulder, but in the end, her arms pull you closer, wrapping you tighter, her body relaxing against yours.

And in the quiet that follows, with only the sound of her heartbeat and gentle breathing, sleep finally begins to claim you both. There’s something about this—this way you have of bickering and laughing at the same time—that, just before drifting off, makes you realize that, in the end, maybe this will be the best partnership of your career.

And her?

Well, by the way she’s holding you, even with her tough-girl act, maybe she’s not all that bothered either.

[prentissluvr]

the language of love isn't dead — dean winchester

cw : gn!reader, fluff, frenemies to lovers, petty arguments, ft. sam!, dean is annoying obviously <3, reader speaks latin (i used google translate and it is probably very wrong lol), kissing, one mention of a sexual innuendo, a few joking death threats, non-serious mentions of choking, poorly edited, 2.4K words. requested !

summary : you tend to compliment dean in the dead language of latin after fights so that he doesn't know what you really think about him.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

“you’re being ridiculous,” you frown at dean, arms crossed against your chest as you stare him down in tonight’s motel room.

“ridiculous?” he parrots, indignant. “this is baby we’re talking about. my car. you know, the ‘67 black chevy impala i would kill a man over?”

“yeah, i know her,” you reply, sarcastic in tone. “and your homicidal tendencies when it comes to her. i’m very familiar, dean.” you roll your eyes at him because you just can’t help it. dean makes it very easy to get annoyed at, for a multitude of reasons.

reason number one, he’s annoying. reason number two, he’s very hot when he’s angry. reason number three, he’s very hot pretty much all the time. it does not help that sam got first dibs on the shower, so he’s still covered in a bit of grime and blood from the hunt you just walked away from. it’s his best look, aside from any time that he smiles.

“well, then you should know that getting her perfectly tended to and polished leather seats dirty with wendy’s barbecue sauce is like a goddamn felony and i should sentence you to life of never even stepping foot near my car again,” he fires back, and if you didn’t know him well, which you do, you’d venture to guess that he’s joking. he’s not.

you groan in frustration. “for the last time, i did not get barbecue sauce on your car seats,” you insist.

“i saw you sneaking fries before we got to the room,” he counters, narrowing his eyes at you. “you could have gotten grease on the leather too.”

“i ate two fries dean, and i was careful. i used a napkin and i did not open my barbecue sauce!” you spit back at him. you can’t believe you’re arguing about this right now. except that it is so believable and so like you and him. it’s not like either one of you is going to back down, certainly not about something so petty and meaningless.

“then how come i found some in the back seat?” he says for what feels like the millionth time.

you throw your hands up in the air. “i don’t know! i don’t even use my barbecue sauce for my fries. there’s no reason for me to have opened it!” you argue, huffing out a frustrated sigh. “and how do you even know it was barbecue sauce?”

“it looked like barbecue sauce, it wasn’t there yesterday, you’re the only one who orders it and the only one who’s sat in the back since then. therefore, barbecue sauce,” he admonishes, crossing his arms over his chest to punctuate his point. you can’t help but laugh at him a little bit. he just sounds so ridiculous.

“well then, let’s say it was barbecue sauce—which it wasn’t. did the leather get damaged?” you ask pointedly.

“that doesn’t matter!” he practically rages, taking a step towards you. god, he’s beautiful and you hate him for it (you really, really love him for it). “what matters is that you got it dirty!”

“jesus, dean! just drop it, your car is fine!” you chastise, your voice raising a little in volume as you take another step towards him. you can see his light freckles better now. they’re so goddamn pretty it makes you want to choke him.

“just drop it?” he repeats, fuming. “i will not ‘just drop it.’ this is about baby. i can’t ‘just drop’ something about baby! how can i even trust you enough to let you in my car again, huh?” this is the point where he’s serious, but not that serious. there’s clear frustration and anger in his voice, but he’s stuck with you and he knows it. and when he asks that final question, his volume lessens and he shrugs. he’s looking for you to grovel or offer something to appease him. the question is whether or not to give him that. your instinct is, of course, to not. you let out a huff of breath.

“well, maybe because i’m excellent company in the car,” you suggest, a gloating tone making its way into your voice. “and i like your music better than sam does. which means we always outnumber him. that’s very important.”

he’s unimpressed, clearly. “you gotta come up with something better than that, sweetheart,” he goads.

you curl your lip at him and roll your eyes. “you absolutely suck, dean,” you state. he raises his eyebrows and you groan and roll your eyes yet again. that’s not the word to use around him unless you want a sexual innuendo thrown in your face. “you are absolutely horrible, dean,” you amend.

he laughs at you and his annoyance mostly subsides. “which means i have no problem getting back at you tenfold for getting goddamn barbecue sauce on my car seat.”

“te respicere bonum cum iratus es, ita dampnas,” you grumble, shaking your head and glaring at him. like tradition, you end the argument with a certain latin phrase full of choice words. 

now dean, sweet, lovely, silly, gorgeous dean, has no idea what you’re saying. he doesn’t care to learn enough latin for that. he doesn’t need to know, he thinks. your tone of voice says it all. he thinks those choice words are the type that one fills an insult with. today you tell him, “you look so damn good when you’re angry.” which, funnily enough, is not an insult.

it’s the perfect way of looking him in the eye and just spitting it out. you get to say without consequence what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling, what you want to tell him so badly. it’s not the same as him knowing, but it helps. it eases your tension until the next time, it softens the blow a little.

sam fails to hold in his laugh behind you. you whirl around and glare at him, freshly dressed and out of the shower. you hadn’t even heard him leave the bathroom. narrowing your eyes at him, you tell your long time best friend, say something and you die. he puts his hands up in surrender, still laughing at you a little.

“shut up,” you grumble, then turn back to dean with a scowl.

“what was that little nerd exchange?” dean teases, realizing sam understood what you said.

“nothing,” you glower. “i’m showering now!” 

dean throws his hands up in protest. “you’re making me shower last after getting barbecue sauce on my car?”

“dean, i swear to the lord in heaven, if you–”

“fine, fine!” he relents, the sarcasm and teasing still clearly present in his voice. “you’re right, you should shower first, you probably have barbecue sauce all over ya.” you raise your fist in a threat and it’s dean’s turn to put his hands up in surrender. “i’m just saying!”

“stop saying!” you groan. “just– stop talking, i’m gonna lose my mind.” if i have to stare at your gorgeous face and listen to your gorgeous voice for another second i will go crazy. you sigh heavily. god, you wonder if you could survive not kissing him. monsters and demons and all the strange shit in the world… that’s fine. it sucks but, jesus, at least you know how to deal with them.

but doing it all with dean? you have no idea how to deal with that. so far, it’s by arguing with him, complimenting him in a dead language, and keeping him at an arm’s length. and so far, it’s not working out too well, because you still want him. you still want him to want you back. you still wish and wish and wish that the language of love isn’t dead, not for you and him, not yet, at least.

maybe the shower will help. this motel doesn’t have the worst showers; the water pressure is decent and the water stays hot for a while longer than some others.

you’re not annoyed when you finish, at least, not about his stupid accusations of you getting condiments on his car seats. unfortunately, you are still annoyed about how attracted you are to him. even more unfortunate, you suppose, is that you’re attracted to him, period.

you sigh because you can’t bring yourself to actually try not to be. not that anyone can reverse feelings, but you let your feelings run rampant, more than you should sometimes. you let him eat away at your heart like a goddman movie zombie that’s too stupid to remember it eats brains. then, you figure that the thought of him eats away at your brain too, because he messes with your rationality sometimes.

his eyes are on you as you leave the bathroom and you wonder if sam’s tattled on you. when you shoot him a look he shrugs and shakes his head. you’re not convinced, but you let it slide. you plop down on the pullout couch bed and pack your old clothes away, ignoring dean’s heavy gaze. only when the door to the bathroom opens and closes do you flop against the bed with a heaving sigh.

“i hate your brother,” you grumble, barely loud enough for sam to hear as the muffled sounds of the shower turning on hits your ears. you turn to your side and curl up, not even bothering to pull the sheet over yourself.

you can’t see sam, but you hear him scoff from his spot on his own bed. “sure you do,” he quips, completely sarcastic.

“no, i really, really do,” you insist, not meaning a word of it.

“well, he hates you too, then,” he answers, voice heavy with implication. you know what he means because he knows what you mean. hate, of course, is love.

“no, he doesn’t,” you counter, sad about it. you bet that no one’s ever sounded so disappointed that someone doesn’t ‘hate’ them.

“you’re hopeless.” sam’s probably shaking his head at you as he reads the words on the book in his lap.

“i’m hopeless,” you sigh.

⟢⟢⟢

it’s not until a few days later that dean confronts you about your little latin digs at him. sam did tattle, only because he’s tired of your pining, but dean won’t tell you that. he’s smart enough to know you’ll end up with your hands around sam’s neck if you end up finding out, and he’s not trying to have his… person strangle his little brother.

“hey, idiot,” he starts, the word layered with affection. “why do you always insult me in latin? sorta feels like you lose the point of insulting someone to their face like that.” 

he’s leaning against the hood of his car, beer in hand like always. it’s oddly uncommon to find yourself like this; outside, alone with him. the motel’s not busy and there are barely any other cars in the parking lot, and even less people. it’s just you and him as far as you can see. the night air is mild, cicadas singing as summer begins to slip away.

“well… maybe the point is that you know i’m saying something about you, but you don’t know what,” you shrug, sort of proud of the smooth answer. you’re not even lying. inside, you’re panicking a bit. this is dangerous territory.

“the stuff you’re saying is that horrible, huh?” his tone suggests a joke. his eyes suggest otherwise. it makes you pause. 

how unfair is it, to the both of you, to lie? to even joke that you’d say such mean things about him? about dean winchester, whom you know sort of hates himself. who has just two people by his side, you and sam.

and you, who only argues with him because it’s easier than being nice. you, who deserves what you want but won’t let yourself even try to have it.

“no,” you sigh out. “i’m not saying horrible stuff about you.” you don’t look at him, you don’t mess around. you take the joking in his voice and strip it away. you take the look in his eyes and put it in yours. it makes him look at you, for once. it’s easy to imagine his eyebrows raising, his lips caught somewhere between his signature smirk and a curious frown. “not in latin, anyways,” you add, letting a huff of laughter leak into your bitter voice.

dean keeps looking at you. you know you’re supposed to explain after saying something like that, but you’d much rather not.

“no?” he asks finally. now you have to say something more.

“no,” you confirm, still staring at the trees across the street instead of him. the street lights are orange in color, and it feels either cruel or hopeful that it’s such a beautiful night. “i… say it in latin because it’s something nice. and you can… ignore this, if you want. i say it in latin because i like you a lot, dean. y’know, more than a stupid, fucking friend.” you roll your eyes a bit, like you’re upset with yourself. then you swallow thickly and ignore the fact that you can see him in your peripheral vision. he doesn’t look like he normally does. he doesn’t look angry.

dean is torn between teasing you and kissing you. you sound mad about the fact that you have feelings for him, like you wish you didn’t. ‘more than a stupid, fucking friend’ is a real funny way to phrase things, if he’s honest with himself. the question is, does he say that to you, or does he look for something better to say? he’s not good with ‘better things to say,’ whatever that might be.

“a little aggressive for a love confession, no?” his voice isn’t even that teasing. it’s sort of gentle. he wants to slap his hand over his mouth for saying that godforsaken four letter word. you had said ‘like.’ it’s freudian slip, he supposes, since he loves you.

“this isn’t funny, dean,” you murmur, voice sort of defeated. and yet, you hear it. it’s not funny to him either. he wasn’t trying to be funny, he was trying not to feel. he was trying to say at least something, because he was having trouble coming up with anything else.

“i know,” he relents. he draws in a deep breath. “will you look at me?” your lips part, then close. you blink a few times. you turn your head and look at him. god, he loves you back. he’s got to, or there’s no other way to explain how he looks at you.

and there’s definitely no other way to explain him kissing you. he looks you right in the eyes and he leans in until his lips are touching yours. 

his eyes flutter closed, yours follow. you kiss him back, he kisses harder. the language of love isn’t dead. all you had to do was say something.

[cute-sucker]

the one time you did rafe's nails he isn't too happy !

the reason why you're even touching him with "that stuff," as he says, is because of the dare he lost. and now he pays the repercussions, staring at you with a look that could kill as you smile wide. after all, you aren't just doing his nails, you're doing everything.

everything includes; the nails and the face. it included buffing his nails, putting on some light eyeshadow and then afterwards telling him to stay still as you do some blush. to be quite frank you can't believe he's letting you do this. you're giggling the entire time, as he gives you a deadpanned look. he looks like daisy the duck with the bright red lipstick you've slathered on, and you swear he's going to deal with you later. it seems the color that you've chosen for his nails is what bothers him the most.  

"what is wrong with you?" rafe grumbles, snatching his nails away from the hot pink color you've chosen.

"what? you don't want your nails coloured?" you say innocently, fixing your hair with one swipe. his eyes follow your movement, and then he groans.

he points to the lighter shade of pink, "jesus, if you're gonna paint my nails, at least make me look good."

you bite your lip before starting to apply, "don't worry you'll look great."

then you have a nice silence before he yells at you for getting nail polish all over his cuticles.

"hey! hey! that's messed up. do it properly," he mutters, wiping his nails furiously. then he sits back down, putting his hand in your lap. you can't help but laugh at the expression on his face, his tongue stuck out as a determined look flickers on his face.

now you have a very mad rafe cameron telling you how to do his nails.

[na0koz]

Love your toxic/stalker Jinx but like.. what would happen if she got caught? By anyone (Like Vi, Vander, etc) but also/or reader

toxic!jinx masterlist

now i think vi has always known in the back of her mind that maybe jinx loves you a bit too much. but at the same time she didn’t really register all the photos of you on her wall, your name paired with hers written on every surface even her skin, the amount of time she spends out of the house since meeting you.

like vi knows about you, you’re the only thing jinx talks about. she knows jinx, and knows very well that she’s obsessive but she’s never been obsessed to this extent. it concerns vi slightly so she decides to take a look in jinx’s room.

the photos are obvious, they’re literally plastered over her walls. she then notices a corner with a pile of stuff in it, above it is your name in a heart carved into the wall. vi carefully starts to pick apart the pile, finding the nail polish jinx stole from you, the clothes, everything else she pinched from your apartment.

this freaks vi out slightly so she keeps looking around. on her bedside table there is the piece of metal that jinx fashioned a key to unlock your apartment with. the distinct key-shaped cutout, paired with an open notebook listing everywhere you’ve been and everyone you’ve spoken to basically every day in the last 6 months that tells vi everything she needs to know.

when jinx comes home that day, vi is sitting on the couch. unusual for her, she’s generally in her room blasting rock music and wallowing in her sadness over some blue-haired girl. jinx stands opposite the couch, wondering what the look on vi’s face is for.

“are you stalking that girl you’re always talking about?”

jinx freezes. she has no idea what to say.

vi sighs. “you can’t do that, jinx. besides, aren’t you dating?”

jinx looks at the carpet under her feet. “no… i haven’t.. asked her,” she whispers. she cannot believe that she’s been caught. is vi gonna force her to leave you alone? she can’t deal with that, and jinx starts to panic.

vi is close to anger now, “are you kidding? what the hell is wrong with you?! does she know?”

“of course she doesn’t know.”

they argue back and forth for a bit, mainly vi yelling at jinx and jinx cautiously whispering a response, as if you were on the other side of the door listening.

after that, jinx stays in her room for a couple of days with the door locked. every time vi comes knocking, she either stays silent or starts screaming at her to fuck off. her phone is dead and she has no plans of charging it, despite the fact she knows you’ve probably texted and called her multiple times.

instead, she just stares at the photos she has of you, from before the two of you met.

to be honest though, she just goes back to her usual acts after she gets over herself.

-

if reader found out on the other hand, i had to think pretty hard about what would happen.

i don’t think reader would fully find out what she was doing, but just something surface level. like not the full extremes of jinx’s obsession.

one day, you and jinx had a sleepover and it was the next morning. jinx was laying on your stomach fiddling with the waistband of your shorts when you ask her the question she has dreaded for months.

“have you been following me?”

her hands freeze, eyes widened staring ahead of her. she breathes out a laugh.

“what?”

“have you been following me around?”

“n-.. no? what do you mean?” her voice trembles slightly. she was so fucked.

“i keep seeing you in random places at the same time i’m there,” you talk with an unwavering tone. you need her to know you’re serious about this.

“that’s not me. it could just be someone else with blue hair? i’m not the only person in the world with it,” jinx feigns a small laugh. she’s not sure why.

“no, it’s definitely you jinx. i see your face every time, just watching me from a distance.”

she curls herself into an even tighter ball on your bed. she has literally no idea what to do in the situation.

you stare at her for a bit, noticing her trembling fingers still holding the hem of your pyjamas. you decide you should try and get her to talk, to explain herself.

“i’m not gonna be mad. i just need you to tell me if you have been following me or not.” you’re 98% sure she has been, but maybe it was a coincidence, like the couple of times when you ran into her in public.

more silence follows. a few minutes later, she finally speaks up.

“maybe i have a few times. i just.. worry about you. it’s only ‘cus i love you. i’m just checking you’re okay.” she honestly sounds like she’s about to burst into tears.

“you can just text me and ask how i’m doing, jinx.”

you feel a tear wet your pyjama shirt. this is is honestly not how you thought she’d take it.

“no.. no you don’t get it. i have to see that you’re okay with my own eyes.”

the two of you go back and forth for a while, jinx trying to justify her actions and you shutting her down every time. her arguments have a lot of holes in them.

after a brief pause, you try to reach a conclusion.

“can you just stop following me around, then? it’s scary.”

scary. there is nothing jinx hates more than the idea of you being scared of her.

“i’ll stop,” she breathes. maybe she will for a bit but.. she’ll find a way to keep doing it.

“okay. thank you,” you reply with a sigh, placing your hand on her back to try and comfort her. she had created a significant wet patch on your shirt now, from the involuntary tears falling while she refused to get up from her spot on your stomach.

“i’m sorry i’m so sorry i’m so sorry. i love you,” jinx chants.

you tell her it’s fine.

you’re stuck with her.

[swordsandholly]

Steel Magnolia

Part 1 - paused

Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!plus size!reader

No use of y/n

Rating: Mature/MDNI

Word Count: 2.1k

Author’s Note: I just recently got back into fandom spaces and reading fanfic again and looooove the uptick in fat Y/N characters. Ofc as a big girl myself I wanted to try my hand at writing one too.

Hopefully I’ll post this on AO3 soon. Whenever I get my invite so I can make an acc.

“Oh! Darlin’, did ya see those boys next door?” Mrs. Duprey gasps as you swipe the last of her Bubble Bath OPI polish across her fingers.

“Next door?” You cock an eyebrow. “No one’s been next door since Adam and Eve.”

“I saw them on the way in!” She grins, the corners of her eyes wrinkling pleasantly. “Strappin’ young men - y’should talk t’ ‘em.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m sure I will sooner or later, ma’am.”

“You’ve been single too long.” The nosey old bat contributes. As much as you love her she truly cannot leave well enough alone.

“And I’m perfectly content as such.” You give her your warmest smile.

The trailer home across from you has remained empty for as long as you can remember. It’s well kept - sometimes you see random gardeners mowing or going in an out with tool bags - but no one lives there permanently. You’d think in a beach town it would at least belong to some snowbirds. A timeshare, maybe. It’s none of those things, though. Just a well-maintained, perfectly empty husk.

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, probably.

Sure enough, as you walk Mrs. Duprey out of your little single wide trailer, you spot a black SUV parked out front of the neighboring double wide. One that is definitely *not* a repair man or worker’s vehicle. She coos at you to make sure to talk to them before waddling off to her own car. She really shouldn’t be driving at her age. You wonder briefly - futilly- if she’d sell you her car in exchange for rides.

You suppose she’s right - even if it is for the wrong reasons. You’re not particularly interested in flirting with the new neighbors. After all, don’t fuck where you eat is a saying for a reason, but it wouldn’t exactly be neighborly to not introduce yourself. Especially with all the people coming and going from your home for your nail tech services. The old Yankee’s catty-cornered from you still believe that you're a drug dealer. At least they only come down for a couple months of the year.

Despite your staunch decision not to flirt, you still find yourself adjusting your clothes. Maybe the sports bra as a top is a bit much…

Fuck it. If they live here now they’ll see you in worse.

You fix your lipstick and throw on your platform sandals. The ones that clip-clop as you walk. Maybe it will help announce your presence.

The screen door wraps quietly as you knock. You take two steps back on the front, wooden porch so as not to come off too aggressively. As the seconds tick by you debate on knocking again. Maybe they’re out. Or busy. They did just move in today, most likely. Maybe you should-

The door creaks slightly as it opens. A very, painfully handsome man pushes the screen door until it clicks in place. “Afternoon, lassie.”

You blink stupidly as he crosses his strong arms and leans on the doorframe. His eyes are a striking shade of blue - somehow both sharp and soft. His dark hair is shaped into a slightly grown-out, un-styled mohawk. It fits him oddly enough.

“I, uh,” you take a deep breath. Christ you need to get laid if just *looking* at a hot guy has you this off kilter. “I live across the way. Just wanted t’ say welcome t’ tha neighborhood.”

That lopsided smile on his face grows into a grin. You don’t miss the way his eyes catch on your chest. “Aye? Nice tae meet ye. Names John MacTavish. M’friends call me Johnny.”

He gives your hand an extra little squeeze after shaking it. That accent might as well have you on the floor. You continue to blink dumbly, watching the at the scar on his chin stretches as he speaks.

Christ almighty, you’re pathetic.

“Nice to meet’ya.” You give him a warm smile, tilting your head to the side slightly. “Ya’ll here for vacation? We don’t get many Europeans ‘round here.”

He chuckles. It’s low and rumbling and would probably feel wonderful with your ear pressed to his chest. “Little bit o’ business, little bit o’ pleasure. This an’ tha’.”

“Hello, there.” Another man pops up from behind Johnny suddenly. Fucking hell, he’s gorgeous too. Older, for sure, with a uniquely cut beard that would probably look rather silly on anyone less handsome. At it stands, he manages to make it appear dignified.

“Ah, jus’ about tae call fer ye, Cap. This is our neighbor.” Johnny gestures toward you.

“John Price.” The man steps forward to shake your hand. It’s firm and professional and thank god your grandad made you practice a good handshake as a kid or you’d be painfully embarrassed.

“Are all UK men named John or is this just some sorta cult?” You blurt, unable to stop yourself from snickering at them.

Older John chuckles at you fondly, his facial hair giving him a pleasant U-shaped smile. “Be easier to remember that way, wouldn’t it? No, we’re with two others. Kyle and Simon. They’re out at the moment.”

“Kyle and Simon.” You repeat, nodding. Johnny, John, Kyle, Simon. “Are y’all in town long?”

“Indefinitely.” Is all Price gives you. It’s a tone that even someone as dense as you can recognize as ‘don’t ask more.’

You clap your hands together and smile a little wider, ready to make your exit. “Well, I’m not here t’be a bother, just wanted t’ welcome ya and, uh, let y’know that I have a lot of people over throughout the day - I’m a nail tech. They shouldn’t bother ya but y’know.”

“Ye can come bother us anytime, bonnie.” The Scot hits you with that grin again and your face suddenly feels far too hot.

A loud, whining screech sounds off from down the road. You check your watch. Holy shit, three-thirty already. You begin to back off the porch. “Ah, nice t’ meet ya again! See ya ’round!”

As you jog down the little dirt road of the trailer park another black car passes you. It’s smaller, a sedan. You make very brief eye contact with a blonde wearing a surgical mask and another man with the sharpest golden eyes you’ve ever seen - even through the tint of the window.

*Kyle and Simon,* you think.

You make a mental note to greet them at some point and continue down the street. The school bus slowly stops at the entrance and you take up your spot in the small crowd of parents. IT’s a shabby old bus - chipping paint and break pads that sounds like they’re about ready to snap. It’s all they’re willing to send out to your little section of the city, though.

Shelby meanders over in your direction, her usual Camel Crush lit up in one hand and the other teasing her already well-lifted hair. “Afternoon. Saw there was some new folks across from ya.”

“Hm?” You keep your eyes on the bus. “Ah, yeah. Just vacationers, I think.”

“Lookers, though.” She chuckles.

“They’re from the UK.” You offer.

“No shit!” Shelby stamps out her cigarette as the bus doors open. “Accent and all?”

“Yep.” You grin.

Shelby tsks and fiddles with her hair again. “I best go over an’ make myself known, then.”

“There’s an older fella with a neat beard. Think you’d like ‘em.” You snicker.

She hums. “I’ll bring a pie.”

The children practically burst out of the bus doors, as always. Ready to be home and shuck off their backpacks to their respective adult. Shelby’s son almost knocks her over, offering a little “Good afternoon, ma’am!” to you before heading off with his mother.

You nod to him, shoving a hand in your pocket as you wait for yours. She’s always the last. Always caught up in a book or something and doesn’t realize it’s time to get off of the bus. Sure enough, the driver has to call back to her before the little girl comes dashing out. She jumps off of the bus steps, despite being told time and time again not to, and kicks a rock on her way toward you.

You bow low for her. “Welcome home, Lady Sophie.”

She giggles, dark curls bouncing as she skips over. “Ni-ni!”

You take her bag from her. The thing really does dwarf the poor six year old. Her hand slips into yours easily. Soft and round and somehow always so much warmer than yours.

“My nail color chipped!” She announces, holding up her ring finger on the opposite hand.

“Oh! Now we can’t have that. I’ll fix it tonight.” You smile, waving at old Mr.Chester as the two of you pass.

“Well now!” He calls. “How blessed am I to see two such lovely ladies!”

You both giggle, continuing on your way. He’s a good landlord - spotted you more than a few times when Sophie was a baby and you couldn’t work consistently. Honestly, as you look around, the little community that he’s managed to build in this shitty corner of the world should be praised. Housing just enough snowbirds to cover his property costs while keeping rent low for the full time locals. Maybe you could convince Natalie at the paper to run a little story on it or something.

As you pull up to your own home, the blonde man is outside leaning on the front of their double wide. Seeing him standing at full height makes your blood run cold. The man is built like a damn barn - tall and wide. Beyond solid. *Brick shithouse*. It’s a bit weird that he’s covered in clothing head to toe but whatever. Weirder things have happened before. The mask still covers his face, you wonder if he had taken it off before you came up or just flipped it up to smoke.

“Sophie, head on in. I’ll catch up.” You push her toward the door. She scampers in, the screen door slamming behind her as you march up to the brick shithouse of a man in front of you.

“Which are ya? Kyle or Simon?” You smile, holding out your hand to shake.

Dark eyes rake over you, stopping briefly on your hand, before moving back to meet yours. He stomps out the half smoked cigarette. “Simon.”

You let your hand drop. Bit rude, this one. “Nice t meetcha.”

The other man pops his head out of the trailer. Kyle, you assume. “Oh. Hello.”

“Hi.” You smile as warmly as you can, giving your name. “I’m assumin’ yer Kyle.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “I’m guessing you’re the neighbor Price mentioned.”

You nod, about to speak again but Simon shoves past you, marching his way up the steps. “Let’s go.” He grunts, pushing the other man back into the trailer despite his protests.

You wrinkle your nose at him. What an asshole.

“Who’s tha’?” Sophie asks over the back of the old, worn couch as you let the trailer door slam behind you.

“New neighbors.” You say simply, glancing out the window. “Don’t go over there without me, yeah?”

“Okay!” She agrees, sitting back on the couch and bouncing, beginning her usual post school chant. “Bluey! Bluey! Bluey!”

You drop her backpack down beside the small coffee table. “After yer homework.”

“Nooo!” She pouts.

“Then no Bluey.”

Sophie pouts harder but crawls down in front of the coffee table and pulls out her little work sheets. At least the school doesn’t over run them too terribly with homework toward the end of the year. You glance at the calendar. Wednesday, May 22nd. Damn, she really only has about a week left. Though, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t looking forward to this summer break with her. She’s old enough now that you can take her places like the arcade without having to wait on her so much. You’ll actually be able to play some of the two-player games.

Plus, this year, you actually have a little more pocket change to make it fun.

You turn to look out the window once more at the new neighbors. Their curtains remain closed, cars neatly parked out front. The door opens slowly, the hot Scot and rude blonde wander to the Sedan. Simon’s shoulders shake at something Johnny said - you think he’s laughing but its hard to tell with that mask. Johnny’s head turns, blue eyes meeting yours through the shitty glass windows of your trailer. You squeak and duck to sit next to Sophie, praying that he didn’t catch you staring.

[annwrites]

⸻ the last unicorn ; part one ⸻

❝love is slowing you down, my lady. i will catch you at last, if you love much more.❞ — peter s. beagle

· pairing: aemond targaryen x unicorn!reader · type: mini-series · summary: aemond finds the most magnificent creature he's ever laid eyes upon in the kingswood. and when he returns in the evening to gaze upon you one last time, he finds himself further left for breath at the unexpected discovery before him. and rather than part with you, he contacts a witch to give him what he desires most...for forever. · tags: love at first sight, innocence, covetousness, angst · word count: 2,935

You are the loveliest mare he has ever set eyes upon.

Your coat is as white as the driven snow—untouched and gleaming. And your mane is long and smooth, and glimmers in the dappled sunlight that shines down upon you between swaying green leaves which comprise the canopy above.

You drink quietly from a babbling brook, wholly unaware of the gaze focused on you from a distance.

He takes a step forward—not measured enough, as he’s entirely enraptured by your beauty—and a twig snaps underfoot, causing your head to jerk up and in his direction.

He stills, as do you. But for him, it is not from wariness or fear, but wonder and disbelief.

“It can’t be,” he whispers. “For none now live.”

Your tail sways behind you and you crook your head.

He grins at the sight while taking another step forward, desperate to place even just one lone hand upon you. It is only through the act of doing so that he will believe that his remaining eye is indeed not deceiving him.

You take a step back and he shakes his head while extending a palm, shooshing you, hoping to calm you.

“It’s alright,” he states—gently. “I don’t want to harm you.”

You exhale and your ears twitch as you listen to words you do not understand.

“You’re quite lovely. Very much so. You are the last of your kind. Do you know that?”

His eyes travel along the polished opalescent horn that juts from the middle of your forehead before looking back into your own.

“It must be a terrible thing to be all alone in the world. I can only imagine such a fate.”

You step back again and he pauses—for he is nearly there, and to lose you when he has only just found you…he cannot bear it.

But to see you alone is a gift from the Seven.

“My name is Aemond,” he tells you with a kind smile. “Targaryen. You should know you are not the first mystical creature I have come across. I rode one once, you know. Not a unicorn, of course, but a dragon.”

He swallows thickly, ignoring the stinging of his eye. “She’s gone now. Lost during the war. To my uncle—my foe. But I repaid the favor by driving my sword through his heart.”

He’s standing before you now, and you have, most surprisingly, not fled.

Painstakingly slowly, he raises a hand and holds his breath as he settles it on your neck.

You blink lazily at him while swishing your tail curiously.

He smiles while shaking his head. “You’re far too trusting. No one has ever hunted you before, have they, sweetling?”

Your eyes move downward, toward his pack.

“You’re quite fortunate in that. Next time someone comes through these woods, you need to run. Hide. If you must, drive your horn through them. Show them no mercy, for the wrong sort of ilk will not show any to you.”

You nudge your nose against his chest and he chuckles while scratching behind your ears. “You’re too gentle for such an act, though, aren’t you?”

He slips his fingers into your mane. “I am not a gentle man myself by nature. Not usually. But for you, I think I can make an exception. I’ve a reputation to maintain, but unicorns sing no songs, so I believe it safe to assume that my secret will be kept.”

You move your snout lower and nuzzle against his bag, sniffing.

And then he snorts. “Ah, I see. It is not me you want, but instead the treats I have to offer.”

He reaches into his brown leather satchel and retrieves a shiny red apple, which he offers to you.

You eat directly from his palm and his lip twitches at the ticklish feel.

“Gods, you are truly a sight to behold. It has been believed for some time by scholars from the Citadel and otherwise that you had all gone extinct. Have you always been here, in the Kingswood? Where do you hide yourself away, I wonder?”

You nudge his pack, wanting for more.

He promptly obliges your request.

He continues to speak while you snack. “It is written that you all are immortal. Rather—you are. And the most innocent and pure of creatures. I would not doubt it now after our chance meeting. I’ve also read…you come only to virgins.”

He grins. “I am certainly not that. So, I suppose the old adage is indeed true: not to believe all you read, or hear.”

You raise your head and stare at him dumbly.

His words sound like no more than a garbled mess to you. Human voices are so unpleasant to the ears. What are they in comparison to the wind, the birds, the rustle of leaves, and the things nature has to tell, which is far more important?

You turn away from him then, suddenly disinterested.

He cocks a brow, following along beside you, so you shake out your mane and hold your head high, wanting for solitude amongst your forest friends.

Men merely think themselves welcome here due to their own hubris. They believe all the earth is theirs for the taking because they consider themselves more intelligent and higher beings.

They forget that other things existed long before they, and will continue to remain longer after their bones blow like dandelion seeds in the wind. They know only of survival. It is what they do to the land: survive off of it. Instead, you live with it as one.

He does gain your interest once more, however, by offering you another apple.

He slides his hand down your back, smoothing your fur. “What might the people think of me if I were to return to the Red Keep atop the back of a unicorn, I wonder? The last remaining one in all the world. Presumably, that is.”

He steps around to the front of you and scratches beneath your chin. “Brief it may’ve been, but the Conqueror’s crown indeed suited me far better than it ever did my fool brother. I was more suited to the role as a whole. Yet, here I am now. In the middle of the Kingswood, passing my afternoon speaking to a horse.”

He could swear that you snort quietly in response, but knows he merely imagined it.

He glances back to his own mount across the way and sighs. “It will be dark soon enough; another day gone. I suppose I should be getting back to the Keep.”

He offers you one final apple, which you relieve him of immediately, and he presses a soft kiss to your mane—a most unexpected gesture—before reluctantly bidding you goodbye.

You do not watch as he goes.

During the night, sleep eludes Aemond and finds him entirely restless. He tosses and turns upon a featherbed which provides little comfort from the incessant thoughts of you which gather like a tempest within his mind.

He is quite tired, yes, but he knows that unless he journeys once more into the Kingswood to chance at having one final look upon you, he will find no peace. So he rises.

He knew it would be a wasted journey. Especially at this hour.

You are nowhere to be seen. A fact which he’s both disappointed, and gladdened by. Gladdened that perhaps some small part of you understood the warnings he spoke to you that afternoon: to run and hide if a man came calling upon the woods you call home.

He shakes his head, deigning himself foolish for even thinking to return here during the hour of the wolf. Since when does Aemond Targaryen, previous Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm, find himself preoccupied by a thing of fairytales?

Ridiculous.

Aemond makes to turn, until he hears the quiet rustle of leaves and he catches a glimmer of light reflecting off a pond across the way. A glimmer of light which grows and grows in fervor—entirely encapsulating you.

It nearly blinds him, and forces him to cover his eyes with his forearm to shield his vision.

In a moment, the spectacle is over and the night returns to darkness. The only illumination provided now being that of the silvery-blue moon in the sky which twinkling stars surround as they wink and kiss the inky black vision above.

Slowly, he drags his gaze upwards once more, squinting to see.

And then his breath lodges in his throat, choking him.

“How in Seven Hells…” He whispers in disbelief, for he does not believe his eye.

Not this time.

For he is surely sleepwalking. Trapped within a dream.

But if such a fact is so, he will kill any man who attempts to wake him.

You rise slowly on trembling legs—only two—and long silvery waves curtain your slim, naked form. You grip the bark of a tree to steady yourself as your body shakes against the cool night air.

His eyes trail along your pale skin—so pale, in fact, that it practically glows. Or perhaps it is just the moon casting you in its light that offers such an illusion.

And soft silver waves slip over your shoulders and shimmer in the light.

Your breasts are small and soft—proportionate to your body—with delicate pink nipples. You’ve womanly curves; the planes of which blend perfectly from your stomach and into your thighs like you are the finest sculpture he has ever lain his eye upon. Crafted by the hands of the Gods themselves you are. Created by the Maiden, for you are indeed her image made flesh.

He steps forward—wanting for answers, for explanation, no matter how impossible it might be—then pauses when you jerk your head in his direction.

You stare at him with wide, lilac eyes, and he shakes his head, sure he is trapped within a delusion of his own making.

He must touch you once more to assure himself otherwise.

“This is madness,” he says quietly, taking another step forward.

You bristle, and he raises a hand slowly, shooshing you—repeating his actions from some hours ago, in hopes of comforting you to his presence. “It’s alright, sweetling. We’ve met. Just today. Don’t you remember me?”

You blink dumbly at him.

“I brought you apples. You liked them.”

Your eyes flit to the pack at his side and he fills with relief.

You recall him indeed.

“I’m not here to harm you. I merely came to see you one last time. But I had certainly not expected this.”

He has nearly made his way around the pond, and you, quite fortunately, have not fled from him in fear.

“Can you change at-will, then? Or is it only the night which brings about this other form?” He asks curiously.

You merely stare at him, remaining unresponsive.

“Can’t you speak?” He asks with a furrowed brow.

You softly cock your head to the side, and silver strands slip over your shoulders, exposing your pert breasts to him, and he takes note of your pebbled nipples.

You’re cold.

Cautiously, he removes the cloak he has wrapped round his own shoulders, then holds it out toward you.

You take a tiny step back, but he still steps forward, fans it out behind you, then clasps it just below your neck.

And then he cups your chilled cheek in his palm.

“I thought you a vision,” he mutters, brushing his thumb along the apple of your cheek. “A creature come straight to me from my most impossible dreams.”

Your eyes flit between his while your lips remain silent.

“You don’t understand a thing I’m saying, do you, sweetling?”

You stare at him in response.

His lip twitches.

How entirely innocent and ignorant you are.

Perfect to mold, he thinks.

Until sunrise, that is.

He assumes, that, come the morn, you most likely return to your equestrian form.

But why? Has it always been this way for you? Are you not immortal, then, like he previously believed? Is this some sort of wretched curse bestowed upon you by a sorceress, warlock, moonsinger, or otherwise? Why punish such a beautifully quiet thing such as yourself? What could you have possibly done to deserve this?

To always be walking between two worlds, but belonging in neither—forever alone… What a horrid thing to be forced upon something as sweet and docile as you.

Quite boldly of you, you reach toward his pack, but he shoves it away on instinct.

You frown slightly, and then he smiles. “Forgive me, my sweet.”

He retrieves for you another apple and settles it into your expectant palm.

You promptly take a bite out of the crisp piece of fruit and lick your lips where sweet juice quickly gathers.

He groans lowly in the back of his throat at the sight, and does his utmost to ignore the slight swelling of his cock beneath his trousers.

He cups your other cheek then, holding you still and close as you take bite after bite while staring up and into his eye as he studies you.

Your long, silver strands slip easily between his fingers as he cups the back of your head affectionately. “If I did not know any better, I would think you are one of us: a true Targaryen. Or a Valyrian, forged in the fires of the Freehold.”

You lean slightly into his touch, merely liking the warmth his body has to offer and provide against the chill of this late hour, but he translates the simple gesture to have a far different meaning: that already you can feel it as well—this invisible ribbon which binds the two of you into one. It wraps your destinies together into a singularly divine fate.

Once you’ve finished with your treat, you lower your arm to your side and drop it. It softly thuds against the forest floor, then rolls down the embankment and into the pond at your side.

You hear a quite splash, and you smile slightly, knowing its remaining core is now feeding one of your friends.

You look at the strange man with one eye again, and your brows furrow in confusion as he closes it and begins to lean forward while slipping an arm beneath the cloak he wrapped around you to combat the chill.

He slides his hand along your waist before settling his palm against the small of your back so you might remain close to him.

And then he presses his lips to yours.

Your body stiffens and your eyes grow wide.

What is he doing? Is this a sort of odd greeting humans give each other, then? A strange form of communication, perhaps?

You blink, then try to swallow, but it’s precisely when your lips part that he slips his tongue into your mouth.

That is when you jerk away.

Aemond chuckles from amusement, then presses a firm, tender kiss to your forehead before leaning forward and resting his own against it.

“My sweet girl,” he whispers. “The Gods blessed me by putting you in my path.”

He pulls back slightly while tucking silver locks behind your ear. “You must be terribly lonely here. Are you not?”

You glance toward the pond, then back to him, wishing he’d let you go so you might stretch your legs for awhile.

“I could change that,” he says—his voice a whisper upon the wind. “At the very least, I can bring someone here who could. Who could keep you in this preferable form…for forever.”

You glance behind him and watch as a doe trots along with her little fawn close to her side.

“I could make you a princess,” he states, earning your attentions once more. “A wife, a mother. You could have fine things and live in a grand castle. Resplendent gowns, jewels, and servants at your beck and call would be yours for the taking. If you wish it—whatever you do—I will make it so. My jester of a brother is not long for this world. And once the Gods have come to call him home, I will ascend his throne.”

His grows quite serious then. “And you might be my bride, if you so covet a crown for yourself as I do. It will be just as lovely as you, I swear it.”

He slides his hand along the soft curve of your waist, then settles it just above the swell of your rear.

“We could make perfect little heirs. Silver hair, violet eyes, and pale skin. The very image of descendants of Old Valyria. None would question their parentage for a moment as they did my dead half-sister’s. Not that I would ever indulge myself by bringing bastards into this world. I would sooner put such abominations to the sword.”

You try to take a step back, unsettled by the wild look in his eye…but he holds firm.

“I want you,” he states lowly. “And I will have it so.”

He smiles, then brushes a kiss along your cheek. “You’ll be pleased with what I next intend to do, sweetling. I swear it. And once you are mine, I will have the finest septas teach and tutor you in how to be a proper princess and wife. You will learn to speak as I do. And I will treasure the moment when you finally utter the words of your undying love, stemming from thankfulness toward me, from having given you the gift of our blessed union.”

He pulls you into his chest and holds you in his arms, knowing it is exactly where you belong. “You’ve no idea the life that awaits you at my side.”

[twis-world]

The Remedy That Is You (Vil Version)

Mentions: Vil Centric, Fluff, Second Person, Gender Neutral Reader

No matter how many a time the students of Nightraven College witnessed how their Housewarden did a complete 180 in your presence, it never ceased to amaze them.

It eventually got to the point where a majority of students began to question if you really were magickless. There was just no way your mere presence could bring out such light in their eyes, face softening and a smile so tender it was as if they were gazing upon one of the Seven.

Just how did you do it?

Vil

If there was anything Vil would choose to pride himself in other than his looks, it would be his ability to adapt. Adapt, overcome, and adjust to any situation needed. It was a skill he finely tuned at a young age; it would have been utterly foolish not to.

In his line of work you were to always expect the unexpected. Anything could go wrong at any given time. A clothing setback during a shoot. An unavoidable sickness striking before his time on set. A social media scandal that could rip his career to shreds in mere seconds. Nothing was an impossibility.

However, that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be a time where he would not grow tired of it all.

“Then you would not believe what that imbecile did next,” he seethed. While he did an impeccable job at keeping the hand you held still in order to allow you to paint a clear coat of nail polish onto his nails, the rest of his body expressed his current agitation. The way his foot, though crossed over one leg, would not stop swaying this way and that. His breathing that came out in heavy puffs. “Not only did he manage to spill the very same drink he ran late for all over the place, but he then demanded we wait for his costume to be washed and dried after it got dirtied from the spill. An incredibly audacious move when that stunt ended up pushing back a week of filming because of the damage done to all the camera wirings in the area!”

“Isn’t this the second time he’s done something like this?” You asked with a raised brow, gently beginning to blow cool air onto his nails. The man in question being a fellow co-star of your boyfriend’s. A man who from day one seemed to make it his mission of making every accompanied day with him a living hell.

Vil rolled his eyes with a scoff. “Don’t even remind me. Really, how incompetent do you have to be to continuously waste not just everyone else's, but my precious time above all else? Surely no one is this daft?”

“He could be doing this all on purpose maybe? It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to sabotage you.” You gave him a small glance before looking back at his nails, nodding once you confirmed they were indeed dry and gesturing for him to give the other. He did so whilst inspecting the one you gave back, expressing his approval before continuing on.

“I considered that but I refuse to believe he of all people would be able to dedicate himself to this extent. My dear potato, if you were ever so unfortunate to meet him face to face, you would be surprised at how he seems to create mayhem simply through breathing.”

“I know he’s basically a horror show from what you’ve told me but it can’t be that bad.”

“That bad?” He repeated, staring as if you grew three more heads. “That bad? It's only been a month and he’s already managed to delay us so heavily that the producer is considering just scraping this movie altogether. He himself owes hundreds in set damages after today!”

“Careful,” you chuckle, lips curling as you saw just how heavily he was furrowing his brows. Finished with the remaining nail you set the polish off to the side. Carefully, incredibly mindful of the still drying hand you possessed, you leaned forward and gently softened the skin between his brows with the thumb of your other hand. At the contact his eyes practically fluttered shut, barely leaning into the small massage you were giving. “Don’t give him the satisfaction of giving the Vil Schoenheit early stress wrinkles.”

A huff escaped him as you pulled away. “Never. I would rather such a despicable phenomena come from Epel with the trouble he gives me.”

You hummed, fanning his nails while giving him a cheeky smile. “Not even Neige? I’m sure he would be honored.”

“Are you actively trying to raise my blood pressure even higher than it already is?”

“What a horrid accusation! I would never,” you gasped jokingly, hand raising to your heart as he continued to glare at you. “Ah, don’t be like that my love.”

Vil huffed, avoiding your gaze. “Don’t ‘my love’ me. You are lucky I tolerate such an annoying potato such as yourself.”

“Truly,” you mockingly agreed, rolling your eyes this time at the act. Yet, when he continued to refuse looking back, you sighed. Raising his hand up you softly pressed your lips against his one knuckle, then the next, then next. Gently kissing each till you finished with one final one in the center, this time raising your gaze and finally meeting his own. The pupils were all consuming, capturing the beautiful purple you loved so much. Yet, the scarlet hue that painted his cheeks served for an even prettier sight.

“I really am sorry my love,” you murmured against his hand. While he could still hear present humor in the pet name he could also feel the adoration you poured into it. So much so that he found himself swallowing at a loss for words. It didn’t help that your gaze zero’d in on the movement, piercing yet so intimate. “But I don’t like seeing you get so worked up over some nobody who paid his way into this movie. Your movie. He’s undeserving of occupying another second in your pretty lil head.”

“Oh,” Vil began to grin, “and what would you do to make sure of that?”

“Hmm.” You pulled away from his hand, slowly, not once breaking your gaze away from his. “Whatever you would like. You know I never mind pampering you. It’s like my very own treat.” Leaning forward once again you caressed the crown of his head, lightly brushing against his hair and running fingertips down to tuck the very few strays behind his ears. “I went out earlier and picked up some new face masks we haven’t tried yet. Wouldn’t that feel nice? I’ll even run a hot bath for you if you want.”

A delicate sigh left him, cool air running down your arms. He cupped the back of your hands with his, bringing the wrist of each to his lips and leaving behind a dainty kiss. “That would be lovely.”

[woso-dreamzzz]

Accident

Kyra Cooney-Cross x Gorry!Reader

Summary: It wasn't planned

You were the best mistake Kyra ever made.

It was a complete accident when she kissed you, tripping in the crowded pub and smashing her lips against yours.

You giggled at the horrified look on her face when you helped her to stand, one of your hands still holding her waist. "Usually someone has to buy me a drink before kissing me."

You didn't yell at her or scream or punch her in the face so Kyra took it as a win even though her insides were twisting in horror and her face burned red.

"I can still buy you that drink?" Was what she offered in return.

"Sounds good."

Your love affair begun in that moment.

Kyra counted herself lucky that she managed to find the only other Aussie in London who wasn't attached to a football team. She also counted herself lucky that you avoided football like the plague.

Ever since the World Cup, the attention she was receiving was just a tad too excessive so it was nice to sit with you at home and relax, to not be Kyra Cooney-Cross the midfielder but just Kyra, your girlfriend.

"My sister plays," You said one evening as you swiped a chip off her plate," That's probably why I avoid it. Call me childish but I can't be into the same things my sister's into. It would make me seem like a very bad little sister."

"Or a good one, from her perspective," Kyra laughed.

"It's not that me and Kat aren't friends," You said," It's just we're very separate in our interests. I never really enjoyed being compared to her."

"And so you avoided football?" Kyra quirked a brow. "All football?"

"Well, clearly not all football," You replied, leaning forward to capture Kyra's soft lips with your own," Not yours."

Kyra drew away with a cocky smirk. "Of course not mine. You're my wag."

You rolled your eyes. "Whatever."

Domesticity with you was easy, Kyra found. It was completely stereotypical to move in after three dates but she was a big believer in if you know you know.

And Kyra knew.

So, she moved in with you.

You did the chores around each other. If you did the laundry then she did the dishes. If you hoovered then she polished. It was easier than ever before and Kyra settled easily into life with you.

"My sister's moving to London," You said one evening as you lay in bed together," Would you like to meet her?"

Kyra, who had been drawing absent patterns on your arm, froze. You didn't speak much about your sister just that she lived in Sweden with your niece and her fiancée. It was clear that you had a close relationship from the few times that you spoke about her.

Kyra's throat bobbed a little bit in worry.

You were her first proper girlfriend (and she was yours). She just knew that she had to make a good impression.

"You don't have to," You said when you noticed her silence," It was just an idea."

"No! No...I'd love to meet her."

"She'll love you, Kyra. I promise."

The week running up to meeting your sister was full of worry and anticipation. Kyra wrote out a script in her notes app about conversation starters and things to say about herself that would make her seem like the best possible partner for you.

She didn't want to leave anything up to chance with this. Not with you and not with your sister.

Kyra paced outside of the café where you agreed to meet her, wiping off her sweaty hands and muttering under her breath about how best to introduce herself.

"Kyra?" A familiar voice from behind said," Is something wrong?"

"Mini!" Kyra exclaimed," What are you doing here?"

"I'm meeting my sister soon," Mini said," She's meant to be telling me some big news. What about you? This is pretty far from St Albans, isn't it?"

Kyra laughed awkwardly. "I'm meeting my girlfriend's sister today. I want to make a good impression. I don't want her to kill me or something for knocking around with her little sister."

Mini laughed, clapping Kyra on the back. "Don't be stupid, Kyra," She said," You're the best girlfriend anyone can ask for. No one's going to want to kill you."

A blur appeared around the corner and you wedged yourself between the two of them, throwing your arms around both of them. "Kat! Kyra! You ruined the surprise! We were meant to tell her together!"

Kyra looked between you and Mini.

Mini looked between you and Kyra.

"She's your sister?!"

"You're dating Kyra?!"

You looked between them. "Do you two know each other?"

Kyra watched as Mini's eyes narrowed.

"I take back what I said," Mini said," I'm going to kill you."

[superhero--imagines]

Part 1 Here! / Part 2 Here! / This is Part 3! / Part 4 Here!

A/N: I don’t think the poll is over yet, but this one was very clearly going to have the highest percentage, I’ll do the “maybe if we were closer in age” one later though!

If you haven’t already please check out my Batman zine, it’s got so much fanfiction and beautiful art from five different artists! Please check it out, please. I need to find a way to compensate these artists. You can check it out here!

Bruce slumps in his chair, a longing glance spared to the decanter on the bookshelf.

He closes his eyes and wills away the craving. It’s always ten times worse when he wakes up the next day, and he can’t afford feeling worse at this point in his life.

Wasn’t it just yesterday he was twenty years old and he could spend all night playing Bruce Wayne’s party boy image, and be up in three hours feeling none the worse for wear. Now even after nine hours of solid sleep, he wakes up sluggish with an ache in his bones.

I have to be strong.

“Why did you keep her away from us?”

“Who?” he asks absentmindedly, his entire focus still on the brandy.

“(Y/N).” It’s the last name he expected to hear, especially from his oldest son. He looks up, hoping he’s misheard, but the look in Dick’s eyes proves him wrong.

Looks like I’m going to need that drink after all.

He reaches for the decanter, two crystal glasses retrieved from his desk drawer instinctually, glittering on his desk.

“Why are you bringing this up now?” He stalls by taking a sip, feigning casual, like the mention of your name alone didn’t set his heart racing.

“Don’t play this game with me Bruce,” Dick sounds more sad than angry, and it softens him. “Why didn’t you let us see her?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Then start untangling it for me.”

Bruce sighs, taking another sip of his father’s brandy. There’s a million reasons he could tell his son, none of which would be lies entirely, but softer than the truth.

But when he looks up into Dick’s eyes, he can’t bring himself to say any of them. Armed with nothing but liquor at the bottom of his cup, for the first time in four years, after dodging this question from reporters and acclaimed journalists and new paramours, he finally tells the truth.

“Because I didn’t want her to see you.”

A simple, ugly truth. He doesn’t bother looking up to see his sons reaction, he already knows a kind boy like Dick, a boy who’s fully believed his entire life that good prevails, won’t be able to process that his father did something like this. He makes better use of his time by refilling his glass.

Dick slumps in the chair by the time he’s polishing off his second peg, and pouring in his third.

“You did it to punish her?” He can see anger begin to replace shock, and he doesn’t blame him for it, but Bruce is angry enough at himself for the both of them.

“I wanted her to forget we ever existed.” This truth is as kind as it is ugly, and the nuance confuses Bruce even now. But three glasses of brandy affect him in a way that makes his tongue feel lighter and his mind feel free.

“I wanted to give her a potato sack full of money and jewels, and send her far away where no one knew who she was. I wanted her to meet a good partner, someone who would always put her first, and if they decided to extend their family I wanted her to be able to move on without feeling like she left anyone behind.”

“So you wanted her to have a great life, far away from you, and you never wanted to hear anything about it,” Dick’s voice is cold.

Bruce shakes his head. He wanted to hear everything about your new life. What kind of partner you picked. How you spent your days. When you got married. When you had your first child. When you had your second. Everything. And on bad days, he’d close his eyes and let himself imagine it was him standing next to you, that in some alternate universe he made a single different decision that gave him permission to deserve you.

“I was just tired of hurting her,” when you came in to his life, for the first time, he felt like he’s been allowed to have something of his own. Not as Batman, protecting to the city, or Bruce Wayne the mask he carried, but him as a man. But he could never seem to return the reverie you extended to him.

“Do you think she’d ever be able to move on, to live even a semblance of a normal life, if all of you were showing up at her house all bruised and beaten?”

Dick stays quiet now, and Bruce hates himself for having to say it out loud. His son may be an adult in the eyes of the law, but some parts of him are still childlike. After all, Bruce isn’t the only one putting Gotham first.

“I wouldn’t call the way she’s living now normal.” Dick’s been to your penthouse, he’s seen the photo albums full of tabloid clippings and the rare pictures he and his extended family post on social media. He’s seen the journal you keep, hidden on your bookshelf that he mistook for a regular novel during his bi-weekly trips to your place, full of notes on every article and picture and what might be happening behind the scenes to prompt a public appearance like that. Years of deductions and question he could have answered with a single text message a month, but Bruce wouldn’t even allow that.

Dick’s anger grows.

If Bruce had told him he did it to punish you, he’d be angry, but he would understand. Sometimes when you love someone that much, someone who’s too good for you, you grasp at any way to keep them. But this is a million times worse than that.

“If you loved her that much why’d you even let her go?”

Again, another question he wasn’t expecting. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but he doesn’t feel the sharp sting of surprise this time.

“Because sometimes love isn’t enough.”

Dick leaves. Bruce pours another glass, and when he’s sure he’s alone he pulls out his wallet, tugging out the family photo he keeps tucked beneath his black card, turning it over to see your portrait taped on the other side.

The corner of his mouth quirks up.

It was from when you’d both just gotten married, before you were used to upper class etiquette. You complained all morning about having to get ready and wear a bunch of expensive uncomfortable clothes designers had sent in for the article in the Gotham Times, emphasizing how ridiculous opulence like this was when there were so many bigger issues in Gotham.

He’d bought out every copy of the magazine in the city. He still had most of them, tucked away in a box in his closet that became the casket for your relationships. Every now and then he’ll unearth it, just to allow himself to be haunted again by your memory.

But for tonight, just your picture and a glass of brandy is enough.

“You’re so much better at this than I am.”

[honeydazai]

hai! can I get 'doing their makeup for them' with nikolai pls?

Nikolai + 'doing their makeup for them'

milestone drabble event! 🪻

join my tag list here! 🪻

“You have awfully pretty eyes.”

The words spill from your lips so very easily; after all, they're the truth. Leaning against him with one hand on his shoulder, your faces mere centimeters apart, you're able to get a particularly good look at just how stunning they are, shining in blue and yellow.

“Thanks.” Nikolai's smile is a little too wide, fraying at the edges. “You're supposed to concentrate on my makeup, though. Don't lose focus, now.”

You scoff. “I can multi-task just fine.” As if to prove your words, you add more mascara to his lashes, movements slow and gentle. “See?”

“I always do your makeup so carefully, though.” He pushes his lips forward into a pout, entirely too dramatic. “At least give the same effort back. Otherwise you're mean, you know?”

“I am making an effort”, you protest, eyebrows knitting together in mock unhappiness, “It literally looks so good. Take a look yourself if you don't believe me, but it's not like I didn't do just fine on your other eye.”

Nikolai merely hums in response — though that at least means he's not complaining anymore. Instead, the atmosphere shifts into something peaceful. Your palm cups his cheek, gently holding it to stop him from moving and messing your work up, and he leans into the touch, more cat than person.

Black goes with the colour scheme of his chosen outfit; it's a reasonable first guess, although Nikolai sighs as though it is not.

The quiet does not last for long; only until after you've peppered some glitter onto his lids.

“Quiz time”, Nikolai sing-songs, white bangs falling into his face as he moves, “What colour of eyeliner do you think I want to wear today?”

“Wrong. A shame. Ah, but — you know what? I'll let you guess again. Aren't I kind?”

“Very.” You squint at him, your head tilted to the side in a curious manner. It's not like there's an overwhelming amount of options; red and white are his other two most used colours, and white is closest. You pick mostly by random.

Nikolai makes a triumphant noise; before you're able to reach for the corresponding pen, he presses his lips to yours, the gloss on them sticky. You let out a soft noise, eyes fluttering shut, though he's already pulling back again, smirk mischievous.

“Continue, sweetheart.”

Jerk.

Still, you drag the felt tip over his eyelids, going for a cat-eye look; the very moment you're done, a mirror suddenly appears between the two of you, the power of The Overcoat, and Nikolai coos at his reflection, apparently in awe.

You try your best not to feel too smug. It's rather difficult when he's literally swooning. Then, sharp eyes snap back to you, determination sparking inside.

“Alright; it's my turn, now. Lean back, doll.”

notes: I WASN'T SURE IF THIS MEANT DOING HIS OR HIM DOING YOUR MAKEUP SO NOW IT'S KIND OF. BOTH??

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[just-wrting]

Feeling Fangs Part 2

Title: Feeling Fangs Part 2

Pairing: Charlotte Katakuri x Wife!Reader

Word Count: 4.6k

Summary: You and Katakuri explore your relationship more after you remember things from the past that you try not to think about.

Master List Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

A/N: Wrote a part 2! This ended up longer than I expected due to things I wanted to put in it, but that’s fine. My fics have been getting longer and that’s good! My bf and I have officially reached Wano, so expect Law content in the future cause he’s also just a pretty boy. Anyway, here’s part 2 to a boy who took like three episodes to get into my top three one piece men. This is written for a female reader, but men, please send an ask if you want me to make it masculine!

You don't have the dream often, but when you do, you can never wake up on your own. It's like she's still staring down at you, waiting to destroy you for defying her. Sure it all worked out, but it still terrifies you as much as it did then.

The dream starts after you arrive. Your shoes clack against the polished floors, announcing your every step to all who are listening. Your jacket flutters behind you as you walk, giving off the impression of a cloak not a jacket. You've made sure that you picked out a new outfit to try to impress her, but you aren't sure she's a woman to be impressed by looks.

"An audience with Big Mom? You must be insane," the man escorting you jeers. "What makes you think you can get what you want?"

You don't reply, setting your jaw in determination. It's been something you've always been able to do. You get your way from almost everyone when you're this determined, not just your father. Not only that, you're banking on a few things to make you convincing.

The door swings open to a chorus of singing, the musical behind the door not stopping for you. It's just one of those techniques to intimidate you, and you won't fall for it. Not even as you swallow your heart back down and clench your fists to stop the fear. It's ridiculous. This whole plan is ridiculous all because you're stubborn about who you get to marry.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" she asks, leaning down to look at you. "To what do I owe the pleasure of having the next bride coming to my territory early?"

You sweep into a deep bow, not raising your eyes. Everything rests on your performance.

"I had a request. I fear that the groom you have paired me with is a bad match."

You can feel the heat of her anger. "Are you saying that I'm a bad matchmaker? All of my children are happy with their marriages, why wouldn't yours be the same?"

You straighten and hesitantly look at her. "I would never say that. What I fear may have happened, is you believe my role in my father's business. I may be his daughter, but I have yet to be labeled the heir."

"So you are useless?"

You gulp. "If that's how you choose to view it. I am merely being honest with you about my father. I'm begging you for your help, Big Mom. With your help, I can be named the heir. As soon as that happens, you are free to do with my father as you wish and I will turn it over to you."

She leans back and rubs her chin. "What does this have to do with the marriage?"

You keep your hands folded behind your back. "I need to marry someone who can protect me against anyone and who would never respect my father. I'm unsure how he does it, but he has been able to get very powerful people to do things he wants."

Thunder booms through the room as she growls at you. "Are you saying my children are weak?"

You bite your lip. How is she taking everything you say the wrong way?

"I have heard about some of your children more than others." You take a deep breath, trying to steady your ever growing nerves. "Perhaps it's a bit difficult to understand my perspective. You are the strongest woman on the seas. You're able to get yourself out of any fight you get in. You are unstoppable. I am nobody. I have no abilities and no fighting knowledge. Everyday I have to fear for my life. It would be better for you if I had a strong husband to rely on instead of running to you when I'm in danger."

You hold your back as straight as you can, pushing down all your fear. You have no idea if she's listening to you or if you're signing your own death warrant with every word you say.

She calms down. "So what you're saying is that you're afraid of getting hurt so you'd like one of my strongest children to marry you in exchange for handing over your father's empire?"

"In the simplest of terms, yes that is my request. You are a gracious woman for even listening to my request."

Her laughter echos through the room. "Very well. I hope you're okay with finding out which of my sons you'll marry at the wedding."

You dip into another bow. "Of course, whatever you wish I shall be okay with now that my fears have been put to rest."

She waves you off. "Begone now, I seem to have another person to speak to."

You walk out of the room as calmly as you can. Internally, you're both relieved and panicked. Now you have made your future even more twisted and unclear. The mere thought of going home or coming back here makes you sick.

As soon as you can, you duck into the shadows and start to retch. There's nothing to vomit, you skipped breakfast, but spit trails down your lips to the floor. All of your nerves are finally getting to you and you can't hold it back anymore.

There's a faint clinking sound as someone walks towards you, but you don't turn around. Not only is it a bit mortifying to be seen like this, you just don't have the energy. Who ever it is pauses a short distance away, never saying anything. You know it's to look at you. You left the door open behind you.

Normally the dream continues with you finding food, but still throwing it up as the Big Mom pirates sneer at you. This time, you jolt awake to see Katakuri looking at you with worry.

Your breathing is heavy as you fumble around, trying to get away. There's a million thoughts racing in your mind, but the most prominent one being that you have to leave. You don't even stop trying to get out of the bed as he picks you up and sets you in his lap.

"It's just me," he whispers as he pulls your head to his chest. "You're awake, and you're safe."

You do your best to focus on the sound of his breathing, trying to match it. It's a bit tricky since he's got larger lungs, but the deeper breaths help you slowly calm down. You ignore the rest of your body as you, pretending that you aren't still trembling.

You can't remember the last time you woke up like this. Maybe it was when you first got married and you were terrified of being surrounded by strangers. Maybe it was when they killed your dad and you kept getting those letters saying that people would get their revenge. Maybe it was just a few weeks ago when you woke up in a cold sweat wondering if you would ever see Katakuri again.

By the time you've calmed down, you forget why it scares you so much. It's just a dream of a time that you could've died but didn't. It's just a dream. It will only ever stay a dream.

"What happened?" His voice is soft as he kisses the top of your head. "Tell me."

You draw in a shaky breath. "It's just a dream I have sometimes. Just remembering why we got married in the first place. Did anyone ever tell you why?"

Katakuri gently rubs his thumb against your skin. It's nice to just have him hold you like this for a little bit. Even if you woke him and you feel like a bother.

"Mother just said that you were someone she needed to keep in check and I was the best fit for that. That's all I know."

"I marched in here and asked that she gave me a different son to marry. Part of it was I thought your brother was..." you search for the right word. "Not my type. Part of it was that I was scared to get killed by your family so I wanted one of her strongest sons so that way I was safer."

"Does that mean I'm your type?"

You can feel his face start to heat up as he leans against you. It's not something you ever really thought about, so you rack your brain for the answer.

"I'd say so. I didn't pick you out, your mom did, but that doesn't mean you aren't my type." Your face starts to heat up. "You are the prettiest one and I would be lying if I said that I hadn't thought of marrying you when I first heard about it."

He stops moving. "Why me?"

"Because you're my type. I keep learning new things about you that just tick more of my boxes so it worked out alright."

You tilt your head back and give him a soft kiss. For a moment he stays still, but he's quick to grab your chin and keep you there. It's only been a few weeks, but you've gotten plenty used to just how affectionate he is when you're alone.

"Like what?" His eyes look into yours, unblinking and persistent. "What do you like about me?"

"Are you really going to make me list off everything I like about you?"

Even in the dark his eyes shine, and you find yourself mesmerized. He looks so pretty and you reach up to play with his hair.

"Just a few things."

You pretend to think really hard about it. "Well, let me think. I like that you're honorable."

Pressing a kiss to his jaw, you continue to list things. "You care deeply about people."

A kiss to his cheek. "You're incredibly sweet."

A kiss to his nose. "And you have to be the prettiest man I've ever seen."

With a smile, you press your lips to his. You mean every word you said, and you hope he knows that. It's official. You've definitely fallen for him, but you'll keep that to yourself for now.

Katakuri grips your waist and pulls you closer. He's soft and warm, and it's just so comforting to be held. It hadn't taken you long to get used to this, and now you find yourself enjoying it.

Before you can react, he pulls away and presses a kiss to your temple. "It's still early in the morning, get more sleep."

Scowling, you decide to sass back. "Who are you to tell me what to do?"

He gives you another kiss. "Your husband."

"Uh-huh. And how long have you been my husband?"

"Three years, seven months, and," you hear the sound of him picking up the clock and setting it down. "Twelve days."

"I'm surprised you remember that. I forgot all about it last year." You put your head back against his chest. "Though you're never around for it."

He starts to rub your back again. "In case it was important. What made you remember?"

"Someone left me a gift to celebrate it. I don't know who, though they've left me a gift every year."

You close your eyes, content to just relax. Katakuri is always warm and soft. There's very little that's more relaxing than just laying on him and going to sleep.

"What did you do with them? Did you throw them out?" He sounds worried.

You give a halfhearted shake of your head. "Nope, they're in the top drawer of my dresser. The only thing I've considered throwing out is some stuff that an old friend sent me. Why? Did you send them?"

There's a rumble in his chest before he wraps his arm around you and rolls over. "Don't ask questions, just sleep."

"Have you been trying to woo me this whole time, Katakuri?"

He holds you tighter. "If I promise to tell you who left those tomorrow, will you go to sleep?"

You laugh. "Sure, but only if you promise."

"Alright, I promise. Now go to sleep."

It's not a hard thing to do. You're warm and comfortable right where you are, and you feel sleep tugging you back. The thing that gets you the most is the feeling of being safe. Right now, as you are, you feel absolutely safe for what must be the first time in a long time.

—-

You throw the clothes on the bed and groan. Nothing you've managed to pull out has worked or fit, and you're starting to go insane. How did it not cross his mind to tell you that you needed to go with him to some stupid meeting? Now you're stuck rifling through your closet looking for something that Big Mom won't kill you for wearing.

"Why didn't you tell me last night?" you whine as you pull out another shirt. "None of this is going to work."

Katakuri watches you from the bed, wearing the same thing he always wears. He has it easy with a wardrobe filled with replicas of his biker outfit. Sure he looks great in it, but would it kill him to wear something else and suffer with the ability to choose? Maybe something that could actually cover that massive chest of his.

"Should I pick for you?"

You wave at him dismissively. "No. I need to prove that I know what to wear to something like this. Otherwise if she wants to see me when you aren't around, I'll be in trouble."

You can feel his eyes on you, but you ignore it. It's not until you slip on another dress, that you realize he's been in the room the whole time. It never bothered you before. In fact, the first time you changed in front of him you told him that it didn't matter if he saw you change because you're married.

Now that's changed. Sure, you're still married, you've just started to be more romantic and physical with each other. After three years, you've started to actually act like a couple. It's only been about a month, and the realization has just started to set in.

Even though you've done this a hundred times, you suddenly feel exposed and embarrassed. Has he always looked at you like this and you just never noticed? Maybe you should just go change in the bathroom instead.

"This also doesn't fit, I can't get the zipper up. I think I'll do this in the bathroom instead."

The bed squeaks as he swings his legs off. "I can help."

You feel your body heat up. "That's not necessary. How much time do I have left? Maybe I can go buy something."

"You look fine in everything you wear," he adds. "I don't believe it matters what you wear."

"I just," you pause to slip the dress off. "I just want to be perfect. Everyone views you as perfect so I need to match that."

You rub the silk between your fingers before chucking it to the floor. It doesn't matter what you wear. You'll never be more to them than Katakuri's little wife. Someone who's a thorn in their side and took him away.

"You're already perfect," he mumbles. "Just wear what you like."

You don't respond. Not only can you not hear him, you aren't sure if anything he could say would make you feel better. Maybe that's for the best. Dealing with his family isn't something he can really help with. It a challenge you need to deal with on your own.

You continue to absentmindedly pull clothes out and toss them around. All you're actually doing is making a mess. It'll all have to be sorted, hung, and put away once more, and you probably won't have the energy.

Eventually you pull out something you forgot you owned. The fabric is soft and soothing to the touch. You think back to when you bought it, shortly after you got married. Clearly you were thinking about Katakuri, the color matches his eyes.

You pull it out and hold it up to your chest. "What do you think of this?"

He nods. "It suits you."

You hum in thought. That's not much a reaction. To be fair, he hasn't given you much of a reaction this whole time. Part of you wants him to give you more than that, you wish you could see if he was flustered. Unfortunately, he's all ready, complete with his scarf tucked under his nose.

"That's it?" You raise an eyebrow. "I think I was thinking about you when I bought it since I'm pretty sure your eyes are this color."

You make your way over to the bed and hold it up to his head. Leaning in close, you stare into his eyes, looking back and forth between him and the clothes. The color is practically a perfect match. You don't know how you managed to pull that off, but you feel proud of that.

"It's the same color." You brush his hair away from his eyes. "Such a pretty color."

Katakuri reaches up and grabs your hip. It hurts a bit, but you don't mind. You know he can't tell how much force he can apply to your skin so it's never intentional. Normally you just remind him that you're not a sixteen foot tall piece of muscle and he needs to be more gentle. This time, you don't have the chance.

He takes the hanger from you and tosses it on the nightstand. You frown before he pulls you into his lap. Having no idea what game he's play, you push his chest and huff.

"What are you trying to do?"

You're flustered at the position, straddling his thigh in your underwear. It's impossible to tell how he feels right now due to his face being in shadow, but you hope he's more confident than you are.

"Is there something wrong?"

You grip the soft leather covering his chest and cover your mouth. Squirming to get out of his grasp isn't helping. In fact, it's making things worse. The way he's holding you makes it impossible to escape.

Closing your eyes, you try to get control of your thoughts. Every time you move, you end up grinding against him. You feel dirty for wanting to keep going. A large part of you wants him, even if it's in this way.

"N-no. I'm fine."

You stifle a moan as he pulls you closer. It's like he's encouraging you to give in, but you can't bring yourself to do that just yet. Not when you don't know if you can, and especially when you don't know if you'd be able to stop.

There's the sound of him using his devil fruit, and soon he's lifting your chin up. You open your eyes just enough to look into his. He's not looking into your eyes, tracing your body with his gaze instead. When he finally does meet your gaze, his pupils are wide and his eyes are dark. You've never seen him like that, but for some reason it gives you the answer you need.

Even though you're covering your mouth, you bite your lip to keep yourself from making noise. You can't bring yourself to break eye contact as you start grinding against him. His brow furrows slightly before he closes his eyes. You feel his chest rise and fall in deep breaths under your hand as he seems to struggle with something.

Katakuri keeps you steady, his fingers digging into your skin. Your eyes flutter shut, and you drop your head into his chest. At this point, the movement of your hips is like second nature. The dragging of your cunt against his thigh brings you  pleasure you haven't felt in months.

Focusing on your own pleasure, you start to move faster. You slide your knees to the side just a bit more to get even closer. Whining at extra friction, you feel your whole body flush. Each rock of your hips sends jolts of pleasure to your core.

You spread your fingers, panting to get more air. It's starting to make your thighs and hips ache, but you can't stop. You don't want to stop. You're chasing the high of an orgasm.

After a few minutes of rolling your hips down into him, you start to lose your pace. The tension in your core is building to its peak and you can't focus on anything but reaching it. You're desperate and clinging to him like it'll help.

As if sensing your desperation, Katakuri guides your hips back and forth. You struggle to muffle the sounds you make as you feel the tension snap. Your legs shake as your orgasm courses through you, and you grip his jacket as tight as you can.

Your hips don't stop moving until you're over sensitive and whining. It takes a moment for you to catch your breath, your chest heaving as you go limp. You barely register Katakuri lifting you off his thigh and laying you on the bed. His touch is light and gives you goosebumps.

There's the soft feeling of a damp towel on your face and thighs as he wipes you down as best as he can. You give a peek to look at him, finding him still in intense concentration.

"I'll let you rest for a moment. We won't be late."

You nod and close your eyes. Not only did you have a nightmare last night, but you got your exercise in already this morning. It's surprisingly exhausting, and you feel like taking a nap. You could probably get away with it too, since Katakuri dotes on you.

You curl into a ball on his side of the bed, making yourself comfortable. It's still warm from where he was, and you absentmindedly reach for the blanket. Of course, you can't reach it. Deciding that it doesn't matter, you give up.

After what feels like seconds, he's gently shaking you awake again. You stretch and groan before rolling over. Risking your life for a few more minutes is stupid, but what else are you going to do? Get up and go to the meeting?

"Get dressed. I can carry you, but you have to wear something."

You pout. "I don't even want to go. Why do I have to go?"

He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I don't know, but it isn't wise to keep Mother waiting."

—-

You look at your lap. Most of the topics are about fixing up the remains of the chateau, something you couldn't care less about. As long as you and your husband have a room big enough for him, you'll be fine.

"Now, time for the reason I called some of you here," Big Mom announces, banging a spoon on her teacup. "I hope that at least some of you can fulfill my request."

What little noises that were being made stopped almost as soon as she started speaking. You glance at Katakuri who doesn't seem fazed. Deciding to calm down, you take your tea in your hand and take a sip.

"This attack against me has made me realize that I'm not quite as young as I once was. Therefore," she gestures around the table, "as all my married children, it is your job to continue growing our family. The first to bring me a grandchild will be rewarded."

You choke on your tea, coughing into the cup. Did she really just request that you start having kids? You're well aware of how old all of her married kids are, but she can't be serious. She already has a grandchild, not that she'll ever call the kid that.

"Is something wrong with my request?”

You shake your head aggressively. "Absolutely not. I thought for just a moment there was a bug in my tea, but it appears I'm just suffering from a lack of sleep. I'm sorry for the disruption."

You don't even pay attention the rest of her talk. Who knows what she's going on about with her age, some of her kids aren't even double digits? Maybe this is just some plan to get you killed in the dumbest way possible. How are you supposed to have kids with Katakuri of all guys? He's sixteen feet tall.

That's not to say you haven't thought about having kids with him. Even if it's been in a more 'how would this work' way and less of a 'I really want kids' way. You’ve only started to be comfortable with him in the romantic sense in the past month or two so you haven’t had the chance to even discuss such a topic. Though you don’t think you’d mind trying.

You shake your head slightly, attempting to get rid of the thoughts. This sort of situation is not the time to be thinking like that. Even if he keeps looking over at you to make sure you’re okay.

Thankfully the meeting ends after a few more minutes, and you head outside. The stress of being around so many of the Big Mom pirates is giving you jitters and you want to just curl up into a ball and scream. Normally they leave you alone, even if giving you dirty looks, but this time you were forced to partake in a dumb meeting about having kids.

Just as she had asked, Katakuri stays behind for a few more minutes. You watch the door anxiously, biting your nails as you wait. It’s a bad habit, but you can’t break it due to moments like these. Moments where you aren’t sure what’s going to happen to you or your husband. Moments where your whole life could be upturned. Thankfully, he comes out looking fine, if mildly annoyed.

He picks you up and sets you on his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“What did she want to talk to you about?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he just keeps walking down the stairs, making sure to not jostle you too much. Whatever it was must’ve been somewhat bad if he’s not willing to talk about it yet. Maybe he just doesn’t want to bother you with whatever it was.

You take in the construction as you walk, surprised by just how fast the work has been. The whole chateau is almost complete, only missing finishing details and furniture. It’s pretty impressive, and you wonder how everyone managed to get it done. Katakuri and you even have your original room back already, though you aren’t sure where they managed to find all of your belongings. Not that it matters, you have other things to worry about.

Once he sets you down and locks the door, Katakuri sighs. He looks slightly aggravated, and you aren’t entirely sure why. It’s clearly related to whatever his mom wants him to do, but whatever it is can’t be that bad. Not that you have any idea of what she normally asks of him.

“There’s something I need to go do,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be back in a few days.”

“It’s okay. I was really worried she had scolded and threatened you, so I’m glad you’re just leaving for a little bit.”

You press your hand to your chest in relief. There are far worse things that could’ve been said than having him go do something. At least he’s still safe and still yours.

“I’ll do my best to be quick.” He bends down to look in your eyes. “I promise.”

“I don’t care how long you take, as long as you come back safe.” You press a kiss to his lips. “Promise me you’ll come back safe and sound.”

Katakuri returns your kiss. “I promise to come back to you.”

With that, he leaves. Even though he just left, you find yourself missing him. You push down the idea of running after him and begging him to stay or take you with him. There’s no need to bother him. He’s already promised to come back and that’s more than you could ask for.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Three for One 3

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, cheating, customer service abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As a customer service associate, you’re used to work with a wide variety of characters. Your efforts to go above and beyond draw the attention of a certain set of customers who want more than what’s on the shelf.

Character: Andy Barber, Lloyd Hansen, Ransom Drysdale

Note: Let's go!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me &lt;3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

Two days before Christmas. The store is left in tatters. Shelves strewn with sparse lefftovers and aisles hastily paced by those who left their shopping a bit too late. The frantic shoppers searching for a diamond among the sand grains of untouched product.

You work at arranging the remnants of the season’s beauty advent calendars on a table draped in a bright red cloth. There’s a large tag in a metal stand that marks them as ten percent off. On the other side of the holidays, they will drop to a full eighty percent off. You always believed giftcards were a better prize, not that you got many gifts.

That year, Luanne gave you a new journal and a specialty hot chocolate bomb in the department’s secret santa. You go Michelle and gifted her a copy of your favourite novel and some nail polishes. That is the extent of your shopping and gift exchanges. Except for your puppy, Ernie, who will get a bone and one of those special gourmet dog meals.

You finish your arrangement and step back, admiring your work. It’s close to close and so close to the end of the race that the shop isn’t as busy as usual. The only customers you do see are in a rush and horribly disappointed when that very specific thing isn’t in stock.

“Excuse me,” you’re drawn around the deep voice. A man strolls up the center aisle of the beauty section, the tails of his coat flicking behind him, “hi,” he uses your name as he approaches, “I’m so sorry to bother you again but can you point me to, erm,” he looks down at his phone, “a ring light?”

You hesitate. He seems to know you and you admit, he looks familiar. You’re at that point where the faces all blur together. Your one innate flaw is that you really don’t have a good memory for that, bt you definitely recognise his voice.

“Hello, sir,” you fall short of his name. You want to say Alan but you also don’t want to be wrong. “The ring lights are actually with the cellphone.” You gesture back at electronics, “I know it makes more sense to put them with cameras.”

“Ah, oh, thanks,” he nods but doesn’t move to find his quarry, he lowers his phone, “how’s your holiday going? Thing’s slowing down,” he looks around and you can’t help but do the same.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, most people are all done,” you shrug.

“Ha, wish I could say the same,” he sighs, “I thought we were done but the wife just sent me on a wild goose chase.”

“Hm, oh, well, I’m not very busy, did you need help finding anything else?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, my manager’s done for the day so doesn’t really matter if I leave my zone,” you say, “kinda boring around here.”

“You’re too sweet,” he smiles, his blue eyes deep and swirling, “and that sweater is adorable.”

You look down at your dark blue sweater with the white crochet peter pan collar. You wiggle your shoulders and grin back at him, thanking him. You know he bought some perfume for his wife but you’re still blanking on his name.

“Here’s my list,” he tilts his phone towards you and looks down, shifting closer to you as he shows you a text bubble.

“Oh my, right. I’m not sure we’ll have everything,” you teethe your lip as you go through the items, “but we’ll see.”

A message pops up over the top and you try not to read, putting your head up as you try to act like you didn’t see it. It’s not that you meant to decipher the words but your brain quickly skimmed that ‘tomorrow night?’ Not much but just feels a bit personal.

“Alright, we’ll go to electronics first, then work our way forward,” you suggest.

“Good idea,” he agrees.

You set off and he follows at just a step. You have to remember to slow down as often you’re so determined you find yourself leaving your customers far behind you. You bring him to the mobile accessories and point to the ring lights.

He considers them and rubs his chin. He points between two; “what’s the difference?”

“Oh, this one comes with a tripod extension and this one is a full kit with a mic,” you point from one to the other.

“What do you think is better for, uh, streaming?” He sounds unsure of that last word.

“I think that kit would have more to it, especially if whoever it’s for is just starting out. But I’m don’t know too much about these things.”

“I’ll take the kit,” he scoops it off the shelf, “the kid can never have enough.”

“Oh? You have kids?”

“One,” he sounds less than excited, “teenager now so he really can’t stand me.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to…”

“No, no, it’s not your fault,” he forces away the shadow across his features, “you know how they can be. What about you? You going to see your parents? Spending the day with someone special?”

“Um, just Ernie,” you answer, “my puppy.”

“Cute,” he remarks, “are you guys open tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, yeah, ‘til five,” you try to remember the next thing on his list. 

He seems less concerned with the items than before, instead turn to examine a pop socket, “you have to work on Christmas Eve?”

“Yeah, closing, but I don’t mind.”

“What’s this?” He holds up a pop socket.

“It goes on your phone,” you pull out your phone and show him your daisy one, “see?” You hook your fingers around it, “it’s a grip to help you hold on.”

“Ah, makes sense,” he turns the thin package over, “kid’s always breaking his screen…”

You wait patiently as he makes up the mind to add the grip to his haul.

“What’s next?” You prompt as gently as you can.

“Oh, uh,” he looks at his phone, “video games…” he squints, “V-bucks?”

“Ah, yes, that would be a gift card,” you say, “I can show you the rack.”

He lets you lead him to the large rack of subscription cards. You point out the various currency amounts available and he rubs his brow. His forehead lines as you see the stress needling in his cheek. He’s struck with the late shopper syndrome. He’s start to feel the crush of time.

“So, just your dog?” He wonders as he picks up a $75 card.

“Yeah,” you answer softly.

“No boyfriend? Siblings?”

“Just me,” you assure him, “I don’t mind. I get to choose the dessert!”

He chuckles, “that’s a good way to look at it. Did you buy yourself something special?”

“Not really, I’ve been saving for a vacation so I put most of my overtime into that,” you explain. “You having a big dinner?”

“Last minute change, wife’s parents want to host. Had to figure out travel plans.” He looks at the giftcards again and your eyes fall to the large back curled up in his arm and the card and phone grip balanced between his fingers. He slides free a Netflix card and reads the fine print.

“Do you want a basket, sir?” You offer.

“Oh, well, sure,” he accepts as he looks down, “that’s very considerate.”

“Don’t want you to drop anything,” you smile and turn on your heel.

You go to the stack of rolling baskets beside the electronics desk. Tyler doesn’t acknowledge you as he sorts through game shells to put back on the shelf. You pull the basket behind you, rattling on its wheels as you approach the shopper by the gift cards.

“Here,” you veer it around towards him.

He bends to lower the ringlight inside and drops the smaller items into next to it; he adds the Netflix subscription along with it and holds onto the Kindle card in his hand.

“You got any of these around?” He holds up the card, “the reader?”

“Hmm, we should,” you rub your neck, “I suppose if we didn’t, you can get a tablet and download the app.”

“I guess,” he nods, “can you check?”

“Of course, sir.”

You turn away and call over your headset. Regan tells you there’s a kindle up in return they can sell. You ask them to put it aside.

“There’s one left at checkout. They’re going to have it waiting for you,” you announce proudly.

“That’s great. You like to read?” He asks.

“Oh, sure, my one vice is my book addiction,” you giggle, “how about you?”

“Well, I don’t get much of a chance with work. I’m usually burnt out from all the legal documents,” he drones grimly, “then the kid has extracurriculars or there’s a PTA meeting or the wife needs something done.”

“Sounds busy,” you say empathetically, “I hope you get some time to relax this holiday.”

“Me too,” he agrees. “I almost envy you. I’m sure your dog’s good company.”

“He’s so sweet,” you can’t help but beam at the mention of your boy.

“Big cuddler?” He asks.

“Uh, yeah,” the question is a bit unexpected, “you like dogs?”

“Never really had one. Don’t need the extra work,” he says, “but I don’t mind them.”

“That’s fair. He can be a bit needy.”

He flinches and looks down at his hand. His screen flashes and he gives an apologetic look as he raises his palm, “I’m so sorry. I need to take this.”

“Take your time, sir, I’ll wander,” you point over your shoulder with your thumb.

He mouths a thanks before he answers, “Barber.”

You back up and turn to distract yourself with the shelf of controllers and switch cases. His deep voice carries but you focus on the Sinatra carol playing overhead to drown him out. Still you can’t help but catch a few words.

“Five, yeah…no, she won’t…it’s fine…” He’s quiet for a moment before he raises his voice, “figure it out.”

His stern tone sends a chill through you. It’s a sharp contrast to his previously friendly demeanour. Well, he mentioned he’s a lawyer, you assume he has a lawyer voice, akin to your customer service one.

“Sorry,” he comes back to you, “my wife…” he takes a breath, “you don’t happen to sell wine here?”

You smile. The way he answered, it didn’t sound very affectionate but maybe he hadn’t expected his wife.

“No, sorry, sir.”

“Kidding,” he chuckles, “well, I guess I should get my butt in gear,” he flicks through his phone, “um, I assume toiletries? Face masks?”

“Oh, that’s near me,” you point back towards beauty, “there’s a special for the sheet masks.”

“Great,” he grabs the extended handle of the basket, “thanks so much for this. I’m so lost.”

“That’s fine,” you go ahead of him, “it’s the job.”

🎀

You groan as you put the last empty bin in the stack. You stand and rub your shoulders, traps sore from all the lifting and moving. The night crew will set up for the day after Christmas but in the last hour of work, you and the few others in the store scrambled to get the old displays torn down.

Luanne walks with you to the employee break room. She’s in more of a hurry as she has her three children waiting for her at their grandparents. She goes ahead of you and punches out as you wait and stretch out your arms.

“Have a good Christmas,” she says breathily as she opens her locker and pulls out her purse and jacket, folding the latter over her arm, “I’ll see you after. You’re opening, right?”

“Sure thing,” you say as you punch in your employee number. “Merry Christmas.”

“Give Ernie some pets for me,” she trills as she goes to the door. “Thanks again. You saved my ass today.”

“No problem, “ you shake your head, “Christmas Eve brings out the best.”

“Does it ever. Bye, sweetie,” she waves over her shoulder as he sweeps through the door.

You go to your locket and take out your fluffy pink sherpa coat and purse. You loop your scarf around your neck and slip your earmuffs around your head. You sit to pull on your boots and stand with an ache in your calves. You feel the fatigue finally setting in. It’s not over yet; one day off and you’re right back to the furor.

You yawn as you leave the breakroom and drag your feet across the store. You take out your phone as you pop your earbuds in and choose your holiday mix. You wave goodbye to a few other stragglers and go out the front door, Spencer locking it behind you.

It’s bitterly cold out. You’re surprised by the fresh fall of snow swirling in the air. It gives an extra sparkle to the time of year.

You scroll through your phone. The buses are on holiday hours already. The next one is in an hour. Great. You can just walk, at least until you get to the next stop. More buses stop there and you can get at least ten minutes within your building.

You trod along, kicking through the powder of snow as headlights gleam ahead of you. You walk along the narrow walk beside the hotel on the other side of the intersection and a pair of flashing tail lights blink ahead of you. A dark figure stands beside the white SUV but you can’t make out much more than their silhouette.

You keep going, peeking up curiously as you near. The boot of the car pops up and the stranded driver searches. As you pass, you trip over an unseen shape, the metal clank painfully against your toe. You look down at the small foot jack.

“Oh, shoot, sorry,” the man stands straight and turns to you, “I didn’t see you coming. I was just grabbing the iron–”

“That’s okay,” you pick out your earbuds, “I wasn’t looking.”

“Wait,” he stops short and points a gloved finger in your direction, “it’s you. You work at the store just down the way, right?”

You know the man. He’s the one who was in the store just yesterday. There’s a flutter in your chest at the coincidence of your encounter. It happens, especially in the shopping district. Half the city at least passes through her during the holidays.

“Yeah, uh, that’s me. You finish your shopping?”

“Just about,” he tuts and shakes his head, “blew a tire. So, happy holidays to me.”

“I’m so sorry,” you look down at the snowy walk.

“Mhmm,” he grumbles, “all this snow, I can’t get the jack to work either.”

“Dang, unfortunately, I’m not help. I don’t know much about cars.”

“That’s fine, I called roadside assistance but they’re taking their damn time,” he checks his watch.

“Oh…” you utter.

“Don’t let me rain on your holiday, honey,” he says, “your toe okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” you look down.

“Wait, are you walking home?” He asks.

You nod.

“Wish I could offer you a ride. This weather’s only getting worse,” he bemoans. He slips his hand into his jacket and pulls out his phone, “they should be here shortly so if–”

A set of headlights pull onto the apron and roll towards you. You look over as the man beside you does the same. You stand, somewhat dumbfounded at the unexpected run-in. 

“That’s them,” he declares, “hey, guys.”

He waves as the white van pulls up. You were expecting a tow truck. Oh, well. Not your problem.

“Great, I guess I should get going,” you excuse yourself, “have a happy holi–”

As you step back, your heel catches on something. You don’t realise until your plummeting onto your ass that the man stuck his leg out behind you. You hit the ground with an oomph, barely missing the metal jack half-buried in the snow.

You hear the van door sliding open and a clatter of heavy treads. You can barely catch your breath as the world moves fast around you. The man bends over you as another rushes over, grabbing you off the ground as the two vehicles block out the street from view.

“Be nice,” the first man warns as your arms are seized. “Don’t hurt her.”

You suck in a deep breath. What is happening? You go to let out the shriek as you’re struck by the situation. This can’t be real but you’re being half-carried towards an open vehicle. A hand comes up and stifles your scream, smothering you as you’re yanked harshly forward.

“Careful,” the man girds again.

“Shut the fuck up,” the other grits and pulls you away from the other, spinning you around as he hooks an arm around your neck and covers your mouth, forcing you towards the van. He bends backwards, lifting your feet as you kick and squirm.

“Honey, calm down,” the friendly customer coaxes, “it’s okay.”

You don’t understand. Why are they doing this? Why you?

The man’s hand slips as you grab at his arms and your teeth come over the vee between thumb and index. You bite down and he yowls. Even through his leather glove, you give him a viscous pinch.

“Fuck!” He tosses you forward so your knees hit the side of the van and fall half-inside.

“Hurry the fuck up,” another voice calls from inside the van.

“Trying,” the second man snarls as you stand and let out a shrill note, only for a second before you’re caught from behind and muted again. This time the leather glove seals over your nose. “Fucking bitch.” 

You’re lifted into the van, writhing and kicking as the door slides shut from the outside. You’re pinned on the floor in the seatless rear of the vehicle. You whimper as your eyes glisten with a sudden spring of tears. 

That question rings in your head again; why you? You have no one to look for you, no one to care. It’s only you against them.

[antiyourwokehomophobia2]

does it not bother you that your position on trans people is the one consistently held and demonstrated by fascists? does it turn your stomach when nazis come to rallies for causes you believe in? i only hope you feel some remorse for being such a vile person

Does it bother you that Ben Shapiro supports gay marriage? Are you going to stand against gay marriage because a conservative man supports it? No? Do you think that makes you vile?

How about this:

You have two people who support abortion. One person supports abortion because they hate children, think that the world should end, and people should stop reproducing.

The second person supports abortion because they think women should have full control over their own bodies.

These people both support abortion but are they really the exact same? Can you look me in the eye and say that they really support the same exact thing?

The things is: I don't believe what fascists do. I have no problem with men who are feminine. I have no problem with women who are masculine. I don't want a world where every man is Kratos and every woman is Jessica rabbit. Fascists and nazi's don't care that someone is trans. Do you think they'd be happy with a man who wears women's clothing? Do you think they love effeminate gay men? You think they'd love seeing hairy butch dykes everywhere? Do you think their issue is REALLY with trans people in general? Or is it people not living up to their assigned, religion based, gender roles?

I have no problem with men who wear make up or nail polish or who love other men. I have no issue with butch lesbians who talk loudly about wanting to eat pussy. It genuinely makes me very happy to see gnc gay people out and about, regardless of it they're gay men or lesbians. It's instant vibes every single time.

How about another question for you, anon. Does it not bother you that teenage girls are being told that teenage males should be allowed access to their dressing rooms just because they say they "feel" like a girl? Does the discomfort and fear of those girls not churn your stomach? Do you have zero sympathy? Do the feelings of girls and women take a backseat to the feelings of men? Does it bother you that gay people are being fed homophobic rhetoric in a progressive package? Does it bother you that gnc kids are being told that they're doing boy/girlhood wrong and they should transition because no boy/girl would dare act how they do? Does it bother you that males are openly talking about wanting to fuck lesbians and how lesbians make their dick hard? Does it bother you that gay men are being told they're missing out on not eating pussy? Does it bother you that gay people are being called bad people for not liking the opposite sex?

Because it bothers me. If that reads as me having an issue with trans people then I think that says more about your ideology than mine.

[lailoken]

Hi! If you don’t have the capacity to answer questions like this thats totally okay but I was wondering if you have any thoughts/resources on house cleansing rituals? My family and I are soon moving into the home my parents will likely live in for the rest of their lives, and I’m feeling drawn to consecrate the space with some cleansing and protection magic but unsure of where to start. We are of Irish and Danish descent living on Coast Salish land, I’m sure there’s some rich folk magic I could draw from but I have no teachers or guides to show me the way! I deeply admire your work and appreciate any advice you might offer :) Thank you!

Hello there, and I'm sorry it's taken me so long to respond! I've got a whole bunch of messages I've been meaning to respond to.

I definitely get that urge to "magically nest" into a new home.

I'll start by addressing the cleansing aspect of your question. When it comes to a new home (or really, any new space or item that you're going to be exposing yourself to energetically over time) there is often an urge to cleanse in some way, which is understandable. However, I encourage you to check in with yourself and your intuition of the space, asking if it feels truly pertinent to cleanse it. I bring this up because, some things—and homes especially, in my opinion—can actually benefit from and be strengthened by the accrual of energy in them. For instance, sometimes you move into a place, and it just feels gross and wrong on a visceral level, as if it was covered in "energetic grime." In a situation like that, cleansing makes total sense, as the goal is to remove that influence so that you can begin to imbue it with energy of your own. However, other times, you move into a place and immediately feel the warmth, love, and care that has been steeped into it, in which case, why would you want to remove such a rich and supportive energetic foundation from which to build upon?

As an example, when my in-law's first moved into the house we later inherited, it was shortly after the house's first tenant had died within it. She was a very kind and funny old woman who really liked my in-laws and helped make it possible for them to buy it following her death. For the first ten years or so of living in the house, they still strongly felt a sense of her caring nature present in the home, which makes sense given how long she lived there. What's more, though, any time my in-laws would argue or struggle with tension, they would begin to smell cigarette smoke and hear distant country music they couldn't find the source of (two things the original homeowner loved and indulged in daily), which would always lead to them laughing and patching things up. The energetic residue left by this woman could theoretically have been cleansed upon moving into the house, but I believe that would have been a sad loss for the house and the family.

With that little rant out of the way, let's say that you do have reason to want to cleanse the home and address that approach. There are many different ways one could use to energetically cleanse a building, but the main ones that seem worth mentioning here include Fumigations, Washes, and Recitations.

Purifying Fumigations involve invoking the excisive virtues present in a given material or mix of materials (such as Rue, Sage, or Vervain) and then burning said materials to release the ritually activated and aligned virtues of excision to aid you in cleansing the space. Practically speaking, this looks like wafting smoke through the home.

A Cleansing Wash involves steeping the excisive virtues of pertinent materials (such as Salt and Chile Pelper) into a solvent base (such as Water, Vinegar, or Oil), invoking and aligning said virtues ritually, and then using the homemade solution to physically cleanse the space (using the different solvents depending on your need—i.e. use oil for polishing wood, use vinegar for cleaning glass, etc.)

Recitations of Banishment involve walking through the house reciting or reading words of power aloud that call for the expulsion of unwanted energies or entities. This method will generally benefit from a close connection to the source material and/or a close working relationship with one's spirit allies.

In many cases, a mixture of two or more of these approaches will be used in conjuctjon to purify a home.

As for domestic protection magic, that's another subject with innumerable approaches. Additionally, most useful domestic protection magic I've encountered seems to focus on particular facets of protection (which is why my home is layered with multiple wards). As such, I struggle a little bit to think of a concise and clear way to discuss this aspect of your question. However, here are some links to previous posts in which I've discussed things like:

Protecting the home from Intruders

Protecting the home from Storms

Protecting the home from Fire

Protecting the home from Malefic Forces

A Generalized Property Ward

Additionally, I believe that developing a close working relationship with the spirirt of one's home—called a Genius Domi in my tradition—is probably one of the best ways to establish magical guardianship of the house.

[stars-in-a-jam-jar]

I would like to point out the popular interpretation of The Truck Moment in the recent TADC episode as a thinly veiled sort - of - suicide takes it entirely out of context. The ending to the scene was a moment of brutal dramatic irony to transition us into the crushingly artificial performance review. The horror and despair comes from the fact that the one moment Gangle actively enjoys herself on this adventure and feels a deep and profound sense of joy within her soul that doesn't revolve around Getting A Good Grade In Manager and Proving She Can Be Totally Normal And Functional now that she has her shiny new happy mask, it's cut short by losing her balance in front of a random semitruck. I've had emotionally profound and joyful moments cut short by the equivalent of getting hit by a fuckin' semitruck, It's Not Fun.

And that moment is the only reason she's been docked points in her Shift Manager Score. She left early because Pomni said she could and it would be okay, then she took a good hard look at where she was and threw out the mask that was nice when it started and made her hyperproductive, but was making her more miserable and obsessive the longer she kept it on. Caine is the one who calls it "going a little kooky and running into oncoming traffic", but in the scene we JUST SAW before Caine says this, Gangle ran through the parking lot in a sense of euphoria, do a lil spinny, and then tripped into traffic ENTIRELY on accident. Caine Is Demonstrably Objectively Wrong with how he describes this! That's the point of the performance review scene!!

It's a deeply uncharitable interpretation of Gangle's actions ON PURPOSE, both from a writing standpoint AND a character standpoint. He's playing the little game with them and he understands the proper way to do that is to Be A Normal CEO Guy, and this is how he understands those kinds of people to behave. "I am such a good bo-o-- o-" is Caine going 'I've fulfilled the requirements~ Good job me~' and being either entirely out of touch with Gangle's true feelings and just glitching out for no reason, or being unable to square those feelings he sees with the fact that he Did The Game Properly. It's either a sillie gag or a moment exemplifying he can't quite simplify the layers of complexity going on here 'cause he's a computer who's just as dumb as the rocks he's printed on. His brain is a beeswax polished coconut.

You don't have to be a wage slave to understand these scenes either, kids who get in trouble at school often can tell you exactly what it looks and feels like to have an incredibly reasonable and understandable course of actions (usually even ones that DON'T lead to catastrophic accidents) be wildly misinterpreted by authority figures who just refuse to apply like half an ounce of empathy and compassion. That's the point of that line where Caine describes her 'cutting her shift short' (~choosing to be lazy by leaving early and fucking up the timecards~) 'going a little kooky' (casting away the thing that made her a 'valuable asset to the Spudsy's Corporation', realizing how happy it makes her to not be Like That all the time) and 'running into oncoming traffic' (can you believe she was running in the parking lot and then got hit by a truck because she was reckless and not paying attention? Very unbecoming behaviour of a Spusy's employee), and then he just goes 'B+ for you♡' and we find out that is the score he gave everyone who was in the restaurant!! Because his scoring metrics are arcane and silly and he doesn't actually wanna crush anyone's spirits, he just wants to play the game with them, not at all understanding the underlying logic of some of his own rules he slapped together!

Like, the scene's good but you guys are wrong about why and I'm baffled no one else has made this post.