#unrelated to the other problem I caught later in the day

[tj-crochets]

Good news: after a lot of weeks, my air conditioner is fixed!! Also good news: I caught an error in the software at work that was impacting both contractor pay and customer invoicing! Bad news: going through large amounts of data loosely falls under the purview of the department I am now sort of in charge of, which meant my department (which is me and two other people) had to individually open every single order from [specific subset of customers] since the beginning of the year to manually check if either error had occurred. Hundreds of orders, even with a few different criteria we could use to narrow it down. It's done though! I mean the error is not fixed but previous instances of it causing problems are caught and now that we know it exists we can catch future problems before they are invoiced/paid out I have done zero crafting today and I honestly doubt I will get any done lol

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[faebled-stories]

The Weight of Approval

Kinkvember Day 19: Facesitting

(G)-IDLE Cho Miyeon x Gender Neutral reader

11.7k words

It’s just another shift at the café—a grind that blurs together with yesterday and all the days before. The worn counters, the hum of the coffee machine, the clink of mismatched mugs—it’s all routine. The same cracked tiles beneath your feet, the same smudged menu board hanging above the register. The café isn’t much, tucked into the corner of a busy street, frequented more for convenience than ambiance. It’s the kind of place that serves as a pit stop for hurried commuters, not somewhere anyone lingers.

You barely register the motions anymore. Each cup you fill, every polite smile you force, feels like another tick of the clock until your shift ends. But even then, that only means returning to your tiny apartment—three floors up in a creaky, aging building where the walls are thin, and the heater groans louder than it works. Inside, there’s a stack of unopened bills on the kitchen counter, a fridge that hums louder than it cools, and shelves lined with little more than ramen packets and canned soup. Payday is still a week away, and you’ve already done the math—it won’t stretch far enough.

Every month is the same. Rent looms like a guillotine, always just one mistake away from coming down. The café job was supposed to be temporary, just something to cover the basics until you landed something better. But “temporary” stretched into months, and now it feels like a trap, closing in around you as the bills keep piling higher. Nights at your other job—a late shift at a dingy convenience store—blur into exhaustion. Between the two jobs, sleep is a luxury, and dreams? Those have been shelved for “later,” though you’re no longer sure when “later” will come.

The bell above the door rings, jolting you from your thoughts. It’s automatic to glance up, expecting a regular with their usual small talk and routine order. Instead, she walks in.

The woman is striking, her presence undeniable from the moment she steps inside. Everything about her is sharp and precise, from the tailored fit of her sleek black suit to the effortless grace in her stride. The glint of her designer heels catches the dull light of the café, momentarily outshining the worn surroundings. Her dark sunglasses obscure her eyes, but you feel the weight of her gaze, like she’s sizing up the entire room in a single sweep. She’s out of place here, like a panther wandering into a pet shop.

She doesn’t wait in line. Instead, she glides directly to the counter, her movements fluid and purposeful, ignoring the subtle whispers and curious glances from the few other patrons.

“I’ll take my usual,” she says, her voice low and polished, each word perfectly enunciated.

You blink, caught off guard. There’s an air of expectation in her tone, as though her usual should be obvious. For a second, you feel like you’ve failed an unspoken test, unable to recall what she’s asking for. “I—uh—I’m not sure what your usual is…”

Her sunglasses slide down just enough for you to see her eyes. They’re sharp and assessing, a piercing gaze that seems to cut straight through you. “Is there a problem?” The question is more of a challenge than a clarification, her tone daring you to falter.

Before you can stammer out an apology, your coworker Minnie steps in, her movements quick and anxious. “I’ll take care of it,” she says, her voice soft and hurried. She doesn’t look at you as she nudges you aside, her trembling hands already reaching for the espresso machine.

The woman steps back, folding her arms as she waits. Her gaze, however, doesn’t leave you. It’s piercing and unrelenting, a quiet power that feels suffocating. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to—her presence alone commands the room.

Minnie works quickly, though her nervousness is evident. She fumbles slightly with the milk, spilling a few drops as she pours. When the drink is finally ready, she hesitates, glancing at the woman as if trying to gauge her mood. After a tense moment, Minnie takes a deep breath, picks up the cup, and walks it over.

You watch as she offers the drink, her posture stiff, like she’s bracing for something. The woman leans in slightly, inspecting the cup with the precision of a jeweler examining a diamond. She murmurs something, soft and deliberate, but her eyes remain locked on you.

Minnie freezes for a beat, her shoulders tightening before she nods and turns back toward you, her steps quick and unsteady. Her face is pale, her usual cheerful expression replaced with unease.

“She…” Minnie begins, her voice barely above a whisper as she sets the cup down on the counter in front of you. Her hands fidget with her apron. “She wants you to bring it to her.”

You glance at Minnie, confused. “Me? Why?”

Minnie shakes her head, her eyes wide. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “But you should just do it. Don’t… don’t upset her.”

The anxiety in Minnie’s voice sends a chill down your spine, but there’s no time to question it. The woman hasn’t moved. Her gaze is fixed on you, calm and unwavering, yet it carries a weight that feels oppressive, like a predator sizing up its prey.

You pick up the cup, its warmth doing little to steady your trembling hands, and step toward her. Each movement feels deliberate, exaggerated by the tension in the air. Her eyes track your every step, sharp and unrelenting, leaving you feeling utterly exposed. The café’s noise—the hum of the coffee machine, the soft chatter of patrons—fades into a dull background buzz as all your focus narrows on her.

When you’re close enough, you extend the cup toward her, your pulse hammering in your ears. Her fingers brush yours as she takes it, her touch cool and fleeting, yet it sends a shiver racing through you. Her lips curl into a faint smile—small, deliberate, and unsettling, like she’s amused by some private joke you’re not in on.

“Well aren’t you adorable,” she murmurs, her voice low and smooth, with just enough of an edge to leave you unsure if it’s a compliment or a taunt. Her gaze lingers on you, unhurried, peeling back invisible layers like she’s already learned more about you than you’d ever willingly share.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat as she tilts her head slightly, her expression shifting into something closer to curiosity—or is it calculation?

“How would you like to earn some extra money?” she asks, her tone casual yet deliberate, as if the question is part of a test.

The words land like a thunderclap, unexpected and disarming. You blink, caught off guard, the full weight of her presence pressing down on you as the question hangs in the air. The answer should be obvious—of course you do. You think of the bills piling up on your kitchen counter, the hollow ache in your stomach from skipping meals, and the rent looming over you like a storm cloud. But there’s something about the way she asks, something that makes your pulse race with more than just hope.

“I—uh…” Your voice wavers, and you hesitate, but the intensity of her gaze pushes you to nod, slowly at first, then more firmly. “Sure.”

Her smile deepens, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Instead, there’s a flicker of satisfaction, like she’s just confirmed something she already knew. She reaches into her purse with a deliberate, practiced motion and pulls out a business card. The action feels almost ceremonial as she hands it to you with a lazy grace. The card is pristine and minimalist: Ascend International. Cho Miyeon, CEO.

“Come to this address at 8 pm tonight,” she says, her tone smooth and unyielding. “Don’t be late.”

You glance down at the card in your hand, its edges crisp and cool against your fingertips. The weight of it feels disproportionate to its size, like it’s a key to a door you’re not sure you’re ready to open.

Her gaze flickers down to your mouth, and for a moment, she pauses, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as if an idea has just occurred to her. “Stick your tongue out,” she says suddenly.

The request catches you so off guard that you hesitate, unsure if you’ve heard her correctly. But her expression remains unchanged—no humor, no patience, only expectation. The air between you feels heavy, charged, as if she’s testing you.

Against every instinct, you comply, your face heating as you stick out your tongue. You feel ridiculous, exposed, yet there’s a compulsion in her gaze that makes resistance impossible. She studies you for a beat, her smirk deepening in satisfaction before she straightens, her presence as composed and commanding as ever.

“Good,” she murmurs, almost to herself, before turning and striding out of the café, her movements fluid and unhurried, like someone who always gets exactly what they want.

As the door swings shut behind her, Minnie sidles up beside you, her voice low and shaky. “You… you have no idea who she is, do you?”

You shake your head, your fingers clutching the card tightly. “No. Should I?”

Minnie’s eyes widen, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced by something cautious, almost fearful. “Cho Miyeon,” she whispers, glancing toward the door as if expecting her to walk back in. “She owns half this city. If she wants something from you…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Just don’t screw it up. People don’t usually get second chances with her.”

You look down at the card again, its elegant design somehow intimidating. It feels out of place in your hands, like it belongs in a world far removed from your own. Yet, as the weight of her gaze lingers in your mind, you think about your reality—your landlord’s last warning, the meals you’ve skipped, the endless grind of multiple jobs that never seem to be enough.

Maybe this is the kind of risk you need to take.

If you can survive it

-----

Stepping into Ascend International’s headquarters feels like stepping into another world. The building itself is a towering monolith of glass and steel, its sleek facade reflecting the city skyline with an almost arrogant perfection. The sheer scale of it is intimidating, a symbol of power that dominates the horizon, making everything around it feel insignificant by comparison.

The lobby is no less imposing. It’s cavernous, every surface polished to a mirror-like gleam. The pristine marble floors stretch out endlessly, their subtle veining shimmering under the soft, calculated lighting. Minimalist artwork, abstract yet commanding, adorns the high walls, while brushed metal accents catch the light in subtle, expensive flashes. It’s a space that whispers sophistication but demands reverence, as if even the air inside has been curated for those who belong.

The people moving through the lobby only add to the sense that you’re out of place. They stride with purpose, their designer suits immaculate, their gazes fixed straight ahead as if they’re always on the brink of something important. No one lingers. No one hesitates. Everyone here seems to belong, moving in seamless synchronization, like pieces in a machine that runs on ambition and authority.

Clutching the business card Miyeon gave you, you force yourself to breathe steadily as you approach the reception desk. It looms ahead of you, an enormous slab of black marble so flawless it seems to absorb the light around it. Its size and stark design make you feel even smaller, dwarfed not just by the desk but by the sheer magnitude of the world you’ve just stepped into.

Behind the desk sits a young woman, impeccably dressed and exuding the kind of confidence that only comes from being part of something this powerful. Her name tag reads Song Yuqi, but it’s her sharp eyes that capture your attention. They snap up the moment you approach, and in a single, sweeping glance, she seems to assess everything about you—your clothes, your posture, the nervous energy you can’t quite suppress. It’s a look that feels both brisk and invasive, as if she’s already reached a conclusion before you’ve even spoken.

“Hi, I’m here for an interview with Ms. Cho,” you manage to say, though your voice sounds smaller than you’d like. You straighten your posture, hoping it’ll help mask the nervous tension tightening in your chest.

Yuqi’s lips twitch into a faint smirk, a flicker of amusement crossing her otherwise polished demeanor. “Oh, I know what this is about,” she says, her tone light and almost playful. Her gaze drifts over you again, slower this time, adding an unsettling layer of scrutiny. It’s as if she’s sizing you up for something you’re not privy to, enjoying a private joke at your expense.

Without another word, she opens a drawer with precise, practiced movements and pulls out a slim stack of papers. She hands them to you with a flick of her wrist, her smile deepening as though she’s waiting for your reaction. “Here,” she says, the amusement in her voice unmistakable. “You’ll need to sign this.”

You glance down at the papers, your breath catching as your eyes skim the first few lines. The text reads: Employment Contract. The words jump out at you—personal assistant, non-disclosure agreement, exclusive services—but most of the document is dense with legal jargon that blurs together as your eyes dart across the page. Then, a number leaps out at you—the salary.

It’s staggering. More money than you’ve ever made in your life. More than you’d even dared to dream of earning, even after years of grinding through multiple shifts and sleepless nights. For a moment, the weight of it all hits you at once: no more overdue bills, no more rationing groceries or waking up in a cold sweat over rent. This could change everything.

You glance back at Yuqi, who’s watching you with that same faint smirk, her amusement sharpening as if she can read every thought racing through your mind. There’s something unnerving about how much she seems to know—like she’s been expecting you to react this way all along.

Your hand hesitates over the contract. Rationally, you know this is unusual. Signing a contract before even meeting with Miyeon feels strange, almost reckless. But the rational part of you is quickly drowned out by the sheer allure of the number staring back at you. Slowly, almost dreamlike, you pick up the pen and sign your name. It feels surreal, like you’re crossing an invisible threshold into a world you’re not sure you belong in.

When you look up, Yuqi’s smirk has widened, her amusement shifting into something sharper, almost predatory. She takes the papers from you with a practiced efficiency, her fingers grazing yours briefly before she sets them aside. “Top floor,” she says, her voice smooth and a little too cheerful. “Room 2601. Don’t keep her waiting.”

You nod, your throat too tight to respond, and turn toward the elevator bank. As you walk away, Yuqi’s voice trails after you, light and teasing but with a faint edge of something you can’t quite place. “Good luck,” she calls, her tone carrying a hint of pity that sends a shiver down your spine.

As you press the elevator button, the weight of what just happened settles over you. The sleek lobby, the polished marble, the silent power radiating from every corner of this place—it all feels like it’s pressing down on you, reminding you of how small and out of place you are. Yet, in your hand, the signed contract feels heavier than it should, a reminder of the door you’ve just opened.

After stepping into the elevator, the doors glide shut with a smooth finality, sealing you off from the world below. Yuqi’s soft chuckle lingers in your mind, faint yet cutting, like the echo of something you can’t quite grasp. Was she mocking you? Warning you? The question gnaws at you, but there’s no time to dwell on it.

The elevator begins its ascent, smoothly but at an unnerving speed, and each floor that flashes by on the display only amplifies your anxiety. By the time you reach the top floor, your heart is pounding, each beat echoing in your ears.

The doors open with a soft chime, and you step out into a long, dimly lit hallway. It’s strikingly different from the bright, bustling lobby below—quiet, almost unnaturally so, with thick carpeting that muffles your footsteps. Floor-to-ceiling windows line one side of the hall, offering a sweeping view of Seoul’s glittering cityscape far below, the lights sprawling endlessly in the night. The silence is profound, almost oppressive, heightening the tension coiling within you.

At the end of the hallway, a single door waits: Room 2601. The numbers gleam in brushed silver, unassuming yet undeniably foreboding.

You approach the door slowly, each step making your breath come shorter, the weight of anticipation settling heavily on your shoulders. Reaching the door, you raise a hand, hesitate for just a moment, then knock. The sound is barely more than a whisper against the thick, quiet air. Then you wait, each second stretching out into tense silence, your mind racing as you imagine the woman behind the door—the woman who is already reshaping the course of your life with a single, strange offer.

Finally, the door opens. Miyeon stands there, poised and composed, her gaze sharp enough to cut through the tension you’ve built up in your mind. Her presence fills the room instantly, commanding and undeniable. The tailored lines of her outfit emphasize her power, every detail of her appearance deliberate, perfected. She doesn’t say anything at first; her cool, assessing eyes are enough to strip you of any lingering confidence.

“Did you sign the contract?” she cuts the silence, her tone calm but unyielding, the question landing with an air of finality. Her gaze doesn’t waver as she waits for your response, clearly expecting nothing less than the truth.

“Yes, Ms. Cho,” you reply automatically, trying to keep your voice steady despite the nervous tightness in your chest.

A faint, almost predatory smile touches her lips, curving with just enough subtlety to unsettle you. “Good.” She takes a step closer, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor, her eyes narrowing as she studies you. The weight of her gaze feels unbearable, as though she’s deciding whether you’re even worth the moment she’s spending on you. “Let’s begin your orientation,” she says smoothly, though there’s something in her tone that makes it feel less like an introduction and more like a trial.

You nod, swallowing hard, trying to push down the uncertainty tightening in your stomach. She watches you for a moment longer, as though savoring your discomfort, then parts her lips, her words delivered with meticulous precision.

“I need to know if you’re capable of handling my needs—whatever they may be,” she says, each syllable deliberately enunciated. Her eyes stay locked on yours as she takes another step forward, her voice low and unyielding. “This position demands complete obedience and total surrender. Is that clear?”

Her words hang in the air, their weight almost suffocating. You hesitate, the gravity of her demand pressing against you. “You…want me to surrender?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, exposing the crack in your resolve.

A flicker of disappointment crosses her face, quick and sharp, like a blade slicing through your hesitation. “Yes.” Her tone is calm, yet there’s an edge to it that leaves no room for misunderstanding. “If you want to work for me, I expect unquestioning compliance.”

She lets the silence stretch, forcing you to absorb the weight of her words, her gaze unrelenting. Then, her expression hardens slightly, and her voice lowers, smooth and controlled. “Do you understand?”

You nod quickly, a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. “Yes, Ms. Cho.”

She pauses, her eyes narrowing further, as if testing your sincerity. Then, with a measured look, she speaks again. “Good. Fetch the bench from the corner.”

The command catches you off guard, but her tone leaves no room for hesitation. You glance around quickly, spotting the object she means. The bench’s design immediately captures your attention—sleek and purposeful, with polished steel legs and padded leather cushions. Its unique height and tilted headrest stand out, clearly crafted with precision, though its exact purpose escapes you. There’s an air of deliberate intent in its construction, as if it was made for something specific, yet unknown to you.

Miyeon’s gaze remains fixed on you as you approach the bench. The weight of her stare makes you hyper-aware of your movements as you grip the sides of the bench and carefully drag it to the center of the room. The polished floor amplifies the sound of the legs sliding into place, each scrape making your pulse quicken. The act feels symbolic, a deliberate display of your compliance, and the tension between you thickens with every passing moment.

When you’ve positioned it where she wants, you glance back at her uncertainty. Her expression remains unreadable, but the faint quirk of her lips suggests satisfaction. She steps closer, her heels clicking softly, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

“Lie down,” she commands, her voice calm yet leaving no room for doubt.

The words catch you again, and you hesitate for a brief moment, your body instinctively stiffening. “Ms. Cho, I—what exactly do you mean by…?”

Her gaze sharpens instantly, silencing you with a single look. Her voice, deceptively soft, cuts through the air like a blade. “Are you questioning me again?” she asks, her tone laced with challenge. “I thought you understood what surrender means. Lie down. Now.”

Her words land with finality, and you feel a flush of shame rise at your hesitation. Swallowing hard, you nod and lower yourself onto the bench, the cool leather pressing against your back as you settle in. The elevated headrest cradles your head, tilting your face upward as though the bench itself is positioning you for her. The chill of the leather seeps into your skin, grounding you in the moment, while the faint scent of her perfume lingers in the air, mingling with the tension that fills the room.

Miyeon steps closer, standing above you, her presence towering, her gaze unbroken. Slowly, deliberately, she reaches down and hikes her skirt up to her hips, revealing toned thighs and the delicate edge of lace. Her movements are smooth, calculated, as if every motion is part of a performance meant to remind you of your place. She slips her panties to the side with practiced ease, her poise never faltering, and positions herself above you.

Her movements are deliberate as she lowers herself onto the bench, aligning her body perfectly with yours. The height of the bench leaves her perfectly positioned—not too low, ensuring her weight presses against you with satisfying firmness, yet not so high that she feels unsupported. The angle of your head allows her to settle fully, her thighs bracketing your face as her warmth and presence close in around you. The air feels thick with her scent—rich, musky, and faintly floral—flooding your senses and leaving your head spinning before she’s even settled fully.

Leaning forward, she braces herself on the bottom of the headrest, her hands naturally finding the spots perfectly molded for her grip. The design seems intentional, as if tailored for this very moment. Her fingers tighten briefly as she steadies herself, her gaze flicking down to meet yours. There’s no softness in her expression, only a sharp, expectant coolness that cuts through the haze clouding your mind.

“Stay still,” she murmurs, her voice calm but carrying the weight of command. The words feel like a seal on the moment, binding you to her expectations. Then, with deliberate ease, she presses down, enveloping you completely.

Your world narrows to her—the pressure, the weight, the intoxicating heat of her body as it moves against you. Tentatively, you extend your tongue, pressing it to her for the first time. Her taste floods your senses, earthy and rich, tinged with the saltiness of her skin. It’s overwhelming, disorienting, but also grounding, her presence completely consuming every thought, every breath. Encouraged by the faint shift of her hips, you try again, moving with more intention. You let your tongue trace slow, deliberate strokes, convinced you’re finding the rhythm she expects.

Her thighs press firmly against your head, creating a perfect seal that traps you beneath her. The leather of the bench beneath you feels immovable, your position leaving you utterly at her mercy. With her weight pressing down, each inhale becomes a struggle, your breaths reduced to shallow pulls of air through your nose—and every one of them is filled with her. Her scent is heady, musky, and floral, a potent blend that seeps into your senses and clouds your thoughts. It feels like you’re breathing her in completely, your lungs filled with nothing but her presence.

Her body feels warm, responsive, as though she’s relaxing against you, her hips beginning to move in slow, deliberate rolls. The grind of her pelvis against your face is measured, controlled, and demanding, and you adjust your movements instinctively, matching her pace. Her thighs tighten subtly around your head, holding you even more firmly in place, leaving no room for error, no room for escape. You feel every shift, every slight increase in pressure, and interpret it as a signal that you’re doing something right.

The faint tension in her breathing seems to deepen, her exhalations growing slightly louder, and you take it as a sign to focus more, to give her exactly what she needs. You adjust your tongue, letting it trace patterns you think she’ll enjoy, responding to the subtle cues in the way her hips shift. Her warmth spreads against you, slick and inviting, and you press more firmly, convinced you’re making progress, that she’s responding to your efforts.

Her scent grows stronger, mingling with the heat radiating from her skin, and you lose yourself in the rhythm she’s setting. Each movement feels purposeful, deliberate, as if you’re aligning perfectly with her desires. Her faint exhalations become the only sound you can hear, soft and measured, a quiet reward that urges you to keep going, to match her pace with precision. Her thighs flex against your head, squeezing slightly, and her hips grind down harder, forcing you to adjust to her increasing demands.

Trapped between her thighs, the pressure becomes all-encompassing, the weight of her pressing down leaving you barely able to think beyond her. Each inhale feels heavier, as though her scent is suffocating you in the most intoxicating way. You pour everything into your movements, your tongue moving in slow, deliberate circles, convinced that her silence is approval, that the steady roll of her hips means you’ve found exactly what she wants.

The seconds stretch into minutes, your efforts intensifying as her body shifts with increasing deliberation. The grind of her hips becomes more insistent, demanding, and you press harder, moving your tongue with more purpose. The pressure of her weight feels all-encompassing, her thighs gripping your head tightly, leaving you immobile, entirely at her mercy. You focus entirely on her, responding to her every movement, certain that you’re meeting her expectations.

Then, you feel it—a subtle, unmistakable slickness spreading against your tongue. It’s warm, intoxicating, and sends a jolt of confidence through you. Her arousal feels like confirmation, a silent acknowledgment that you’re doing something right. You match her movements with renewed focus, interpreting the growing wetness as proof of your success.

But then, without warning, her weight lifts.

The sudden loss of pressure is startling, disorienting, and you blink against the light as your eyes flutter open. The brightness of the room feels blinding, a harsh contrast to the cocoon of warmth and scent you’d been engulfed in. Her essence still lingers heavily in the air, clinging to you, intoxicating, making your head spin like you’ve been drinking something far too strong.

“Wait…” you murmur, the word slipping out unbidden as she rises fully. Without thinking, you push upward, your body instinctively trying to follow hers, desperate to maintain the contact, to hold onto the sensation. You feel drunk, untethered, and you try to lift your head toward her, as if that alone could pull her back down.

But Miyeon moves with calm, dismissive ease, pulling her skirt down and smoothing it into place with the same practiced precision she began with. She steps off the bench, her movements steady and composed, as though what just happened was a passing thought, nothing more than a fleeting interruption.

Her expression remains untouched by the moment, her gaze sharp and appraising as she looks down at you. The cool detachment in her eyes feels like a splash of cold water, banishing the haze that had clouded your mind. The confidence you felt just moments ago evaporates as she folds her arms, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Time’s up,” she says smoothly, her tone businesslike, almost bored. There’s no emotion, no warmth in her voice, as though she’s closing a meeting rather than commenting on your performance.

You sit up slowly, your body unsteady, your breath uneven as you try to process what just happened. The remnants of her scent and taste cling to you, making your head feel light, dizzy, as though you’re still intoxicated by her presence. Your mind clings desperately to the moments when you thought she was responding—the subtle shifts, the pressing weight of her hips, the slick warmth of her against you. You were so sure you’d succeeded, but the cold finality of her words shatters that illusion.

Miyeon steps back, her expression unchanging as she watches you. Her gaze remains fixed, cool and detached, giving nothing away. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, as you wait for her to say something, anything, that might redeem the moment.

But she doesn’t. Her stance, her tone, her movements—all of it makes one thing clear: you’ve fallen short.

Her silence stretches, heavy and oppressive, before she finally speaks.

“You get a C,” she says, her voice unhurried, calm, and somehow all the more cutting for it. Each word lands with surgical precision, slicing through the hope you’d just started to build. Her tone is devoid of emotion, her expression cold and detached, as though grading a forgettable report. “You missed the mark entirely.”

The words feel like a punch, knocking the breath from your lungs. You stare at her, struggling to process, grappling with the sudden weight of failure. “You’re giving me a…C? But I thought—I felt you get wet, Ms. Cho. I thought…”

Her eyes narrow just slightly, enough to silence you before you can finish. The room feels colder as her gaze sharpens, pinning you in place.

“Did you?” she replies, her tone so detached it feels clinical. “Just because my body has natural reactions doesn’t mean you were doing anything remarkable. Don’t confuse basic biological responses with skill.”

Her words hit like ice water, cutting through the fog of your confusion and hope. She takes a step closer, her presence looming, her expression hardening as she begins to dissect your performance with brutal precision.

“Your efforts lacked strength,” she begins, her voice carrying a steely edge. “Your tongue was weak—unfocused. No rhythm, no consistency. I set a pace for you, and you couldn’t even manage that.”

She pauses, letting the words sink in, her critical gaze sweeping over you as though she’s already dismissed you. The weight of her disappointment presses down harder than her thighs ever did.

“And you completely ignored my clit,” she continues, her tone growing colder, harsher, each syllable cutting deeper. “I practically guided you there, made it obvious, yet somehow, you missed the most important part.” Her lips curl into a faint smirk, but there’s no humor in it, only a razor-sharp derision. “I even grinded myself against you, practically handing you the answer, and still, you failed to deliver.”

Her words are relentless, brutal. Each one dissects a flaw you hadn’t even realized, exposing every weak point you thought you’d hidden. It’s as if she’s stripping you down to the core, piece by piece, revealing everything you couldn’t see in yourself.

She takes a measured step back, her voice dropping lower, colder. “The bare minimum,” she says, enunciating each word with icy precision, “is to make me cum. And you couldn’t even come close to doing that.”

The words hit like a hammer, reverberating in the silence that follows. The finality in her tone leaves no room for argument, no possibility for redemption. Her gaze remains fixed on you, sharp and unwavering, her disappointment so palpable it feels like it’s physically crushing you.

“I don’t need someone who merely tries,” she continues, her tone growing colder still, like frost spreading across the room. “I need someone who performs, who instinctively understands what I require without me having to spell it out. Excellence isn’t negotiable in this position.

The words leave you hollow, your confidence shattered under the force of her critique. Each syllable lands with precision, tearing apart every scrap of pride or hope you’d felt during the act. The air feels suffocating, thick with the weight of her disappointment.

“Please, Ms. Cho,” you manage, forcing the words out even as a lump rises in your throat. “Give me another chance. I can do better—I’ll work on everything you said, I’ll improve if you just—”

She raises a hand, cutting you off, her expression turning to stone. The gesture alone silences you, her gaze cold and unrelenting.

“There won’t be another chance,” she states, the words cold and final. “Not here. I don’t invest my time in mediocrity.”

Her dismissal feels absolute. Her attention shifts away from you, as though you’re no longer worth a moment of her time. She steps back to her desk, picking up a pen with the same calm precision she’s shown all evening, and resumes her work without so much as a glance in your direction. The sound of the pen scratching against paper feels deafening in the silence.

“You may leave,” she says coolly, her tone as unyielding as stone. “This position requires skill, precision, instinct—and you’ve shown none of those.”

The words hang heavy in the air, sharp and final, cutting through the silence like a gavel. Your body feels frozen in place, unable to move as the weight of her judgment presses down on you. Slowly, numbly, you rise, your legs unsteady beneath you, your chest tight with the sting of failure.

Each step toward the door feels heavier than the last, your mind replaying her critique with relentless clarity. The sharpness of her dismissal leaves you feeling stripped bare, your confidence shattered completely. You’d thought you’d done well, thought you’d sensed her responding, but her cold, clinical analysis has left no room for doubt. You fell short—entirely.

As you reach the door, you glance back once, hoping for even a flicker of warmth or reconsideration in her expression. But Miyeon’s gaze remains fixed on her paperwork, her focus already shifted, as though you’ve ceased to exist in her world.

You leave, her scent and the weight of her words lingering heavily in the air around you, each step away from her office feeling like another layer of failure pressing down.

The weight of her words settles heavily in the silence that follows, each one lingering in the air like a closing door. You stand, feeling hollow, the sting of failure biting deep. Each step toward the door feels impossibly heavy, as if you’re dragging your very sense of self along with you. Her critique replays in your mind, each cutting line driving the shame and disappointment deeper. By the time you reach the door, her dismissal has stripped you of whatever pride you had left, leaving you exposed and aching with the sting of her judgment.

As you step out of the building, the scent of her perfume still clings to the air around you, subtle but intoxicating. Her taste lingers on your lips, and her piercing gaze haunts your thoughts, replaying again and again with relentless clarity. You can’t stop thinking about every moment, every mistake, every opportunity you missed. Her words echo in your mind, each replay stinging more than the last, but beneath the pain and disappointment, something else lingers—a pull, an inexplicable need.

There’s something magnetic about her, something that refuses to let go. The effortless authority she carried, the way she dismissed you without a second glance—it’s intoxicating, a force that leaves you restless, unsettled. The intensity of her presence lingers, drawing you back even as the humiliation burns. Somehow, you want another chance, not to prove yourself to anyone else but to her—to earn her approval, to be exactly what she demanded.

-----

The morning after that unforgettable Monday encounter with Miyeon, you wake with her still lingering in your mind—her voice, her scent, the calm precision with which she had dismissed you. The memory of her critique, her unyielding detachment, plays over and over, cutting deeper each time. Somehow, she has taken root in your thoughts, filling them in a way you can’t ignore. Her essence lingers—not just a memory but something that feels alive, woven into every corner of your mind, unrelenting and impossible to shake.

The café where you usually spend your mornings feels miles away, though it’s just down the block. Instead of showing up to your shift, you find yourself sitting at your small kitchen table, staring blankly at your phone, waiting for something—anything—that might offer a way forward. The thought of pouring coffee, of going through the motions while she dominates your thoughts, feels unbearable.

By late morning, desperation pushes you to try a respectful, measured call to her office. Yuqi’s voice is professional, polite, and painfully impersonal. You introduce yourself, forcing your tone to stay steady even as urgency tinges every word.

“I wanted to see if Ms. Cho might be open to reconsidering…” you begin, your heart pounding with every syllable. “I know I didn’t meet her expectations, but if I could just speak with her, I’m sure I could—”

“She’s made her decision,” Yuqi replies with finality, her words cool and unyielding. “Ms. Cho has a very clear standard.”

The line goes silent, and you’re left holding the phone, the emptiness pressing down on you like a weight. Your heart sinks, but the idea of giving up feels unbearable. That night, you sit down at your desk, composing an email that takes far longer than it should. Every word feels inadequate, yet you pour your sincerity into each sentence. You admit your mistakes, express your deep respect for her, and humbly ask for another chance. As you hit send, you close your eyes and release a shaky breath, hoping your words will reach her, that she’ll sense your sincerity.

By the next morning, there’s no reply. The café calls to ask if you’re coming in, but you barely register the message. You can’t go back—not yet. The silence from Miyeon feels sharper now, amplifying your anxiety. Without thinking twice, you call her office again. This time, your tone carries a quiet urgency, though you fight to keep it professional.

“I understand Ms. Cho’s standards are high,” you say softly, your voice earnest, almost pleading. “But I know I can meet them. I just need a chance to show her.”

The rest of the day drags, heavy with unanswered questions. As evening falls, you find yourself composing another email, this time rawer, more vulnerable. You lay everything bare—your mistakes, your desire to improve, and just how much this opportunity means to you. With trembling hands, you hit send, feeling both exposed and hopeful.

By midweek, the desperation gnaws at you like a dull ache that refuses to leave. Miyeon has somehow consumed your every thought. Her presence is no longer just a memory—it feels like she’s there, looming in the edges of your mind, controlling your every emotion. Her scent, her voice, her unyielding control—they haunt you in the quiet moments, filling your chest with a weight that grows heavier with each passing day.

You’ve stopped checking your work schedule entirely. The thought of being surrounded by noise and chatter while Miyeon’s critique echoes in your mind is unbearable. It’s as if nothing else matters but reaching her, proving yourself worthy of her attention, her approval.

That afternoon, you decide to go in person. Nerves buzz under your skin as you step into the sleek lobby of Ascend International, the company’s towering headquarters. Yuqi greets you at the desk with a polite but distant smile, her practiced professionalism impossible to crack.

“Hi,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m here to leave a message for Ms. Cho. I’d like to speak with her if she’s available.”

Her smile doesn’t waver, though there’s a flicker of sympathy in her eyes. “I’ll be sure she receives your message,” she says with polite finality.

As you walk away, hope mingles with dread. You tell yourself she must know—must feel—how far you’re willing to go to prove yourself. It’s impossible to imagine her being unaware of your persistence, of how deeply she’s embedded herself into your thoughts. Yet the silence continues to gnaw at you, relentless in its clarity.

Thursday passes in a haze. You leave another voicemail, your voice trembling with the weight of your growing need.

“Please,” you say softly, almost whispering into the receiver. “I know I fell short. But if she would just allow me one more chance, I won’t disappoint her.”

The intensity of your plea surprises even you, but at this point, pride is irrelevant. You’d give anything just for the chance to redeem yourself. As you leave the office, you find yourself in the lobby once more, hoping for even the faintest sign of acknowledgment. Yuqi looks at you with that same polite sympathy, her small kindness like a bitter reminder that you’re clinging to something fragile.

By Friday morning, the week’s silence feels unbearable. Every unanswered call, every unread email, weighs on you like a sentence passed. Miyeon’s critique plays in your mind with brutal clarity, her voice sharp and cutting as she dismisses you. It’s as if she left a part of herself with you, tethering you to her, drawing you back no matter how much it stings. You can’t let her go, and yet you fear that every effort has been futile.

Then, just when your resolve begins to waver, your phone rings. The unknown number on the screen sends your pulse racing, and you answer with shaky hands.

“Ms. Cho has agreed to see you,” Yuqi announces, her tone brisk and efficient. “Tonight at 8 p.m. sharp. Do not be late.”

Relief crashes over you like a wave, your heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and gratitude. You’ve been granted another chance—a chance to prove yourself, to rise to her impossible standards. As you hang up, the tension that has consumed you all week begins to dissipate, replaced by a renewed determination. Tonight, everything will change

-----

By 7:30 p.m., you’re pacing in the sleek lobby of Ascend International, nerves thrumming under your skin like a live wire. The building’s towering glass walls reflect the city’s lights, casting long shadows across the pristine marble floor. Yuqi sits at her desk, her posture casual yet poised, her sharp eyes occasionally flicking up to you as you move restlessly.

When the clock hits 7:40, you finally gather the courage to approach her desk. Yuqi’s gaze snaps to you, her lips curving into a faint smirk as she leans forward slightly, her tone light and teasing. “Nervous?” she asks, though it’s clear she already knows the answer.

You nod, swallowing hard. “She’s expecting me,” you manage, trying to keep your voice steady, though it cracks slightly under the weight of your nerves.

Yuqi doesn’t hide her amusement. “Oh, I know,” she replies, her tone bordering on playful, though there’s something sharp beneath it. She taps a perfectly manicured nail against her desk before gesturing toward the elevator. “Same room. You’re cutting it close, so I’d suggest moving quickly. Miyeon’s not known for her patience.”

Her words make your pulse quicken, and you nod quickly, stepping toward the elevator. But just as the doors slide open, Yuqi calls out, her voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial. “Good luck,” she says, a hint of mock pity in her tone. “You’ll need it.”

The elevator ride feels endless, the quiet hum of the machinery doing nothing to calm your racing thoughts. By the time you reach the top floor, your hands are trembling, and a bead of sweat rolls down your temple. You step out into a long, dimly lit hallway, its polished floors gleaming beneath your shoes. The door to Miyeon’s office looms at the end, imposing and unyielding, and you force yourself to move forward, each step heavier than the last.

At exactly 7:45, you’re standing outside Miyeon’s office. The weight of the moment presses down on you, suffocating, as you glance at the sleek double doors. This is it—the culmination of a week spent consumed by thoughts of her, by desperation, by the need to redeem yourself. Her dismissal on Monday has been looping in your mind, relentless and unforgiving, and you’ve been preparing for this moment every second since.

Taking a deep breath, you press your hand to the door and push it open.

The atmosphere inside Miyeon’s office is heavy, almost oppressive. Everything about the space exudes power, from the minimalist decor to the sharp angles of her desk.

Miyeon is seated behind it, her posture as precise as ever, her face unreadable. Tonight, though, there’s a sharpness to her expression, a tension in the way her hands rest on the desk. Her gaze lands on you the moment you step inside, freezing you in place. Her eyes are piercing, cutting straight through any pretense of confidence you’ve tried to muster.

“You’re back,” she says, her voice sharper than you remember, each word clipped and deliberate. The skepticism in her tone slices through the air, leaving no room for pretense. She lets the silence linger, her gaze unrelenting, before she adds, “I suppose you’re here to prove something.”

“Yes, Ms. Cho,” you manage, forcing yourself to stand taller, to appear more confident than you feel. Your voice is steady, but inside, you’re unraveling under her scrutiny. “I’m ready to meet your standards.”

Her lips curl into the faintest smirk, though it holds no warmth. If anything, it feels like a challenge, an unspoken test to see if you’ll falter. She stands slowly, her movements deliberate, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor as she rounds the desk. Every step feels measured, calculated, as if she’s sizing you up all over again.

When she reaches you, her gaze doesn’t waver. She tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studies you. “You’ve had an entire week to think about Monday,” she says, her tone cool, almost conversational. “Tell me—what makes you think this time will be any different?”

You swallow hard, the question hitting you like a punch to the gut. “I’ve… I’ve thought about everything you said, Ms. Cho,” you reply, your voice quieter now, but no less determined. “I know I fell short, but I’ve prepared. I’m ready to prove that I can meet your expectations.”

Her eyes flicker, the faintest glimmer of something unreadable passing through them. She doesn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch until your nerves feel like they’re about to snap. Then, with a brisk motion, she gestures toward the center of the room.

“Then show me,” she says simply, her voice low but charged with authority. “And don’t waste my time.”

Without needing further instruction, you step toward the corner of the room where the bench waits, sleek and polished under the dim office lights. You retrieve it carefully, its weight familiar in your hands, and position it in the center of the room. The leather gleams, the elevated headrest perfectly angled for what you know is to come, designed to cradle you in place beneath her.

You lower yourself onto the bench, the leather cool and firm beneath you, grounding you as you settle into position. The headrest cradles your head, tilting your face upward in a way that leaves you open, exposed, perfectly aligned beneath her. Your breath quickens as Miyeon steps closer, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Each step feels deliberate, each sound echoing the weight of your expectations.

She stops just in front of you, her sharp gaze sweeping over you, calm and detached, as though calculating every detail. Without a word, she slips off her heels and sets them aside. Her fingers move to the hem of her skirt, gathering the fabric upward with fluid grace. Her thighs come into view, smooth and commanding, a contrast of elegance and strength. The edge of her lace panties teases at your vision before she moves them aside with a simple, routine motion.

Her scent—muskier, richer than you remembered—immediately fills the air. It’s overwhelming, a heady blend of something primal and intimate, saturating your senses as she steps forward and positions herself above you. It’s a smell that haunted you this entire week, lingering like an ache in the back of your mind. You’d tried to forget, to push it aside, but nothing could dull the memory of her—the way she consumed you so entirely, only to dismiss you without a second thought. Now, as her warmth radiates above you, it feels like you’re being granted water in a desert, but only if you can prove you’re worthy to drink.

When she lowers herself, her weight presses down fully, engulfing you in her presence. Her thighs press against your cheeks, trapping you completely beneath her. Each shallow breath you manage is filled entirely with her scent, and for a moment, you’re paralyzed by how familiar it feels, how much you’d been craving this. It’s as though the week of rejection, of begging for this chance, has only amplified your hunger. Nothing else could satisfy you but her.

Tentatively, you begin, pressing your tongue to her with slow, cautious strokes. Her taste fills your senses—earthy and rich, tinged with saltiness, intensely familiar and utterly consuming. The longing you’ve carried for days surges forward, and you push past your hesitation, tracing deliberate patterns as you adjust to the faint shifts of her body. Her warmth grows against you, and you focus entirely on her, on the faint signals she gives—the flex of her thighs, the subtle tilt of her hips.

Her breathing remains steady, restrained, and her body feels poised, in control, as if she’s still testing you. You move with more purpose, pressing your tongue more firmly, hoping to draw a reaction, to prove you’ve learned. Her hips begin to move slightly, setting a measured rhythm, and you match it, your tongue tracing careful circles in time with her movements.

Her thighs tighten slightly, holding you in place, and her warmth presses against you more firmly. For a fleeting moment, you think you’re succeeding, that you’re drawing her into the moment. But then, her weight begins to lift.

The change is subtle at first—the brief press of her thighs as they shift upward—but it’s enough to make your heart drop. Her warmth pulls away, leaving a sudden void that feels unbearable. Her expression is faintly impatient as she rises, her movements deliberate, as though confirming what she already suspected: that you’ve failed her again.

A horrible sense of déjà vu washes over you, sharp and unrelenting. The rejection from your first evaluation, the cold detachment in her voice, all come rushing back, amplifying the ache in your chest. The memory of that moment has haunted you all week, and now it feels as though it’s happening all over again. Panic claws at you, raw and immediate.

Her voice cuts through the silence, low and unimpressed. “I see you haven’t learned anything.”

The words slice through you, sharp and final, and desperation surges in their wake. You can’t let her leave—not again. Before she can move further, you reach up, your hands trembling as they find her hips, gently but firmly holding her in place. Your lips brush against her folds, pressing soft, pleading kisses that linger just a moment longer than they should.

“Please, Ms. Cho,” you whisper against her, your voice breaking. “Don’t leave. I know I can do better. Please—just let me try.”

She doesn’t move. You press another kiss to her, slower this time, the desperation in you mounting. “Please,” you murmur, your voice shaking. “I need this. I need to show you. I won’t fail you.”

Another kiss. She doesn’t lower herself, doesn’t speak, and the silence feels crushing. Your kisses grow more frantic, more desperate, your lips trembling as you pour every ounce of pleading into them.

“Don’t go,” you whisper between kisses, your voice cracking with emotion. “Please, Ms. Cho. I’ll do anything—just give me this chance. Let me prove I can please you.”

You press another kiss, and this time it lingers, your lips soft and reverent against her warmth. “Please…” you murmur again, the word barely audible, carrying the weight of everything you’ve felt this past week—the sleepless nights, the ache in your chest, the obsessive need to have this moment again.

For a moment, the air is suffocatingly still. Her body remains poised above you, her thighs tense, her piercing gaze boring into yours, unreadable and unwavering. You’re left hanging, each second dragging painfully as you wait for her to decide if your pleading, your desperation, is enough.

Finally, she shifts, lowering herself back down slowly, deliberately. Her weight settles on you again with a quiet finality, her thighs bracketing your face and trapping you completely beneath her warmth. Her presence floods your senses again, her scent, her taste, her closeness—more consuming now, more intense after nearly losing it.

“Continue,” she says, her tone clipped and cold, leaving no room for hesitation. “This is your last chance.”

Her words settle heavily in the air, fueling your determination. She lowers herself slowly, her weight pressing down on you with deliberate command. Her warmth engulfs you completely, her thighs framing your head, trapping you in place. Her scent surrounds you—intense, musky, and deeply familiar, stirring the longing that had haunted you since her rejection. This is your moment, your chance to prove yourself, and you won’t squander it.

You press your tongue to her carefully at first, savoring the sensation. Her taste floods your senses—earthy, slightly salty, and utterly her. It’s overwhelming, a reminder of everything you’ve been craving since that first evaluation. You move cautiously, tracing along her in slow, deliberate strokes, letting her subtle shifts guide you.

As you work, her hips begin to move slightly, a faint rhythm that you match immediately. You focus entirely on her clit, finding it with purpose and letting your tongue trace precise circles over the sensitive spot. Her body responds subtly at first—a slight flex of her thighs, a faint deepening of her breathing—but then she begins to grind against you, her movements deliberate, setting a demanding pace.

Her thighs tighten around your head, holding you firmly, and her warmth spreads against you as her arousal builds. The faint scent of her grows stronger, more intoxicating with each passing moment. The low sounds that escape her—soft, unrestrained moans—cut through the silence, quiet but impossible to miss. The sound of her pleasure fills you with renewed purpose, driving you to push harder, to make her lose the control she clings to so tightly.

You adjust seamlessly to her movements, your tongue pressing more firmly as her hips set a rhythm that grows more demanding with each passing second. The warmth of her envelops you completely, her scent thick and intoxicating, saturating your senses until nothing else exists. Her thighs flex around your head, tightening their hold, as if to anchor herself against the rising tide of sensation. Every inhale you take is filled with her, each shallow breath a reminder of the position she holds over you.

Her soft moans slip past her lips, each one slightly louder than the last, their restrained nature fraying at the edges. The controlled grace she carried moments ago begins to falter, her movements sharpening as her hips grind against your tongue with increasing insistence. You respond instinctively, letting your tongue trace circles that align perfectly with her pace, adjusting to every subtle cue her body gives.

Her thighs tremble against your cheeks, their strength faltering as the tension in her body builds. The moans grow breathier, tinged with urgency, and her weight presses down more fully, holding you in place beneath her. Her breathing becomes uneven, hitching with every deliberate motion of your tongue as you follow her lead, unrelenting in your efforts to meet her every need.

Suddenly, her movements grow erratic, the control she held so tightly slipping entirely. Her body tenses above you, her thighs clenching tightly around your head, cutting off your world to everything but her. A sharp, shuddering moan escapes her lips, low and unrestrained, the sound raw and involuntary. Her hips press down fully, grinding against your tongue with forceful, almost frantic motions, riding the crest of her climax.

Her body tightens completely, trembling violently as wave after wave of pleasure overtakes her. You remain steady beneath her, your tongue moving with careful persistence, guiding her through every pulse, drawing out each lingering sensation. Her knuckles whiten as her grip on the head rest tighten, her breaths coming in short, uneven gasps.

For a long moment, she remains like that—tense, trembling, pressing herself fully against you as the final shudders of release course through her. Only when her body begins to relax does her grip loosen, her thighs softening their hold on your head. Even then, you don’t stop entirely, your movements gentle now, offering a last, tender caress as her breathing begins to steady once more.

Her breathing slows as her movements begin to still, her weight easing slightly as she lifts herself just enough to create space. But as her warmth pulls away, a thought flashes through your mind: this isn’t enough. You can’t just meet her expectations—you need to surpass them.

Sliding your hands up, you let your palms glide over the curve of her hips, steadying her as you adjust her position slightly. Your fingers trail downward, curling firmly to grab handfuls of her cheeks. The sensation of her soft skin under your hands is electrifying, and you feel the tension in her body shift as you grip her firmly. You spread her open with care, creating the perfect angle to access her most sensitive, tightest spot. It’s a bold move—one she hasn’t guided you to, one she hasn’t even hinted at—but you know you need to take this risk. You have to make yourself unforgettable.

With deliberate intent, your tongue traces lower, teasing the sensitive curve of her entrance before pressing further, exploring the tight ring of her ass. The sensation is new, unexpected, and her reaction is immediate.

Her body jolts slightly, her hips lifting momentarily in surprise as a sharp, breathy gasp escapes her lips. For a split second, your heart races, unsure if you’ve overstepped. But then her hips press back down against you, a reflexive movement that tells you everything you need to know. Her thighs tremble against your cheeks as her weight shifts fully onto your face, and the tension in her body gives way to something rawer, more unrestrained.

Her moans begin to spill freely now, soft and breathy at first, slipping past the tight control she holds so carefully. The sound fuels you, driving you to press deeper, to let your tongue move in slow, deliberate circles over her most sensitive areas. Her grip on the desk falters as her hips grind harder against you, her movements growing more erratic, more demanding.

You alternate between her ass and her folds, moving with seamless precision. Your tongue delves deeply, savoring her, while your nose brushes against her slick warmth with each shift. Her hips jerk, grinding against your face as though her body can’t decide which sensation to crave more. The weight of her bears down heavily, leaving you struggling for air, but all you can think about is her. Every detail—the way her thighs tighten around your head, the faint tremble in her muscles, the unrestrained sounds spilling from her lips—it consumes you entirely.

Her thighs shift slightly, and then, with a deliberate motion, she lifts her legs off the floor, letting her entire weight press fully onto you. The headrest beneath you creaks slightly, adjusting to the added pressure as she settles in, trapping you completely beneath her. The shift is overwhelming, her body sinking into yours entirely, her warmth and slickness engulfing your senses. Each shallow breath you manage is filled with her scent, and the sensation is intoxicating.

Your hands tighten on her cheeks, spreading her wider as you focus entirely on her ass. You let your tongue explore deeply, pressing into her with slow, deliberate strokes, circling and teasing the sensitive area with unrelenting purpose. Her body tenses above you, her thighs trembling violently as her breathing turns ragged and uneven. Each exhale is sharp, shaky, and punctuated by guttural moans that grow louder and less restrained as she begins to lose control.

Her hips grind down against your face, her rhythm faltering, her movements desperate. Her breathing becomes erratic, catching with each flick of your tongue, until the sounds spilling from her lips dissolve into broken gasps. The pressure of her weight presses down harder, and her thighs clamp around your head with such force that it feels like she’s grounding herself entirely in you, refusing to let you go.

Her body begins to quake above you, losing all rhythm as her hips move erratically, chasing the sensations building within her. Her breathing stutters sharply, and then, with one raw, unrestrained cry—the loudest, most primal moan you’ve ever heard from her—her climax overtakes her.

Her entire body shudders violently, her hips grinding down fully, pressing you deeper into the headrest as she rides out wave after wave of intense pleasure. Her slick wetness spills onto your face, warm and undeniable, marking the raw power of her release. The sensation spurs you on, your tongue moving with soft but purposeful strokes, coaxing every last tremor from her body.

Her thighs quiver uncontrollably, gripping your head like a vice as she rides through the overwhelming storm of her climax. Each moan spills from her lips in sharp, uneven bursts, her control shattered entirely. Her grip on the headrest tightens, her knuckles white, as though anchoring herself against the intensity of the moment.

You can feel her unraveling completely, her body vibrating with aftershocks that seem to go on forever. Her weight remains heavy on you, holding you in place as she takes in shallow, ragged breaths, her body still trembling with the echoes of her release. Even as her movements begin to slow, her thighs remain locked around you, as though she’s reluctant to let go of the sensation. Every ounce of her focus is still on you, every ounce of yours entirely on her.

Finally, her body begins to relax. Her breathing slows, and her thighs loosen their hold, trembling slightly as she lifts herself off you with deliberate care. Her legs are unsteady as she straightens, smoothing her skirt with the practiced precision you’ve come to expect. Her breathing is still uneven, her chest rising and falling as she regains her composure.

For a moment, she stands there silently, her gaze heavy and unreadable as it lingers on you. The scent of her, the taste of her, clings to you, saturating your senses entirely. The room feels charged, her presence commanding even in stillness. You dare not assume anything—she’s still the one in control, and any sign of approval must come from her. Yet, in the weight of her silence, you can’t help but feel that you’ve done something right.

Her chest rises and falls evenly as she regains her composure, her expression remaining as poised and inscrutable as ever. You think you’ve proven yourself, think you’ve risen to her exacting standards, but the thought lingers, unspoken, as you wait. Every second stretches, heavy with anticipation, until finally, she speaks.

“Well done,” she murmurs, her tone softer than usual but still carrying that commanding edge. The weight of her approval lands squarely on you, and a quiet sense of pride begins to unfurl in your chest. Then, with a slight glance back at you, her lips curve in what could almost be a smile—subtle, fleeting, but unmistakable.

“Bold,” she says, her tone as measured as ever, but there’s a hint of something beneath it—impressed. “Unexpected, but… effective.”

The words hit you like a wave, filling your chest with pride, though you keep your expression neutral, refusing to let the satisfaction show too openly. Still, the acknowledgment lingers, affirming that your risk wasn’t just noticed but appreciated.

“Report here Monday morning,” she continues briskly, her tone returning to business. “You’ve earned your place.”

Her words hang in the air, settling over you like a blanket of relief. You don’t let the triumph show too openly, knowing she’s still watching you, but a quiet sense of accomplishment blooms within. She turns away, stepping back toward her desk with deliberate, unhurried movements, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. The sound carries finality, a subtle dismissal, but also an acknowledgment of what you’ve achieved.

You remain where you are for a moment, your chest rising and falling as you catch your breath, her scent and taste still vivid, still clinging to you. The weight of her words settles warmly over you—a victory hard won, a moment of validation you’ll carry with you. You’ve proven yourself tonight, but you know better than to assume it’s enough. This is only the beginning.

A faint trace of satisfaction flickers across her face as she glances at you one last time, her gaze lingering briefly before returning to her work. With an elegant nod, she dismisses you, her attention already shifting back to her desk.

Carefully, you rise, your legs unsteady from the intensity of the moment. Before leaving, you reach for the bench, the familiar weight grounding you as you lift it and carry it back to its original place in the corner of the room. The small act feels significant, almost ceremonial, as though returning it to its spot closes this chapter of the evening. Once it’s in place, you step back, sparing a glance at Miyeon, who is already engrossed in her work, her demeanor as composed as ever.

Each step toward the door feels deliberate, carrying the weight of everything it took to earn this moment. As you leave her office, the memory of her words—and her body—lingers in your mind, a reminder of what you’ve achieved and what’s still expected of you.

The quiet buzz of the building greets you as you exit, a stark contrast to the intensity of the room you just left. The evening air feels cooler, crisper, as you step outside, but the warmth of her approval stays with you. Miyeon’s words echo in your mind, solidifying the pride swelling in your chest.

“Bold. Unexpected, but effective.”

Those words, more than anything, stay with you, reminding you of the risks you took and the reward you earned. Monday will bring new challenges, but for the first time, you feel fully prepared to meet them. You’ve been given a chance to prove yourself again, and you’re determined to exceed every expectation.

-----

Back in the office, after the door softly clicks shut, Yuqi steps inside and leans against the frame, arms crossed and a smirk on her lips. “Alright, spill,” she teases. “What’s the deal? You actually allowed a second chance? I thought that wasn’t your thing.”

Miyeon glances up from her desk, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Oh, please. I knew from the start I was going to,” she says smoothly. “There was potential. I just needed to see it under the right conditions.”

Yuqi raises an eyebrow, the smirk widening. “So the whole week of calls and emails? You’re telling me that wasn’t just for your entertainment?”

A faint smile curves Miyeon’s lips as she leans back in her chair. “Maybe I enjoyed it,” she admits. “But desperation does something extraordinary—it strips away everything unnecessary. What’s left is either weakness or strength.”

“You and your tests,” Yuqi mutters, shaking her head with a laugh. “You could’ve just brought it up on Monday.”

“That wouldn’t have shown me what I needed to see,” Miyeon replies with a knowing glance. “Pressure reveals everything. It’s like a diamond—only the right conditions bring it out.”

“Wow,” Yuqi says, stepping forward to nudge Miyeon’s shoulder lightly. “Soft-hearted Cho strikes again. Admit it, you like a little drama.”

Miyeon chuckles, her tone turning playful. “Only when the effort is worth watching.”

“Noted,” Yuqi replies, heading for the door with an exaggerated wave. “Don’t worry, I’ll mark this historic event down. Second chances with Miyeon Cho—they’re like spotting Bigfoot. Rare and highly debated.”

Miyeon shakes her head, unable to suppress a laugh. “Get out of here, Yuqi.”

Yuqi grins, pausing at the door. “Hey, if you get bored over the weekend, you know where to find me. Or maybe I’ll just swing by Monday with popcorn to watch the show.”

Miyeon points to the door, her expression feigned exasperation. “Out.”

“Fine, fine,” Yuqi says, throwing her hands up in mock surrender before slipping through the door with a grin. “Don’t get too sentimental on me, boss.”

As the door closes behind her, Miyeon’s smile lingers. Her gaze drifts back to the now-empty space, thoughtful yet satisfied. She had known all along what could be achieved, but sometimes the right kind of desperation was the key. Pressure, determination, and grit—it all had to surface naturally, and it had.

With a quiet exhale, she turns back to her desk, already contemplating the days ahead with a sense of certainty.

[moonmaiden1996]

Bound By Fate- Chapter Six

The days at sea blurred together, painted in shades of salt and sun. You worked where you could, earning wary nods from the crew as you helped with repairs, cleaned the deck, or sorted supplies in the hold. But the camaraderie shared among the Red-Haired Pirates never quite extended to you. Not fully. You were an outsider, tethered to this ship by Shanks’s unrelenting will.

A captive.

It wasn’t a title Shanks had used outright, but it lingered unspoken in the way the crew avoided asking about your past or your plans. In the way Beckman’s sharp eyes tracked your movements, even when you thought you were alone. Most of all, it was in the way Shanks himself treated you—an uneasy mix of affection, possession, and guilt that left you constantly second-guessing where you stood.

That evening, as the ship rocked gently on the waves, you found a quiet corner near the galley to sit and think. The crew was gathered on deck, their raucous laughter and music echoing through the ship as they celebrated some long-forgotten triumph. You didn’t join them. You rarely did.

Instead, you watched from the shadows as Shanks held court in the middle of the crowd. His grin was wide, his laughter booming as he challenged one of the younger crew members to a drinking contest. He still radiated charisma, drawing everyone into his orbit like a blazing sun. But even from a distance, you could see the strain in his movements, the way he leaned a little too heavily on his sword for balance.

It was Beckman who caught your eye. The first mate stood off to the side, his expression calm but watchful as he puffed on a cigarette. He wasn’t drinking or laughing like the others. His focus was entirely on Shanks.

“Everything he does,” you muttered under your breath, “it’s all an act.”

You didn’t mean for anyone to hear you, but a passing crew member glanced your way, his brow furrowing slightly. You offered a tight smile and looked away, suddenly self-conscious.

xxx

Later that night, as the celebration wound down and the crew trickled below deck, you decided to stretch your legs. The air was cool, the stars brilliant against the inky sky. You wandered toward the stern, drawn by the faint murmur of voices.

“…can’t keep this up, Captain,” Beckman’s voice drifted to you, low and serious.

You froze, your pulse quickening as you realised they were nearby. Creeping closer, you pressed yourself against the wall of the ship, hidden in the shadows.

“I’m fine, Beck,” Shanks replied, his tone slurred but defiant. The sound of a bottle clinking against wood followed his words. “Just a little under the weather.”

“A little under the weather?” Beckman repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You’ve been sweating through your shirt for three days, barely eating, and pushing yourself harder than ever. This isn’t just the pollen anymore, Shanks.”

There was a long pause before Shanks spoke again, quieter this time. “It doesn’t matter. Not with her here.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You instinctively pressed closer, straining to hear more.

Beckman exhaled slowly, the sound of his cigarette crackling faintly in the silence. “You’re making this harder on yourself, you know. She’s not the problem.”

“She’s everything,” Shanks said sharply, his voice breaking slightly. “Do you think I don’t see the way she looks at me? Like I’m some kind of monster?”

“Then let her go,” Beckman said evenly. “She’s not a prisoner. Not really.”

Another heavy silence followed. You barely dared to breathe.

“You don’t understand,” Shanks finally said, his voice filled with something raw and unguarded. “It’s not that simple. She’s—she’s more than that, Beck. I can’t just let her go. You know I can’t…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but the weight of his words hung heavily in the air.

“And the old order?” Beckman asked carefully, his voice quieter now.

Shanks groaned, the sound low and guttural. “I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing anymore, Beck. But I can’t—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat roughly. “I can’t lose her… the old order remains, it never changes… I expect you and the men to follow it.”

You pressed a hand to your chest, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. Whatever unspoken command this “old order” entailed, it clearly loomed over both men like a spectre. And it terrified you.

“As you order, Captain… we’re two days from Westrow…”

You stayed perfectly still until the last of their footsteps faded into silence. Only then did you dare to move, stepping away from the shadows with shaky breaths. The chill in the night air seemed sharper now, biting through your skin as if to echo the dread curling in your stomach.

“She’s everything.”

Shanks’s words clung to you like salt on the breeze, impossible to wash away. The weight of his raw, unguarded voice—tinged with fear, anger, and something you couldn’t name—wrapped around you tightly. The old order, the way he couldn’t let you go, the way his men seemed bound to his will even as they doubted it… all of it painted a picture you didn’t want to see.

The ship shifted beneath your feet, rocking gently with the rhythm of the sea, but your mind was far from calm. Westrow, whatever it was, loomed two days away. Shanks’s words swirled in your mind, but it was Beckman’s even tone that lingered most: “She’s not a prisoner. Not really.”

But wasn’t that exactly what you were? Bound to this ship, to this crew, to a man who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—let you go. His guilt and affection tangled with something far darker, far heavier. And you were at the heart of it, spinning helplessly towards his storm.

The realisation hit you like a rogue wave: whatever awaited in Westrow, there would be no turning back. The threads tying you to Shanks were too tight, too tangled. They couldn’t be undone without ripping something apart.

The wind tugged at your hair, carrying with it the faint echoes of laughter from below deck. You closed your eyes, drawing in a breath that burned your chest.

The storm wasn’t coming—it was already here. And you were caught in its grip. For now, all you could do was hold on and hope the ship—and your fragile place on it—would survive.

@commanderfreethatdust @hauntedluna

Like. Comment. Request.

[nowoyas]

vespertine: evening blooms prologue - nishinoya yuu/cat hybrid!reader

Next - M.list - Ao3

A/N: she's here! housekeeping: right now, I hope to update every other wednesday until I've caught a rhythm with this fic, so we're hoping next update will be 10/9. it may come a week sooner, but shouldn't be any later than that--the next chapter is already written, and the ultimate goal is for this fic to update weekly once I've got a more clear plan set in place for it.

Summary: Yuu feels like he's at a dead-end in his life, despite his many accomplishments ranging from a middle school volleyball award to losing his virginity in high school, the proudest of these being befriending the mother cat in the alleyway beside his apartment. She rewards his friendship by introducing him to the dying hybrid behind the dumpsters.

Warnings: blanket series warnings (see vespertine masterlist for details), implied alcohol abuse, light mentions of blood/hospitals

Words: ~3000

prologue: alley cats

Nishinoya Yuu is on the precipice of a mental break, and no one seems to have noticed.

He's not sure anyone would believe him if he bothered to bring it up. He's Yuu, the bright, unrelenting baby of the Nishinoya family and the single best brother his sisters have ever had. (Unrelated, the only brother they've ever had.) He's that Nishinoya, talents ranging from a middle school "best libero" award (the highlight of his life so far, even though he doesn't really play anymore) to finding the wrong time to be at the wrong place and get blamed for shit he had nothing to do with, all because of his kickass hair and inability to keep to himself. He's Yuta, second most popular host at Nakamoto's and soon to be the first, if he keeps up the good work.

It's funny, really, how easy hosting is. He spent all of high school growing used to a reception anywhere from "total disinterest" to "actively making fun of him" if he dared trying to pursue a girl while being only 159 centimeters tall, and here he is, four nights a week, leaning in with bright eyes and nodding along while some beautiful married woman (Misaki, her name is Misaki) tells him he's so cute over a glass of wine. Yeah, he comes back to the apartment most nights totally exhausted, sleeps until noon, is basically forced to drink for work, and has no idea where he's going in life, but what fun is there in knowing that, anyway?

So he leans in. He smiles. When Misaki or one of his other clients comes in for him, he compliments her hair and asks is that a new dress? and flashes a smile, and on his days off, he does what he can to keep the apartment clean enough that Mei doesn't ask questions and forget the taste of alcohol in his mouth.

"Yuta-kun?" Misaki tilts her head with a pout. "What are you thinking about?"

He blinks. Laughs it off. "Sorry, Misaki-chan. You just look so lovely tonight that I keep getting distracted. I'm really lucky that you choose me, you know?"

"Oh, please," she says, a bubbly laugh leaving her lips. "There isn't anyone else for me. You know, the other day, my husband…"

She launches right into another story. He frowns appropriately, files away the details without really processing them, tops off her glass for her when it starts getting low. He's grown skilled at making the mechanical look fluid.

When he tunes back in, she's talking about that damned hybrid, the one her husband brought home and fell in love with. According to her, the single source of every problem in her life: if not for her, her husband would still be interested in her, but instead, he focuses all his attention on a pretty young thing just because she's got doe eyes and a twitchy tail.

"I mean, we have kids! What, am I supposed to tell them their father's sleeping with a deergirl instead of their mother?" she snaps, then sighs. "I'm sorry. You probably don't want to hear about this."

"No, no, tell me. Is Nara still making trouble?"¹

"You wouldn't believe it." She pauses, takes a dramatic sip of her wine glass. "I'll need another bottle tonight if I'm going to get into the stunt she pulled last night. Any recommendations?"

He flashes another toothy smile, reaches for the menu. "Let's take a look."

The night drags on that way—Misaki for two hours, then another regular, then a new customer who blushes and smiles too sweetly to have ever done anything like this before, who looks at him with hearts in her eyes when she names him her preferred host. It's a victory that feels too, too empty, nearly forgotten by the time he's unlocking the door to his apartment and kicking off his shoes, muttering a quiet tadaima! into the room.

No response comes, not that he expected it. Mei left for another business trip this morning, so it's just him here, and she'd be asleep this late, anyway. No one to talk to when he strips off his suit jacket, or tease him for throwing it on the floor, only to immediately pick it back up and gingerly hang it on the coat rack.

He flicks on the lights in the living room, collapses onto the couch. Mei left a note on the whiteboard, enough words to make his head spin with the last vestiges of alcohol in his system. He'd done good tonight, he thinks, managed to get away with only drinking about two glasses' worth of whatever shit his clients had ordered, managed to come home only a little buzzed.

His alcohol tolerance is basically fucked, he thinks as he stares at the note and doesn't comprehend it.

Right. Focus.

Her handwriting, smooth and font-perfect, fills the board.

Yuu! I had to jet out for another trip! I'll be in Hawaii with a client until 9/22. I wasn't able to take the trash down before I left and trash day's tomorrow, so please run that down so it doesn't start to smell! I'll be 19 hours behind you, but just think of me as 5 hours ahead! Please let Mom + the girls know where I'm at and that I'll bring back souvenirs! I'll call when I've touched down. There's leftovers in the fridge and if you're not gonna cook the chicken tomorrow, you should stick it in the freezer. Be good, okay?

PS. The neighbor in 802 was looking for you. I think he wants to hang out next time you're off work!

He groans. Lets his head drop against the back of the couch.

He'll get to it, all of it, in a minute, once he gets changed out of his work clothes and heats up something to snack on. Gone is his button-down, the silver necklace, the too-nice pants and belt. Before he steps into the shower, his reflection catches his eye, and his stomach turns.

He never recognizes himself after work. The stupid one-day hair dye shit he uses to cover his blond streak is convenient—it lets him walk around on his days off with a certain plausible deniability. Misaki or one of his other clients might recognize his face on its own, but given how much they drink with him, it's doubtful. Still, he covers the blond with black on work nights, runs some product through to make it all… swoopy and dreamy, or whatever, instead of the trademark spikes-and-tuft he wears off the clock. It works well, it washes out easy, and it looks fucking nothing like him.

Nothing like him at all.

"The commission's good," he says out loud. "It's good."

He drops the stupid fucking wristwatch a client gave him into the handmade jewelry dish Mei gave him for his "birthday" earlier this year.² The last work thing weighing him down. It doesn't prevent him from feeling the disconnect when he meets his reflection's eyes.

The commission is good. Good enough that it shouldn't matter how long he has to stand under the running water to wash off the shift, the feeling of the alcohol, the cling of twenty women's perfume on his skin, his clothes, in his hair. It shouldn't matter how his nice, expensive, gift-from-Aya watch feels like a cuff on his wrist by the end of the night, or that he can't skip wearing it even one night for risk of losing a client. It's good.

He doesn't need to worry about affording repairs or maintenance for his bike, can go toe-to-toe with Mei for paying the bills, even with her cushy jetsetting consultant job. His clients bring him gifts and spend money just to spend time with him, and none of them are objectionable-looking in the least. Not that he's ever seen a girl he didn't think was at least a little pretty.

He steps out of the shower, slings a loose towel around his waist. His reflection looks a little better now—still clearly exhausted, but at least he can recognize Yuu looking back at him. He finds basketball shorts, a hoodie. His keys and wallet. Throws a burrito in the microwave, throws his towel on top of the hamper.

While his burrito simultaneously over- and under- cooks, ensuring an ideal 3 AM trash-and-cat-run eating experience, he finds a can of cat food in the pantry and dumps it on a plate. He made good money on commission tonight; Mama Kitty can have some of the top-shelf wet food.

One final pat of his pockets as he kicks into some sandals: wallet so he can open the side door after hours, phone, keys, wrapped burrito. Trash bags in one hand, plate of food for Mama Kitty in the other.

She doesn't greet him right away when he makes it outside. Probably, she's tending the kittens and will be with him soon. He sets down the plate on the stoop, flings the trash bag into the dumpster, takes a seat, and waits. She'll probably come out around the time he burns the ever-loving fuck out of his tongue on his burrito.

It's a balmy night. Quiet, for the city. Quieter in contrast to Nakamura's, to obligate conversation, laughter, serenading women with enough money to afford it, or in contrast still to the roar of his motorcycle carrying him back to the apartment. The trains don't run when he gets off work. More small talk at the end of a shift is the last thing he needs. It's too dark in the alleyway to see whether there's clouds in the peek of sky overhead, but there's definitely the sting of rain amid the smell of garbage. It's just bright enough to see Mama Kitty when she hops up on the stoop beside him with a hoarse nyaugh.

He laughs every time he hears it. She meows like a lifelong smoker, like she pulls eighty hour work weeks at the factory and sleeps ten hours a week, tops. Noya takes another bite of his burrito as she watches him expectantly. "Me too, Mama Kitty, me too. Kittens doing okay?"

Mama Kitty doesn't reply. She's tired, too, at three in the morning, but something feels different tonight; it's in the way she doesn't turn to scarf down the food she's brought, the way she stares him down. Ungrateful, he thinks with a quirk of his lips as she eyes his burrito instead.

"You don't want this, sweetheart. It's somehow the hottest thing I've ever eaten and still frozen in the middle. That food you've got there? It's some fancy American brand. Kaede hand-picked it for you. Said it's good for new mothers. Helps them produce enough milk and rebuild their energy so they can take care of the babies. This cat food will change your life, Mama Kitty. You just gotta eat it instead of my dinner."

Her tail flicks at the air, agitated as she lets out another death rattle of a meow. She's insistent, tail flicking even faster.

He raises a challenging eyebrow. "You're not getting my burrito."

Mama Kitty's eyes focus. Her shoulders drop. Sensing that she's about to pounce, he closes his hand over his burrito protectively, letting his keys rest on his lap.

She lunges, instead, for those keys, and, protective as he was of his shitty 100 yen burrito, he doesn't move quick enough to catch her. He lets out a shout, springing to his feet and narrowly snatching his phone out of the air as it slips out of his pocket with the movement.

"Oi, Mama Kitty! If you don't like the new brand, just say so!" he shouts after her as he chases her further down the alley.

He's never really gone this far down. The one time he tried, Mama Kitty had hissed at him something monstrous, sounding close to a horror movie monster and very visibly prepared to make him find out if he dared fuck around any further. That had been after she had her kittens, so he'd always just assumed that she didn't want him near them. No problem, he just wouldn't go past the dumpsters.

This time, she doesn't hiss, doesn't spit; doesn't turn to him with ears pinned and ratty fur fluffed and perfectly replicate the noise the zombies from one of his shooters make. She drops the keys a few meters ahead of the end of the alley, comes to sit just in front of a lump of something he doesn't recognize. He scarfs down the last of his burrito, proud of how easily he manages to fit half a burrito down his throat without choking, and shoves the trash in his hoodie pocket so he can scoop his keys up.

A noise gives him pause.

It's not one of Mama Kitty's—it's too high and not nearly crunchy enough. It doesn't quite sound like a kitten, either—he's caught the kittens' meows once or twice and they're more like squeaky toys, though they've been growing a bit sweeter lately.

No, this was more like a whimper, like a human whimper, and his blood is tinging cold as he looks for the source.

He stuffs his keys in his pocket with the burrito wrapper. It's dark back here, dark enough that Mama Kitty's all but disappeared except for the white in her tabby coat and the reflection of a distant streetlight off her eyes, so he fumbles for his phone's flashlight.

A chorus of the squeaky meows he'd expected to hear raises in protest as the light shines on them. Later, he'll try to remember back and be sure there was four kittens to report to Kaede, but for now, he's focused on the lump they're curled up with, on not dropping his phone as he takes in the sight.

There's the peek of skin, a tangle of hair. What's not visible, as he tries to make sense of what he's half-convinced is a dead body in the alleyway beside his apartment, is draped in hospital gown blue.

Human. A kid, maybe a teenager.

Then: large ears flicking, almost like Mama Kitty's. One ear torn, though where Mama Kitty's left point is jagged from one fight or another, the lump's ear is torn in a way that looks clean, purposeful. Like someone held it down and just snipped the point off.

Another whimper, or maybe a groan. A tail flicks up, wraps over the human-shaped lump's side.

Not human. Hybrid.

"H-hey," Noya says, clearing his throat. It's coated with cheese—fucking burrito—and that's what he'll tell anyone who might ask why he stammers, why his tone comes out sounding so much like fear when that's not a thing he feels. "Are you—are you alright?"

A flick of the ears greets him, but no other movement. He looks to Mama Kitty, who watches him cautiously. No hostility yet. He crouches, reaches for the hybrid, and when his pinkie brushes one of the kittens, he hears a half-hearted hiss from behind.

Message received.

He swallows thickly. "Alright. Help the hybrid, don't touch the babies. Loud and clear, Mama Kitty."

Nyeeaughh.

A soft huff. He shakes the hybrid's shoulder gently—it doesn't react, except for its tail to flick and drape over his forearm. It shivers under his hand, too violently for the weather.

"Hey, c'mon. You gotta wake up."

No response.

He sets the phone aside, tries his best to sit the hybrid upright without too much force or jostling. The good news is that it's light, concerningly light. Clearly a cat hybrid, which, sure, he thinks he remembers they're supposed to be smaller than your average human, but he'd swear that he's slung around toddlers that were heavier. Makes it easy to lift, even as he wonders whether any hybrid is supposed to be this light.

It's awake, he thinks. It looks at him with bleary eyes, pupils constricting harshly when he raises up the flashlight again. "Hey. Can you hear me?"

No response, except to track his lips with its eyes. It occurs to him, belatedly, that some hybrids never learn to talk, and this one might be one of them.

"Can you, like, blink twice at me if you understand me?"

Two blinks.

He exhales a sigh of relief. "Okay. Alright. I don't know what happened to you, but I'm here to help, okay?"

The hybrid's eyes flick to Mama Kitty, and for a split second, Noya swears she nods back.

The hybrid nods in reply.

"Are you hurt? Can you show me where you're hurt?"

It glances down. Noya follows the eyes to the pricks of red beginning to seep into and stain the hospital blue covering its abdomen, and… well, fuck.

He's gonna have to call Kaede for this one.

Footnotes

1. Nara is a deer hybrid, "adopted" from the Nara prefecture itself. Misaki's husband is not very creative with names.

2. Noya, mostly on Mei's insistence, tells clients his birthday is April 10th, six months before his actual birthday. He maintains it half for privacy (if a client tracks him down they're likely to cause issues for Mei, too) and half because it's sort of nice to have a half-year birthday.

Tags: @deeplightgarden @idonthaveanameideayet @dusstory

[tigsbitties]

talk to me about karin

Okay I yapped WAYYY more than i meant to um

Sexuality Headcanon: Bisexual probably. I don’t have any super strong thoughts about this is just feel it in my heart. I’m not sure if that’s something she knows about herself or not though. no time for dat goku. I’ve seen the specific take before that Karin is bisexual with a preference for women but subconsciously likes daan bc he’s effeminate and that’s fun i think. i dont need some queer eyepatched foreigner getting my dick hard :/

Gender Headcanon: I’ve tossed around the idea of him having transmasc swag before— not in a “rude and assertive woman has to be a man” type way (something i see people swear up and down is both common and a problem? but i literally almost never see anyone headcanon canonically female characters as eggs so what’s the truth.) but more so as an extension of the “i know i’m right about this why doesn’t anyone believe me” theme going on with his character (tangent unrelated to this but i think a character who was constantly gaslit growing up who now can’t accept being told they’re wrong about anything bc of the fear of being put back in that situation to be super fucking interesting. Karin i love you.) like spending your childhood being talked down to and having things you know to be factually true about yourself and the world around you be repeatedly denied is a transgender experience i think. i’m not sure in mainline canon this is something he’d ever fully figure out or act upon but you never know.

I think in a modern day au he’d have a deeply cringey teenage truscum phase because stupid fucking Dalia doesn’t believe he’s trans bc “you were such a feminine little girl growing up 🥺 who’s making you do this why are you drifting away from me after all i do for you 🥺🥺” so he takes out that pent up rage on Daan (also a teenager on tumblr in this hypothetical scenario) who he sends anon hate to for triggering his “second hand dysphoria” and will not believe daan when he says he’s cis bc he “types in all lower case” and “has a carrd” . they meet in person years and years later for unrelated reasons with no memory of this. This is a lot of words for a headcanon I don’t even follow consistently I realize.

also jesus pocketcat can you fuck off? he’s wearing his dysphoria jacket.

A ship I have with said character: I am a huge daarin guy to like a HUMILIATING degree. i know that’s like. the most basic ass redditor wholesome chungus ship choice a person could have or whatever but it’s something that canonically has a lot going for it i think. You have to understand that first and foremost i live for banter— which they have in spades, their party talks are so fucking funny. I love having them both as party members when i play through termina— god especially the one about Daan’s soft hands? Why do you know they’re soft? did you feel them? are you susssing this out by just looking? i don’t know which is worse. jesus christ.

but besides that i think this little bit encapsulates a lot about what i find interesting about their dynamic. Karin’s insistence that Daan, because he is visibly wealthy, must be prissy and fragile to over compensate for insecurity at coming from a well off family— completely unaware of the fact Daan has spent large chunks of his childhood fending for himself in the woods. Daan’s complete disinterest i’m giving a serious response because this is such a bizarre thing to get caught up in. “just making small talk” you’re unwell.

The two of them def go beyond “characters i ship for fun”. i do think they’re two halves a whole in that you need one to fully understand the character of the other— like Karin is someone born into aristocracy who has rejected it both because of the ways it’s hurt her (created a scenario in which a malicious adult had unfiltered access to her bc her parents were too busy to care for her making paying someone else to do it more convenient) and more broadly the way it hurts those at the bottom of the class system (which is most people) and how Daan is someone born and horrifically abused at the bottom of that system who managed to weasel his way up the ladder and gain the necessary tools and education to survive at the cost of making a spectacle of, and by extension reliving, that abuse.

Likewise i think the two of them have more aligned goals than they realize. At the end of the day i think both them genuinely really do want to help people— regardless of what subconscious hang ups or insecurities are part of that want. For as stand offish as she is and her tendency to antagonize those who probably don’t deserve it, Karin is deeply passionate about the welling being of others and will do anything she thinks is necessary for a greater good— even if it may come across as exploitative or insensitive. Like there is definitely 100% an element of ego to it— the idea of “if i help others then that makes me a good person™️ and i should be praised for being a good person™️” is totally there— but it’s not all there is to it you know?

Likewise Daan being a doctor coexists as both a testament to his own lack of agency in his life and how his body can be used and discarded how anyone else sees fit if it’s for a greater good and as something he does because he cares about other people and wants to put good into the world. Like even if he comes to the conclusion that the people of prehevil are too far gone to be helped in a way that matters, he still makes the effort to figure out if something can be done about it. And i do think it’s a testament to his character that he mentions his primary clients he sees are prostitutes— people who are made to feel ashamed and dirty for their occupation, something he can empathize with and would want to help without judgement. I like the argument Daan and Karin have in the slums about why these people are sick and what they should be doing about it, because at the end of the day no matter how badly their personalities may clash they want the same thing. Alright buddy you got two options here. you can either have someone help you to affirm their ego or as a form of self harm. those are your choices. choose wisely.

I also really like that like. Karin’s an atheist in the actual sense of that word where she doesn’t believe in gods or magic in a world where that stuff is very tangibly real and Daan is an atheist in the way characters in christian movies are atheists where they do believe in god they just have personal beef with him. do you understand. i like this party talk a lot

In general i think they strike such a good balance with their clashing personalities of having very real issues with each other that are interesting to explore while also having banter that is genuinely really fun to read in a game so often as unpleasant as termina. I’ve seen people complain about people watering down Karin’s “genuine hatred for daan” for the sake of fluffy ship content— and i can see that broadly from the angle of “art and fics about on these two tend to focus on them arguing in a light hearted cutesy without exploring why they clash in the first place” but also like? idk i think “genuine hatred” is a bit strong for what in the game itself largely leads to comic banter. I think there can be emotional complexity intertwined with lighthearted scenarios. I don’t think anyone’s light hearted daarin post canon is hurting anyone or necessarily means they “didn’t understand” the source material.

In general the appeal to me from a romantic standpoint comes in the form of seeing how these characters who have already established strong feelings towards each other in an incredibly short amount of time could potentially develop if given the chance to. And i don’t even think i see them ever “dating” per say? I think their relationships with the concept of romance in a traditional sense would be very complicated and not something easily applied to each other— but i think in a post canon scenario where they’re both still alive there’s plenty of opportunity for an emotional intensity to form there— one that’s not entirely negative or positive. I think like it or not they have the best chance at understanding each other, even if it takes work to get there. Also their soul types match. if you evennnn care.

TLDR: they’re this image to me

A BROTP I have with said character: I don’t think i’d have a strong opinion on it if it wasn’t for the sheer amount of cute art of them, but i’ve become super endeared to Karin and Abella. less “BROTP” and more “thing i ship just less than the thing i mentioned above” . not something i have incredibly strong opinions on currently but i’d love to listen to someone who does speak about it. OH OH ALSO the post about Daan, Karina, Abella, and O’saa being in a polycule? Literal Peak. that is like the perfect cast of characters we have reached scooby doo levels of perfect character group.

A NOTP I have with said character: Not a fan of her and Pav but not something i care about or think about that much.

A random headcanon: I can totally see her being the type of person who doesn’t like cats and thinks they’re obnoxious and asocial and yadda yadda until a stray sort of worms it’s way into her apartment and she can’t get rid of it and now she has a cat forever. Its so annoying and she hates it sooo bad (it is the most spoiled animal on the planet). I can also def see her needing to get glasses at some point— mostly bc i think it would look nice on her. adds an extra layer of “old man who wants to sit on his chair read his newspaper and smoke his pipe”ness to her. I also crucially think she has OCD but that is a topic way better suited for another day I HAVE YAPPED ENOUGH. OH OH and i know her jacket was probably given to her by one of her brothers which if true makes me wanna eat sand and die but it would also be really funny if the unspecified “he” who gifted it to her was like. a scorned ex lover. Daan and Karin being each others rebound is an idea that makes me laugh way harder than it should.

General Opinion over said character: Karin is definitely one of the fear and hunger characters of all time to me and it makes me really sad to see her get reduced to “bitchy delusional woman” bc of her, very understandable given the everything, paranoia and stubbornness. Her backstory especially fucks me up so bad i feel a little insane that i never see anyone talk about it? like jesus christ. I think she’s a character who is both deeply entertaining and has a lot of emotional depth that makes her really fun to poke at.

[sairitaikutsu]

Hello, it’s me again and I have a few more questions about the weird manly AU if that’s okay.

1) Can the portal to Florida be moved or destroyed?

2) Because all of these people are vanishing due to Manly eating their souls, have the police tried to investigate the disappearances? If they have, do they have any idea that it’s Manly who’s killing people?

3) How did Manly find out that consuming souls could prolong his existence in the regular reality?

4) How did Manly find out that leaving the regular reality erases his existence until he returns?

I may have more questions later but that’s it for now. Also thanks for responding to my original questions I was really nervous when asking them. Anyway have a nice day/night and thanks for reading my questions!

Ty for the questions and no problem :DD anyway I definitely wanna expand on some of these in the future, specifically the second one. Defo got me thinking lmao but here’s what I have for now:

It can’t be moved but it can be sealed up.

Yeah, there were a few times when the police noticed, but Manly was never caught. He realized he could’ve been though so he stuck to killing animals instead. There may be one detective who swears the seemingly random, unrelated deaths are connected to each other.

I think he just started experiencing the symptoms of his human form slipping up after not eating souls for a year. His human form kept degrading from there to the point where leaving the house was impossible, and he can only come out very late at night. One day he tried eating one again and then he suddenly felt better. Up until this point, he only ate souls because they tasted good.

The first time he returned from the other reality, of course he didn’t know at the time he had to wait. I think a neighbor struck up a conversation with him thinking he was a new face, and then all their memories of Manly came at full force. They ended up crying and getting very bad headache and nausea. It took a similar interaction after the second time he returned to realize that maybe talking to people while he’s fresh out the anti-reality was a bad idea.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Don never updated his emergency contact after the divorce. He didn't see the need; keeping it as her meant that his dad wouldn't be unnecessarily worried and even though he and Charlie were closer these days it's likely his kid brother would be absorbed in a math problem somewhere. So he just kept it as is, not that it ever got used, the only time he gets hurt is when he's with his team and they know not to bother calling for someone. So it doesn't change and it doesn't get used. No big deal.

But Journalist? She just forgot to change it. Honest to god actually forgot that he was listed. I mean, how often is a nosy journalist going to need their emergency contact dialled? It's a rarity and she's good at her job.

And the something happens, it might be work-related or just a wrong-place long-time scenario on a day off. But the number gets dialled.

And he's at work.

.....i may or may not have gone overboard with my response.

He's half-listening to both of them. Don's eyes are scanning the ground, the litter of bullet casings and the contents of a spilled purse as Charlie insists that this can help him narrow his parameters. Don's phone rings on his belt, interjecting. Don picks his phone up, eyes the contact—a number he doesn't know. He presses the red button before flipping it shut and replacing it on his belt as Charlie presses on,

"That being said, this instance may lend credence to your other theory—"

"The copycat," Don nods.

"But Charlie, I thought you said the chances of that were slim to none," Colby argues.

"Actually, I said the likelihood was 10,462 to 1, which is—"

The sound of Don's cell ringing punctures the conversation again. His brow furrows as he takes it up, spotting the same number and grudgingly answering, raising the phone to his ear.

"Eppes."

He's half-listening to both of them. Charlie is explaining the difference between slim to none and over ten thousand to one to Colby and Megan; the person on the other end of the phone is telling Don that there's been an incident. His brow furrows, his head tipping between Charlie and the phone before he finally holds his hand up, insisting, "Hold on, hold on," To both. He turns away from Charlie and Colby before they can ask and strides over to the edge of the crime scene.

His attention is still split. The edge of the crime scene has cops bustling, neighbors asking questions, reporters trying to muscle in on anything that they might overhear. But through the phone, Don's ears manage to hook on, accident, and bullet, and hospital—and his wife's name.

Ex-wife. His dad's voice practically leaps out in his mind as a cold panic runs over Don.

"I'll be right there."

His answer is automatic. He flips his phone, and for a moment, he can't move. His heart is thudding in his chest; his hands are sweating where they're gripping his phone; his ears are crowded with the scene around him. He has to move—

"Don?"

He jolts, turning to find Megan watching him, her brow furrowed. He clears his throat, looking down at his phone.

"I have to go."

"We've got it here."

Don nods, patting her on the shoulder before he ducks beneath the crime scene tape, walking over to his car. He can feel his team watching him. He'll explain later.

--

The drive there was good. It gave him some time to gather himself. But as he walks into the hospital, he feels that sense of calm that he's forced up begin to drop away. It falls even further when he's directed to her room and finds Walker outside.

"Lieutenant," He greets, drawing his attention.

"Eppes," The gruff man greets in turn as the two exchange a handshake, "This one of yours?" He asks, nodding toward his ex-wife's room. Don has to fight back a smart remark, his jaw going tight as he shoves his hands into his pockets.

"What happened?" He asks.

"Way she tells it, she was interviewing a witness for a story, just happened to get caught in the crossfire of an unrelated drive-by. Wrong place, wrong time."

That's always what it is with her, isn't it. Don's not sure he can believe it anymore, not when it's landed her in the hospital.

"How bad was it?" It's a necessary question, though part of him doesn't want to know the answer. He's been imagining the worst possible scenarios on his way over.

"Through-and-through in her left side, pretty nasty graze on her thigh," Walker rattles off. "Wouldn't be surprised if they discharged her in a couple of days."

"You identify the shooter?"

"Not yet, but we have our suspicions."

Don nods, eyes straying toward the door as if she's going to fling it open; as if she's going to lean in the doorway, and grin, and ask him what the hell he's doing there.

"She was awake a few minutes ago," Walker prods when Don neither speaks nor moves. It's his cue, but Don isn't sure he wants to heed it.

"Thanks," he mutters, finally moving a few steps.

"You want me to keep you looped in on this one?"

"Uh..." Don's brow furrows. He's honestly not sure. Is knowing who did this going to help him sleep at night? Is it going to help her—?

"Yeah," He finally nods, meeting Walker's eyes once more before he turns the handle, pushing the door open.

The hospital room is bland and bright. The bed nearest to the door is empty, so Don walks further in, eyeing the closed curtain around her bed. As he's a step away, reaching up to draw the curtain back, he hears an annoyed groan, a tired, "Lieutenant Walker, I told you that I'd reach out if I remembered anything else."

Don draws the curtain back without a word, and watches as her eyes open, face twisted with annoyance before it falls at the sight of him. Her brow furrows, lips parting to question him—and then realization and mortification dawns. She groans again, raising her hand to hide her face from him. Don's eyes drift down, over the pulse oximeter on her finger, the IV in her arm, the hospital gown, the blanket drawn up around her middle.

"Fuck," Her mumble is muffled where her hands are still shielding her, "I'm sorry."

Don's brow furrows as he rounds the bed, sitting on the edge and gently grasping her wrists. He draws her hands down carefully, eyes searching her face.

"What are you sorry for?"

"They shouldn't have called you."

It's a gut-punch. Don swallows thickly, trying to dislodge the lump forming in his throat. She adds, "I meant to change that number, I just—It totally—I forgot." She turns a wary eye toward him. "What'd I pull you away from?"

"Don't worry about that," Don argues, shaking his head.

He wants to know what happened. He wants to drag it out of her, bit by bit. He wants to know where she was, why she was there, who the hell she was talking to, what she saw. But she looks so damn tired, and drawn—and as badly as he'd like to know, he's not sure either of them hjave it in them to have the conversation. So Don raises a hand, smoothing it gently over her cheek.

"Are you in any pain?"

She shakes her head, eyelids fluttering at the warmth of his hand.

"No," She mumbles, "They're giving me the good stuff."

His eyes drop to the IV again, and he forces a slight smile and a chuckle.

"That's good," He nods.

"...Don?"

"Yeah."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"You don't wanna talk about it, we won't. That's for you and Walker to hash out."

"...You're going to get all the details from Walker, aren't you."

"You should get some rest."

It's as good as a yes, and they both know it. She smiles a little hazily, sliding down in the bed, wincing as the movement seems to discomfort something. Don's gaze sweeps her again, as if whatever caused the pain will jump out at him. His eyes freeze on the blanket when she takes his hand in both of hers.

"Don?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad you're here."

It warms him through. He shifts closer, carefully maneuvering to cuddle up beside her, keeping his shoes off of the bed as he presses a kiss to her head.

"I am, too."

Her breathing is steady, and slow. The heart monitor's beeping is constant.

He's half-listening to both of them.

[tauforged]

What’s your favourite thing about fish

i really really love how many fishes can trans their gender, either due to environmental pressures or just as part of their life cycle. did you know all clownfish are born as males and will only transition into a female if there isn’t one already present in their current territory, as female clownfish are generally super aggressive and territorial? it’s really fascinating. they’re also very protective parents. one of the marine biology books i’ve been reading lately, the world beneath by dr. richard smith (really wonderful read btw, the photography is phenomenal) recounts an incident where a particularly aggressive female repeatedly attacked and chased a human diver who had stumbled onto her host anemone. they’re stubborn little bastards

we had a fancy clownfish at my old job - pretty sure she was an off-morph wyoming white, but came in as an ‘assorted fancy’ - who was an absolute menace. she was still very small but was the largest of the three she had shipped in with, so we assumed she might be a female and kept an eye out to make sure she didn’t bully anyone - within a few days she had killed all the other fish in her tank. i caught her in the act once - the other clown was minding its own business and she snuck up behind him, latched onto his underside right below the gills (basically went for the throat) and thrashed him like a rag doll. in the few seconds i’d ran to grab a net and opened the tank lid to try and separate them so i could move him somewhere else, he was already done. we called her michael myers and she was a mean little fucker. she used to bite my hands every time i cleaned her tank - not little curious nibbles like other fish did, either. she would open her little jaw as wide as she could and charge at me full speed and clamp down with all the muscle in her little body. she hated everyone so much and it was awesome.

we ended up selling her to a very chatty older man who came in one day looking for just one clownfish for his nano reef - we informed him that she had to be kept solo for the foreseeable future because she was a cold blooded killer and he grinned and was like “perfect! i love when they’ve got big personalities!” and proceeded to tell me stories about his previous clownfish, a big old ocellaris who taught herself how to spit water at him in order to beg for food. i quit not long after this happened for unrelated reasons, and a few months later i ran into him again during my stint working at trader joe’s and he was so happy to see me again. he’d been buying frozen shrimp “half for me, half for the fish”.

that’s my second favorite thing about fish is that the most fascinating kinds of people keep them. i had a lot of problem customers over the years at petco, but i met a lot of really cool people too. probably the only thing i miss about that job tbh

[marjaystuff]

What Harms You by Lisa Black

Locard Institute Book 2

Kensington Pub

July 25th, 2023

What Harms You by Lisa Black is the second in the Locard Institute series.  Readers will get to learn more about the forensics of a crime since there is a lot of references.  For those who want to focus more on the plot the author suggests “people can just skip the forensic parts.”

The Locard Institute is a state-of-the-art forensic research center where experts from around the world come together to confront and solve the world’s most challenging and perplexing crimes. “I wanted it to handle 1/3 research, 1/3 private cases, and 1/3 training law enforcement personnel.  I thought how interesting it would be for a serial killer to attend training here and find out how not to get caught. It was like ‘a fox in the hen house,’ since the killer betrays those running the Institute and stabs them in the back, because they have a job in CSI.”

Within hours a colleague, of Ellie Carr arriving for her first day of work at the Institute, Dr. Barbara Wright, is found dead on the floor of a supply closet. Her death appears to be an accident—but Ellie and her new supervisor, Dr. Rachael Davies, suspect a more sinister explanation. Then a young woman, from Saudi Arabia, attending a professional training program disappears, only to be found in a gruesome tableau. Other than their link to the Institute, there seems to be no connection between the student and Dr. Wright. Although forensic traces are elusive, Ellie and Rachael are determined to find the bizarre link between the violent and diverse deaths. 

“I put in the Saudi angle because we had a friend who was an oil engineer in Saudi Arabia.  It was in the news that women are finally allowed to drive.  There are big changes going on there.  I put in how husbands had to approve if their wives wanted to work as well as how Saudi women picked their husband according to how much freedom they wanted to have. I read some books to get this information. Contrast that with the ex-husband’s who left Rachel and Ellie.  Rachel’s husband left because she had a child, while Ellie’s left because she did not want a child. I changed it so it was only one problem for Ellie in the marriage.”

For those who need a humorous break they will get enjoyment from the Beauceron puppy, Kai.  “I came up with the breed from research.  I looked at a lot of pictures and found a cute puppy.  I am not a dog person but am a cat person.  I foster cats. I put in a quote, ‘A furry but noisy unrelenting inconsiderate friend with no appreciation for those who had to get up at zero dark thirty,’ after remembering being at my sister’s house when she had a puppy.”

Ellie’s searches old files and finds evidence of a crime that feels much too personal. But who, among those dedicated to justice, could be the threat? No matter how skilled she and Rachael may be in uncovering the truth, they may not be able to prevent a well-schooled killer from striking again. Both suspect that the killer is one of their own, someone in the CSI world.

Those who like to learn about forensics and how it helps to solve crimes will anxiously wait for the next book in the series, The Deepest Kill, out next March. “I describe it as Laci Peterson had as her dad Bill Gates. A mega zillionaire is proposing something like Reagan’s Star Wars Satellite Defense system.  His daughter disappears.  A week later her body is found with the realization she is pregnant.  The father is convinced the husband killed her and has hired the Locard Institute to investigate.”

[perpetual-fool]

So I realized, I can't imagine what a healthy relationship of any type would look like because virtually everything people do reads as 'lying' to me. Part of that is that I've caught people in a lie and learned 'when people do X, they're lying'. And part is that things just don't make sense. The former might be lack of empathy. Like, I can't tell the difference between fake approval and real approval, so all approval is fake. The latter is just my thing, being different, but that affects every issue. Like, I think the problem isn't even that I can't figure out what a 'friend' is or whatever, the problem is that the whole concept is incompatible with me.

I think it's like recipes. Far as I can tell, the way most people cook is to just follow rote scripts. The learn a repertoire of 'dishes' which they then 'know' how to make. And while having recipes on hand is useful for reference, that isn't how I think at all. I don't learn how to make chocolate chip cookies, I learn cookies as a concept and a formula by which I can make a range of different cookies. For instance, the other day I worked out ice cream should roughly be 1:2:3 parts sugar/milk/cream by weight. But the people around me can't understand that unless I give it to them in cups and pints and for exactly their size of ice cream maker. Which, really isn't understanding it at all.

So 'friend' I think is a recipe of a relationship. Like when people invoke that word there's a rote set of broad things to be done or not and in a certain way. Knowing people the specifics might be nebulous, and to some extent people might be doing the neurotypical thing of 'you're supposed to do this, but you have to do it in a normal way and not a weird way'. And I know from experience that a lot of relationship stuff seems totally fucked to me. For instance, people talking about partners using possessive language has always rubbed me the wrong way, kinks aside. So I think any sort of relationship that makes sense to me would have to be an agreement of doing or avoiding specific things with a person. So like, maybe someone only wants to cuddle and play video games, and they should be able to do that without being shackled with further expectations. Or maybe someone wants to infodump about philosophy while having gay sex, and you could do that, or you could compromise and maybe save the sex for later, or you could just not do that. And those are all valid relationships. Aside from the last one, which would be not a relationship.

Anyway, I think this has resolved my issue of feeling bad for finding people attractive. Ostensibly, if they're dressing in a revealing way in a public way then they've implicitly consented to people liking how that looks. Not that people should need consent when they aren't actually interacting. But really the issue is that I was taught feeling that way is evil and haven't had anything to supersede that before.

I should be able to start imagining what hanging out with someone would hypothetically be like. Although I guess I also need to figure out what sort of things I'd do by myself before I can figure out how I'd do things with others. And I wish I could be learning someone else's perspective, but that just doesn't work.

- I have actually been working on other things, I just don't have anything worth sharing yet.

Unrelated, I'm airing out the house because someone bumped the stove, leaking some gas. I'm feeling weirdly good, just sitting here with my window open. How much of my malaise is just lack of fresh air?

[ellysfir]

That no one knew who the real Ming Yi or had any relations with him meant that he hadn’t needed to act while posing as him, nor had he had to change his appearance too much – both for that and that he was just as elusive, hardly anyone knowing exactly how he looked as a Supreme either. In this matter it made everything easier, and here, like this, it would probably make things easier on them as well.

Some other things? Not so much.

He Xuan’s expression became unreadable for a moment, quickly moving on from the image of the spilled ashes that flashed through his mind. He didn’t catch on to what Shi Qingxuan was actually thinking, too preoccupied to consider there was more to him trying to go back.

Fanning oneself with their hand usually looked more natural, but not when it usually held a spiritual device. The discarded clothing was beyond saving between the blood stains and tatters, damage from the water, but the fan shouldn’t be.

That would have to be saved for later. He Xuan lifted a hand to lightly wrap his fingers around the side and back of Shi Qingxuan’s neck and met him for the kiss, then turned to look across the table prepared for them. At some point Shanyao had relocated itself and was currently in a bowl that was sitting on a tray a short distance behind the table with more food, floating around upside down in the broth. The only one minding the food was that perch and it flipped over dead when it thought it was going to get caught.

He Xuan moved, slipping backwards away from Shi Qingxuan and out of his lap, seemingly content with their exchange. Then, after settling back down off the divan, his movements stuttered and he twisted to eye him in realisation. “What are you asking me?”

It was irritating to remember the way the villagers had surrounded Xie Lian that day, arguing and hounding him. Despite his attempt at claiming he was ‘too young’ they knew better and immediately complained; the truth of the matter was that, were they really mortal, their family would in fact be working on marrying him off at the age he presented himself as in that form and the villagers weren’t convinced. Making the crowd disperse had been easier for him than the other, but come to find out they would just wait until he was gone to ask more questions.

No wonder he’d brought it back up later while they were poking around Black Water’s island. Those villagers truly were unrelenting.

The way he laughed was bitter, despite his amusement that even the hay cart’s driver was in on all of it his voice was still caught somewhere between disgust and annoyance. “Too bad,” he said, uncaring. “Unless gege plans to sell this one then the matter should be closed,” the addendum was quick, shifting to tease; the explanation they were using was that they were siblings and it was probably the sole reason they were bothering Xie Lian at all. “If they are harassing you then I will just have to go reject them again. It’s not a problem.”

Hua Cheng was more than happy to catch that arm, walking him back into the hall. “But to answer your question, yes.”

Turbulent Tides

Characters: Shi Qingxuan, He Xuan Secondary: Xie Lian, Hua Cheng Timeframe: Black Water arc, canon-divergent AU @windmasterreturns @ellysfir @puqiprayerservice @mothboxhuacheng

Mere moments ago there was so much clamour shaking the stiff air of Nether Water Manor – the eager cries of those madmen, the bickering between the brothers and his own rage. It was dissonant and loud, even they had to shout to be heard above skirl surrounding them. If not for the location of the domain even the stormy waters outside would not have kept them hidden.

It wasn’t the sudden swirl of rage not his own that silenced those madmen.

It was the sound of Shi Wudu’s head rolling across the floor.

He Xuan seemed startled in his absolute lack of reaction. He moved his head and eyes only enough to follow the path the falling body took as it collapsed to the floor, delayed, as if it still had the means to remain on its knees by itself. He watched for a long while in his own silence, unmoving, features blank and confused.

When He Xuan gathered enough wit about himself to move the steps he took were slow and heavy, the sharp click of his heel echoing through the still silent manor. It was nothing like the way he’d moved before as he approached Shi Qingxuan a last time, unconcerned that he dragged his long robes through the quickly spreading pool of blood. He came to crouch at the former Wind Master’s side, cold, slender fingers gathering one arm at a time to free him from the shackles with a feather-light touch.

The sound of metal scraping against stone seemed to snap him out of his stupor and he withdrew quickly, reality flooding back in, washing away the numbness. He swept backwards, drawing himself upright with an unsteady sway, thin, wispy fabric following each sharp movement light as fog. He stood there silently, partly twisted, his eyes elsewhere out in the emptiness of the room, unfocused and intense with his hands tightly curled into the fabric at his sides.

All at once there was so much going on in his head, a different sort of turmoil than the anger and anguish from earlier.

Most prominently, he was still here. The option had been presented as an impossible path, and the death of Shi Wudu hadn’t released him.

What was he supposed to do now?

His mind was silent save his own racing thoughts, and he knew that meant Hua Cheng expected the same outcome he had and he didn’t dare reach out to him first.

[jiminiesfavouritecolourisblue]

Is there somewhere - BTS royal / bodyguard au Drabble part 4

So after this I was thinking of writing some prequels to the Drabble series before moving ahead with time and the challenges these lovely characters would face ongoing. Same with the CEO drabbles, as always let me know what you think {angst and fluff ahead}

Prev | Next

————————————————————————————————————————

You hadn’t seen them for a month. You told yourself you were glad, that it didn’t hurt you that they gave up. You asked them to leave, you would stick by that, and this proved you right.

These things happened for a reason, you tell yourself, and while life was still a dense cloud hanging over you, it didn’t rain. Since that night trouble stopped following you, no one approached you in the clubs, the paparazzi stopped following you, you felt safe again, by yourself without any bodyguards.

“I haven’t seen you in so long Y/n,” your childhood friend sat across from you at a little quaint cafe in the town closest to your castle. You would have invited her to your place but the mess increased tenfold, that being said, you think your father must be sending people to clean while you were out. He hadn’t said anything about it, you were grateful he hadn’t, you weren’t ready to have that conversation with the King. He was always too busy for you, so this gesture came as a shock.

“I’ve missed you Y/n,” Sana says taking your hand in hers and squeezing it earnestly. “I’ve been worried about you.”

“You don’t need to worry I’m okay,” you say reassuringly.

“Y/n it’s a cloudy day and you’re wearing sunglasses,” you take by her sarcasm she doesn’t sound convinced.

“I’ve got a headache that’s all,” you bury your head behind the brunch menu, pretending to look over the options as she hums in response. It had been years but she still knew you well, and this was nothing like you were.

“Who hurt my friend?” She asks reading through your behaviour like she read the newspaper articles about it online, hence the impromptu visit from half a world away despite her own busy schedule.

“Doesn’t matter, it’s in the past,” and yet it’s still so present. The wound might be healing but it was leaving a red swollen scar in its place.

She lets the subject drop noticing how your shield goes up.

“Your bodyguard is really hot, if you wanted to invite him in to join us I wouldn’t mind,” she wiggles her eyebrows playfully, trying to lighten the mood but her words have the opposite effect on you.

“My what?” You breathe, you don’t have bodyguards. You turn to face where her eyes are set behind you and sure enough, outside the glass windows trying to look conspicuous is a man in a suit you’d recognise anywhere. You hate how your heart starts to ache as it beats faster, how there’s a hum of electricity starting to burn under your skin.

“Is that not your bodyguard? You used to talk about them so much, that’s....” she squints her eyes at the male, who bows his head in panic realising he’s been caught. “Jin! Right?”

Every time you FaceTimed Sana one of the boys would be with you, not on the screen unless it was Jin or Jimin but professionally standing out of the cameras range staying with you trying not to smile as you gushed about them with her, begging one of them to say hello. Yoongi and Taehyung were the only ones to ever give in. They would say hello shyly before standing at their post, Jin and Jimin on the other hand would sit on the bed or sofa with you. Jimin would make you blush and tease you while talking to Sana, Jin would tell her all your bad habits and complain about you playfully. Namjoon and Hobi never gave in, you were close to breaking Jungkook’s resolve before he left.

“I’ll be right back,” you say to her, rising from your seat to walk to the guilty looking male who’s ears have turned red. He says something in his sleeve and you realise the others must be close by or at least contactable. It all suddenly makes sense, you hadn’t seen them, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. The house, your father was far too busy to burden himself with your mess, the sudden calm around you where normally there’d be a bustle of cameras and people.

“Princess,” he greets you bashfully, embarrassed for getting caught and complicating things. “Funny seeing you here, I was just waiting for a friend...”

“Liar,” you whisper, but it’s loud enough to shut him up.

“I can explain,” his cheeks are going red like his ears, you don’t know what you feel. There’s an emptiness that presents its self in his presence, like your body is trying to protect itself by going numb, even though your heart is begging you not to.

“I don’t want to hear it right now,” you close your eyes at the wave of sadness that overwhelms you. “I think you need to leave.”

You repeat your words from a month ago and it still cuts through him the same as it did then.

“I can’t...” he shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot.

“Jin you’re not my bodyguard anymore, this is harassment,” your cold eyes pierce through him but he stands strong against your onslaught.

“Actually...” he tries to chuckle but it dies as soon as it leaves his mouth. “Well you see, w-we- no your father... the king,” there’s a pause as he clears his throat and his hesitation irritates you.

“We’ve been reinstated as your bodyguards by order of the King,” a new voice behind you saves the stuttering man in front. You can’t help the fists form at your side as your mouth sets itself in a line. You turn to face Namjoon with a stern expression.

“No.” He knew you’d be stubborn, he knew it was a little underhanded of them, but after that day they couldn’t leave you like this. They would give you space, hope they could redeem themselves slowly, but they also had to keep you safe. They didn’t care you were next in line for the throne, they didn’t care their feelings for you were inappropriate in their line of work, you meant the world to them, you were their friend, and they couldn’t leave you again.

“I’m really sorry Princess, but the decisions been made,” he answers you sincerely. “We won’t get in your way, you won’t know we’re here, bu-”

“I said no,” your lips are tight, eyes enraged as you clench your jaw. He sighs, but he knows it would take time to heal the rift between you and the seven men.

You were right when you thought the rest of them were close behind, Yoongi and Jimin walk into your field of vision behind Namjoon, blazers buttoned, Jimin’s hair jelled back, Yoongi’s hand in his pocket. The sight takes you back and it knocks your confidence a little.

“Well that’s treason Princess,” Yoongi reasons with a small smirk forming on his face. “I guess that would get rid of us for you, being beheaded by the King.”

You shake your head is disbelief, a big sigh leaving your lips as you close your eyes to gather strength.

“I can’t do this right now,” you walk away back to your friend who’s eyes haven’t left the interaction. “I’ll deal with this later.”

——————————————————————————

You wonder what happened to their promise to stay out of sight and out of mind the following Saturday.

Maybe you walked through the bad part of town on purpose, maybe you wanted to piss them off or put yourself in danger, maybe you just wanted some control. A man that looks like trouble wolf whistles as you walk in his direction, and you smile like he’s your salvation. You don’t make it another two steps as a hand grabs your arm forcefully. You turn to find an angry Hoseok glaring at the man now cat calling you before turning his glare to you, nostrils flared like a bull about to charge.

You physically have to stop yourself from gulping at his aura, you know if pushed Hobi would cause harm to anyone that disrespected you. His grip on your arm tightens as the man doesn’t stop yelling profanities at you, he’s obviously intoxicated not that it excused his behaviour. Hobi hadn’t spoken a word, you can see him trying to ground himself and his anger, starting to lose his control, trying to regain his cool.

The guilt washes over you at his gaze, your smirk long gone as you struggle to keep eye contact. He hasn’t seen your face soften like this in so long, a glimpse of the old you coming back with concern.

“Hobi I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Let’s just go.”

His eyes are shut and he’s shaking with fury, at the man, at you, at himself.

“Hobi please,” you cup his cheek with your palm, stroking your thumb against his skin, feeling panic rising in yourself. The man is in front of you both now and you feel shame for making such a stupid decision. You press your forehead against his jaw as he stares daggers at the man.

“Your boyfriend giving you problems sexy?” He wears a shit eating grin as he speaks. “You looking for a bit of fun?”

Your touch calms your bodyguard enough to clear the haze of anger that threatens to attack the man where he stands. He releases a big breath before taking your wrist and walking you both away, pace unforgiving.

He still doesn’t say a word as you both get to the car, he pulls open the backseat door aggressively, looking at you expectedly. You don’t argue, you don’t scoff, you don’t walk away. Your eyes are round, looking up at him, begging for forgiveness. How the tables turn.

You get in without complaint, flinching as he slams the door shut. He gets into the drivers seat, putting his seat belt on before staring at you through the rear view mirror, jaw still clenched. You look lost, he hasn’t started the car and he hasn’t stopped staring at you.

“The seatbelt Y/n,” it’s a low growl and you quickly move to lock yours in place at his tone. Your heart is beating so fast you think it’s trying to escape. You don’t blame it, your hands are curled on your knees like a child ready to be scolded and you can’t look ahead as he pulls off.

——————————————————————————

You didn’t say a word the whole journey, scared a single sound would set him off. His grip was unrelenting on the wheel, you don’t think he cooled down at all even though he made sure he wasn’t driving recklessly with you in the car.

He doesn’t take you back to the castle, he takes you to their place. They rarely used to be at home when they worked for you, the castle was large enough for them to stay and they had no reason not to. You hesitate to leave the vehicle when Hobi opens the door for you, he’s patient even through his fury. He holds a hand out for you to take like they used to.

You want to ask him what you’re doing here, why he’s brought you, but you decide to take his hand and let him lead you indoors.

“Princess?” It’s odd to see Jungkook in his normal clothes, to see any of them in their casual wear, it looks homely. They all stare between you and Hobi, looking confused as you both walked into the living room.

You were staring at the floor as he explained where you were when he was on duty, the others now looked at you in shock and disappointment. It was hard for you to hear too, like he was talking about someone else, another girl, you wished the ground would swallow you whole.

“Princess this really has to stop,” it’s Jimin that breaks the silence after Hobi’s speech. His usual sweet disposition was wiped away with worry. “I get it, we messed up, but you can’t keep doing this to yourself Y/n.”

You don’t raise your head to meet his words, you stay with your eyes down and feet cemented where you stood. There’s a finger under your chin but you move your head to the side to avoid it bringing your face up.

“We’re really sorry,” Taehyung whispers beside you.

They blamed themselves for everything you had been through since the moment they left, but how could they undo it, how could they make this okay? His words don’t comfort you, they hurt you, they bring up the night they left all over again. But you feel the sincerity in his words, how hoarse it sounds, filled with every desire to turn the clock back. It brings tears to your eyes, it makes you choke on the emotion rising in your throat. You want it to be okay too, but you couldn’t erase the abandonment they left you with.

There’s a hand rubbing your back soothingly as your bottom lip trembles and your shoulders shake trying to keep the sobs down.

“It’s okay,” the hand on your back moves to your hair, and Taehyung rests his lips on your temple as he speaks. “We hurt you Princess, shout at us, let it out, cry, just stop holding it in.”

If you did as he said it would make you vulnerable again, you’d be letting them in and you don’t know if you’re ready for that. But he wasn’t wrong, holding all the pain down without a healthy form of release was making that gaping hole in your chest erode the rest of you away.

“I’m-m s-so a-angry-” you struggle to get your words out, having to take a shallow breathe with each word as they came out in a sob and it physically hurt you to speak. “At all o-of you.”

Tae’s crying too, Jungkook’s behind you but you can hear him sniffle. You lean into the Taehyung, pushing your face into his neck as you close your eyes and break down, he doesn’t hesitate to bring his arms around you when you think you’re about to fall.

“You had each other,” you wail, not caring at how deranged you sounded. “I had no one, you left me when I was injured!” Your head drops to his chest as you bang your fist against Taehyung’s chest finally letting it all out, and he takes it without bracing himself for each hit. “I needed you and you guys broke me.

Who was I supposed to talk to? Do you know how ridiculous it sounds to the people of my world. My bodyguards abandoned me, so fucking what? Get new ones.”

You grip his top that’s stained with your tears, you’re so angry, so heartbroken and the only people that would listen and help where the ones to cause you this pain.

“But you weren’t just my guards, you were my friends and I thought you all felt the same.”

There’s a whisper of “we do” but you ignore it.

They’ve never seen you like this, not when Taeyeon revealed her true colours, not when Sana moved away, you had said goodbye to people before, it was a part of life but nothing compared to when they left you, and you knew why, you just didn’t want to admit to it out loud. You didn’t want their pity, the pathetic Princess who had no friends who fell in love with her knights in shining armour, the people who were employed to ensure your safety. Misplaced feelings because you had no one else, you could hear Namjoon’s lecture already. They had never see you that way, if they had they wouldn’t have left.

If only you knew the thoughts running through the rest of their brains, how could they tell you they were compromised, that they broke your trust by falling for you, that every protocol dictated to them in their training stated they couldn’t keep a charge safe if they had feelings for them, they had to resign. Looking back it was the worst decision they ever made, but at the time it seemed like the most appropriate.

You scoff through your tears, “if you felt the same you would’ve at least come to see me, but you didn’t, you would’ve at least called or texted but you blocked my number, I tried to contact you everyday for the first two weeks and it was like you all didn’t exist anymore.”

There’s a grasp softly pulling you out of Taehyung’s hold and he whines as you’re taken away. Namjoon’s eyes are red, he looks like he’s on the brink of tears himself, but he holds it together.

“We’re so sorry Y/n,” he could never stop saying it, even if he did earn your forgiveness it could never assuage the guilt that weighed on them. “We honestly thought it was the right thing to do, if we kne-”

“On what planet was that ever the right thing to do Joon?” You cut him off, you didn’t want excuses.

“We made a mistake, leaving you was a mistake but we made one before that,” you frown at his words, what mistake? He contemplates his words but there’s no way mince them, no way to make what he’s about to say any easier. He’s not trying to make excuses, he’s not trying to justify his behaviour he just wanted to be honest. “We fell in love with our charge, the biggest offence we could commit, the biggest threat to your safety was us.”

He watches your eyes go wide as tears streamed down your face, he waited for your disgust, your displeasure.

“We are so in love with you Princess, it killed us to leave you but you have to believe me when I say we thought it was for the best.”

You can’t breathe. He wants you to say something, he needs you to say something, anything. You just stare at him in disbelief until you find the words to speak.

“Are you so stupid?” You gasp, gaze flickering to all their faces, theyre holding their breaths. “Are you all so blind that you couldn’t see that I was in love with you too?”

It was Namjoon’s turn to stare at you in disbelief, their jaws dropped.

“How stupid could you be Namjoon! Did you even think for a seco-” your voice is muffled by his chest as he pulls you into him, and he finally lets himself cry. You were right he was so stupid, he always prided himself on his intellect but look at the mess he made. He holds you like he’d never let you go, tight like you’d disappear in his arms.

“I’m so sorry Y/n, I’m so sorry,” he whimpers and it breaks your heart, you’ve never heard the leader sound like this. You sigh deeply in his arms, warmth finally starting to fill the hole.

“It’ll be alright Joonie,” you hug him back and he’s so grateful for you in that moment. “We’ll work through it.”

You have to believe that you will. More arms wrap around you both, tears of relief, tears of hope mixed with apologetic whispers, words of comfort. You feel the warmest you have in months.

[local-ground-apple]

Could i request headcanons on the process/how malleus & vil fall in love with their fem! s/o~ Would it be love and first sight or perhaps a slower process before the feeling and declaration arises?

yess, Vil request!!

also I have no clue why both are rather long

💚 rather than love at first sight, more likely it would be infatuation at first sight, For Malleus you’re quite an endearing and fascinating human,

💚 feelings develop rather slowly. You attracted his attention mainly because you weren’t intimidated by him, bah, you were fascinated and rather inquisitive and Malleus found that trait of yours exquisite,

💚 they say curiosity killed the cat, right? Maybe not in your case,

💚  you asked him a lot of questions, always making sure whether he’s comfortable with answering them and assuring him that he absolutely doesn’t need to if he doesn’t want to. You were just curious about his kind, land, magical abilities and mostly his horns,

💚 Lilia found it absolutely amusing how you were so eager to touch Malleus’s horns,

 ,,Can I touch them? Will you like feel something if I do that? Or are they hard just like a rock? OH, or are they scales? Can you hang upside down like Lilia too? Or no, no, CAN YOU USE YOUR HORNS TO HANG UPSIDE DOWN?” “Excuse-you, child of human, perhaps, if you could pick one question then maybe I would grant your wish of answering it”

💚 everyone notices his affection for you, well, except for him. From gentle pats on the head, night strolls, your frequent visits to Diasomnia’s dorm much to Sebek’s displeasure, gentle, brief touches and how his attention is always on you, literally whole school can see it,

💚 yet Malleus is oblivious. He didn’t realise how serious and deep were his feelings for you as he never really expected that he would develop feelings for human, yet alone one who’s not even from his word,

💚 eventually it was Lilia who pointed out his affection for you and then shamelessly told Malleus about your secret crush on him (pro-tip, never, EVER confide in Mr. Vanrouge),

💚 you would have to wait a bit for a declaration of Malleus’s feelings. Despite many assurances from Lilia, Silver and even Sebek who barely spit it out that your feelings were requited, you weren’t courageous enough to confess first. 

💚  Fear not children, Diasomnia’s old man and self-proclaimed father will take care of all your problems and bring those oblivious souls together,

💚  Lilia almost started war when he briefly mentioned in passing that Silver was madly in love and was going to confess. Ancient fae cooed how cute those two humans would look as a couple and how he could be a grandfather in the future, “Oh my, my, how kids grow up so soon, ufufufu~~~”

💚 of course, it was a wretched lie and Lilia certainly enjoyed watching Malleus’s confusion. If only dragon fae didn’t lost his nerves of steel, he would quickly deduced that there was no way that Silver could fall for you (mostly because you both spoke like three or four words to each other), 

💚  but yes, Malleus finally made a declaration of his love to you and then proceeded to ask your stunned but overjoyed self whether he was faster than Silver,

,,Sorry I beg you pardon?” “Let me rephrase it, dear. Was I perhaps faster than Silver with my declaration of affection for you?” “Silver has feelings for me??! We never really spoke to each other…” “Lilia Vanrouge, did you perhaps lie to your king?” “Well, a wrong name might have slipped through my lips, I’m not really sure”

💜 Vil is not sure whether he is capable of loving anyone beside himself, after all is it possible to find someone who’s worthy of Dorm Leader of Pomefiore? 

💜 definitely wasn’t enamored by the mere sight of you,

💜 you were just another potato, right? Vil would never guessed that soon you would level up to a “special potato”, just so eventually you could flourish into “precious apple”, with his invaluable help, of course,

💜 Vil didn’t even spend 5 minutes in your presence and he had already judged your whole appearance, pinpointed every tiniest imperfection, noted things that needed to be changed and made his own opinion concerning your character (it doesn’t matter that he hadn’t give himself the chance to meet your personality). In conclusion you were, well, a POTATO,

💜 hair? yikes. color of your nail polish? yikes. skin? yikes, clearly in need for his special products. your uniform? disheveled and covered in grimm’s fur, yikes. Well, maybe the only thing good about was your bright and endearing smile that wasn’t fake in the slightest. Great, one thing Vil wouldn’t have to change in you, 

💜 at first, Vil didn’t notice you at all, After all, he doesn’t have time for ordinary mortals, right? But you caught the eyes of Epel and you quickly became one of his closest friends. You weren’t from this world, so you kind of understood his feelings of not wanting to be in Pomefiore, you sympathized with him. You were extremely kind, always ready to listen to him ranting about Vil’s absurd beauty standards and you both were often seen running away from Rook,

💜 so naturally sooner or later you caught Vil’s attention. It was Rook who mentioned that you were that one person with whom Epel was sneaking out, so Vil suggested that he should fetch you too next time,

💜 let’s say that your disheveled appearance, small leaves in your tangled hair and creased uniform after a bold run through the forest didn’t please his eyes at all, but there was a potential in you, for sure

💜 Vil wouldn’t admit, but your unrelenting efforts to escape Rook, stubbornness to keep on meeting with Epel, that fire in your eyes who were burning with fierceness and passion made him interested, and they would soon doom you,

💜 when he was about to scold you both starting with Epel, you bluntly told him right in his face what you think about his treatment of your dear friend. Vil was taken aback, but soon composed himself

💜 his delicate fingers captured your chin, gently lifting it up, so you could see his violet eyes. Vil chuckled seeing how your confidence is slowly fading away. His height and closeness was enough to intimidate you,

💜 you didn’t return to Ramshackle Dorm that day. You spend whole night and next day in Vil’s chamber. With the assistance of Rook, they were tending to your beauty, rather forcefully. He intended on giving you the metamorphose you were worthy of.

💜 Vil covers your every imperfection and polishes your beauty, even though for most of the metamorphose you were immobilized with a rather harmless poison. Don’t worry when Vil is done with you, he will kindly give you cure, if you behaves like a lady,

💜 he will alter your appearance and shape you to his liking, Your opinion and will is generally irrelevant to him. Vil doesn’t care whether you reciprocate his feelings or not. 

💜 if not, one bite of an apple or few drops of love potion would be enough to do the trick, right?

💜 after all, the fairest of them all always get what they truly desire,

I really need to stop making him yandere each time I write for him🙃😶

[redwinterroses]

A while back there were some requests for Xisuma angst or h/c that was unrelated to EX, so... I am attempting to fill this void. Heh.

Part 1 below the cut, Part 2 to be posted at a later date, and all to be put up on AO3 when finished. :D

__________________________________

In retrospect, deciding to build a mega honey farm the first time he’d built any kind of honey farm might have been… overambitious.

Xisuma finished hurriedly blocking off the door to his honey farm building—the random assortment of blocks he’d scrambled to grab might have been funny in any other circumstances; there were literally diamond and emerald blocks mixed in with podzol and three stray jungle planks—and let himself sag against the new wall with a sigh. Looking up, he could see dozens of buzzing bees drifting about in the high-ceilinged space, bumbling off the walls and curiously exploring all the nooks and crannies of the rafters and support beams. Fortunately, he didn’t think too many of them had escaped the building altogether, but it was going to take him hours to get them all corralled back into their hives.

One misplaced bit of redstone and a touch of lag. That’s all it took to undo days of work on this farm.

A new message pinged onto his HUD.

<Docm77> who is lagging out chunks in shopping district? <iskall85> not me but i feel it too at my base. server lag? <cubfan135> it was fine last night but this morning is a mess. rip my melon farm the timing’s all out of whack now <Grian> blame mumbo <MumboJumbo> hey! not me this time!

X lifted a hand and disconnected his helmet, the seal hissing as the pressure equalized. The jungle air was thick and humid, and as he pulled off the helmet and ran a hand through his sweaty hair (he needed a haircut; add that to the ever-growing list of things to do yesterday) it was difficult to fill his lungs with the heavy oxygen. But for just a minute, he needed to get the screens and data out of his vision. The bees he’d just released hummed with annoying contentment, and he glared up at them.

“Just my luck,” he muttered to himself. Or to the bees. Or to the universe. Who even knew at this point. “Okay. Right, then.” He reluctantly slipped the helmet back onto his head, taking a deep breath as it resealed and filled with purified, thinner air.

“Take it from the top.”

Three hours later, he had the last of the bees retrieved and in its proper hive, the redstone repaired, and a failsafe in place to hopefully keep it from happening again. His stomach rumbled, but a quick glance at the messages in his inbox showed that he really didn’t have time to stop for lunch. He’d grab something later.

For now—he needed to deal with the lag issue. It was being felt across the server and probably had something to do with one of the plugins he’d installed recently needing to update and that was going to take a while to track down, so he headed up to his office in the main base tower and settled down at the console. Hypno had already died to flying into a wall thanks to the lag, and chat was full of complaints about ghost blocks and broken redstone.

<Xisuma> sorry, had an issue with my bees. Working on the problem now.

He didn’t wait for a response, toggling off chat and settling in to review the server settings and files. Individually. One by one.

Admin work was… settling, in an odd way. It was a system that he could understand: predictable and ordered. His attention could hone in on the coding and the settings and the bits and bytes, fingers clacking away at the keyboard, pulling folders and files from one side of his control screen to the other, checking and rechecking each item as it crossed his exploratory path. X fell into a rhythm, the only sounds in his office the humming of his control panel, the tapping of his fingers against keys and screens, and the ever-present soft hiss of his air supply.

He didn’t even notice when it got dark.

“Aha—” his voice, a bit rough from disuse, broke the silence of the office. “There you are.”

The offending file—once he’d found it, buried in a zipped archive in a subfolder on a backup drive—was simple to deal with, and with an exhausted flourish, he saved the changes and sent the information to the server. He could feel the minute it took effect, the entire world seeming to give a little lurch and then spinning on with renewed vigor.

Satisfied, he pulled up chat once more and sent:

<Xisuma> that ought to do the trick!

There was no response, and when he checked the status tab, he gave a small, self-deprecating grimace. It was incredibly late; everyone was either asleep or afk.

That was fine, though. They’d see it in the morning.

In the meantime, with the server this quiet, it was the perfect opportunity to catch up on the half dozen other admin tasks he’d been putting off. No one would mind if certain things went offline while they were all asleep, and he could have it all done by the time anyone else woke up.

Stifling a yawn, he got up and headed into his storage room to grab some supplies, already pulling up a list in his HUD of what needed done. He’d take a nap after everyone else was up and about again. For now: work.

.

Time… time was a construct. And a rather pointless one at that.

Lost in the checks on his to-do list and the comforting monotony of moving items into chests and out of chests and realizing there was something he needed to do before he could complete this project, but in order to do that he needed an item from a farm, which turned out to be overflowing so something needed to be done with those items but now the sorter is full and it really would be more efficient if he reconfigured the input redstone and—

He didn’t even really notice the black specks creeping into the edges of his vision, or the way he was having to do the same tasks over again because he’d done them wrong the first time—wait this chest is for andesite and I’ve just gone and sorted in a bunch of gravel—

It really was only a matter of time—construct that it was—before it all caught up with him.

.

There were voices in the darkness.

“…found him! Over here—”

“…is he doing? Grab the…”

“X? Xisuma, can you hear me?”

Hm? His consciousness swam up through the velvet darkness just long enough to realize that he was lying on the chilly concrete floor of his storage room, half-draped over a shulker with the edges digging into his ribs. Oh. Must have… dozed off…

There were figures moving around him, and voices that sounded concerned. He furrowed his brow, trying to pry his eyes open the rest of the way—if there was a problem, he needed to fix it. He was the admin. It was his job.

“Help me get him…”

“…take off the helmet?”

“Better leave it on for now…”

And then he was being lifted, and he didn’t have the energy to really fight off the fog that rolled over him, pulling him back down into the gentle, silent Void.

[dirtyoatmeall]

Boys saying I love you (Part 2)

A/N: Part 2 because I'm soft!!! Let me know if there are any specific characters you want in Part 3, I'll probably eventually do everyone.

Pairing: Asahi, Aone, Kenma, Oikawa, Ushijima, Kita, Akaashi, Ennoshita x reader (seperate) (female pronouns specific to Kita's)

Warnings: Mentions of sex, Lev has a MILF, implications of drinking in Ushijima and Ennoshita's parts. All of these are time skip, only Oikawa's has spoilers.

-

Asahi

It was a warm Tuesday night, the open window letting a soft breeze flow into the bedroom. You were lying on your side, face smushed into the body pillow you were spooning; a top sheet pulled up to your chin. Asahi was next to you, forehead resting in between your shoulder blades as he spooned you, top sheet tucked under his chin to prevent suffocation. You both had been asleep for maybe a few hours when the heat became unbearable. The top sheet was kicked to the bottom of the bed as he sat up for a moment to take off his shirt, lying down on his back this time as he sighed, glancing at the clock.

You shivered slightly at the slight breeze combined with the loss of heat at your back. Still sleeping, you rolled over, ditching your body pillow in exchange for Asahi’s arm. Your face smushed against his bicep as your arms wrapped around his, clutching it to your chest as you curled around it, knees coming to rest against his thigh. Asahi smiled as he watched you, hand not captive coming to brush the hair out of your face, watching the way your nose scrunched up slightly from the feeling. He thought back on your relationship, you had just recently moved in together after being with each other for- His eyes widened as he realized tomorrow, no, today, as he recalled the time being 3 in the morning, today was your anniversary. 6 years together, he couldn’t believe it. He cupped your cheek lightly as his thumb ghosted over your cheekbone.

“Happy Anniversary (Y/N), I love you.” It was barely a whisper, but you stirred nonetheless, one of your hands trailing down his captive arm to lace your fingers together, squeezing as you kissed his bicep.

“ ‘appy ‘vers’ry, ‘m love you too.”

Though your mumble was slurred with sleep and slightly incoherent, Asahi smiled all the same, the warmth spreading in his chest unrelated to the summer night.

Aone

Despite being in your relationship for over 3 years, Aone still hesitated to initiate PDA. Not that it was a problem, you were more than happy to initiate it, relishing in the small blush that appeared whenever you leaned up to kiss him or even just holding his hand. But since you’re no mind-reader, you have developed little actions that speak for you.

You sighed as the train packed with more people, scooting closer to your boyfriend beside you, knee-knocking against his own. Leaning your head against his arm, you laced your fingers through his, resting them in your lap as the train started to move again. You closed your eyes, listening to the random chatter of other passengers around you. Aone shifted slightly, and you smiled when you felt him squeeze your hand 3 times. You repeated the action and brought your joined hands to your lips, kissing the second knuckle of his ring finger.

“ Love you too ‘nobu.”

Kenma

You peeked your head into the spare room, holding up a plate of food in silent question when Kenma met your gaze. He nodded before turning back to his monitors, squinting his eyes before speaking into his headset. You walked to the side, making sure to stay quiet and out of the frame of the webcam. Kenma raised an eyebrow at your behavior.

“ ‘m not streaming.”

You nodded and moved to walk directly to him instead of inching around the room, he smiled,

“Y’know you could have just walked in here, even if I was streaming.”

You shrugged your shoulders, placing the plate on the desk in front of him, resting your chin on his shoulder.

“ I know, but I always feel like ‘m interrupting when I do.”

Your boyfriend lightly rolled his eyes at your reasoning, turning his head to meet your lips for a moment before turning back to his game. “You’d never be interrupting.”

Your cheeks burn slightly at his words, choosing to nuzzle into his neck instead of replying. As he’s waiting in the lobby for the next game to start he eats some of the dinner you brought him. He hums in approval. “Thanks babe, love you.” You kiss his shoulder and hum in response before you hear Lev through Kenma’s headset.

“Simp!”

You roll your eyes, pulling the mic close to your mouth, voice deadpan, “Lev keep it up and ‘m gonna fuck your total milf of a mom.”

Kenma snorts and you smile at the sounds of laughter from the others from the headphones, Lev’s whines being drowned out easily as Kuroo makes fun of him.

Ushijima

You smile when you feel arms wrap around your waist, and you relax into the hold. You feel lips briefly at the back of your head and you look up, your eyes meeting olive green ones.

“Hey love, how was practice?”

“It went as usual, I think we are on track for our next match. How was work?” You hummed and turned off the stove before turning in his arms to face him.

“No more tiring than usual. Dinner’s pretty much done, why don’t you pour us some wine and I’ll bring the plates out.” He nodded and leaned down for a brief kiss. You dished up two plates and brought them to the kitchen table, placing them down as Ushijima finished pouring the wine.

The two of you chat about the day, more about work and practice as well as your plans for tomorrow. After you finished you washed and dried the dishes before heading to the bathroom, drawing a bath for you to share.

You sigh in content, relaxing into the warm water against the chest of your boyfriend. Your head rests against his shoulder and you look up, eyes tracing the line of his jaw, following his cheekbone to the slope of his nose, and finally up to his eyes, finding them already on you. You grin dopily, feeling drunk off the wine and love. You turn slightly to face him more and lean up for a slow kiss. His large and comes up to rest on your neck, the other finding purchase on your hip as he kisses back, lips moving lazily against each other.

You break a few moments later, nuzzling his nose with your own.

“I love you ‘toshi.” He kisses your cheek sweetly before turning you back around, grabbing the body wash to lather your back, deep voice simultaneously sending shivers up your spine and spreading warmth through your chest.

“I love you too (Y/N).”

Oikawa

You hadn’t had a dry eye all day, even now, as you lay in bed late that night, your eyes are misty as you think of tomorrow. You felt the mattress dip as Oikawa crawls into bed next to you, bringing you to his chest when he caught sight of your tears. You sniffled as you traced random shapes into his chest.

“ ‘m gonna miss you.”

You felt him kiss your forehead as his fingers combed through your hair gently. You bit your lip, angry with yourself for being such a cry baby. You curled into his embrace more as he sighed.

“Come with me.” He said it so softly you thought you had misheard him, but you could feel his heartbeat pick up and he tensed slightly waiting for your reply.

You sat up, looking down at him with wide eyes. “What?” Still not believing yourself. He sat up against the headboard, gripping the sheets nervously.

“Come with me, to Argentina.” His eyes searched your face for a reaction, widening slightly when you surged forward, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in the crook of his neck, nodding as tears escaped for what must be the hundredth time that day.

Oikawa exhaled, and you could feel the tension, the worry, leave his body. “Yeah?” he asks, making sure you weren’t just rubbing your eyes. You pull away and take his face in your hands, watery smile gracing your lips.

“Yeah” you breathed, and Oikawa smiled widely before tugging you to him, connecting his lips to yours. You pull away after a few moments, breathless not just from the kiss.

You’re both smiling now, giddiness replacing the dread that had settled in your bones earlier. “I love you, so much.”

You settled back under the covers, into your original positions, though the atmosphere was lighter, full of excitement for what lies ahead.

“I love you too, Tooru.”

Kita

“Goodnight baby, I love you”

You kissed his forehead, running your hand through his hair one more time before standing from your crouched position, quietly leaving and shutting the door to not wake your son.

You walked into your bedroom, stifling a yawn as you climbed into bed, into the waiting arms of your husband. “Asleep?” you responded to his question with a nod, snuggling into his embrace, head on his chest and your leg hitched over his. “Yeah, only took 2 books and an itinerary for tomorrow this time.” Kita chuckled as he squeezed the fat of your hip where his hand rested. You lazily drew shapes on the expanse of his bare chest as you sat in comfortable silence, relishing in the quiet moment of just the two of you.

“We’re doing good. We’ve got this.” He could tell you were saying it more to yourself from the whisper of your words, but he hummed and pulled you closer nonetheless. You’ve voiced your worries before, about parenting, and even at the start of your pregnancy, Kita has been there to comfort and reassure you. The hand not wrapped around you grasped your hand that was on his chest, intertwining your fingers.

“You’re a great mother (Y/N), Sōta and I are very lucky.”

You exhaled deeply, turning to curl closer to Kita, he turned onto his side, pulling you flush to his chest, wrapping his arms around your waist as yours encircled his neck. You kissed the crook of his neck, closing your eyes, focusing on the feel of his chest rising and falling with each breath.

“I love you Shinsuke.”

He smiled as he kissed the side of your head, rubbing your back softly as you drifted off to sleep.

“I love you too.”

Akaashi

You stir slightly, turning to the side to bury your face into your pillow, only to be met with what was definitely not a pillow. Your brows furrow and you open your eyes, groggily following the torso up to the smiling face of your boyfriend, a hand that was carding through your hair moving to brush the hair out of your face.

“ Keji? What time is it?” You yawn and he moves his book aside so you can sit up, squinting slightly from the light from the lamp beside you. He chuckles at your disoriented state. He places a bookmark between pages and set his book aside, grasping your hand in his own.

“Hey love, it's about 10:30, you fell asleep on my lap, why don’t we head to bed?” You nod your head, still not fully awake, you follow him into your share bedroom, clumsily slipping into pyjamas before clambering under the sheets, snuggling back into your boyfriends embrace, sighing contently.

“Night, love you Keji.”

He kisses the crown of your head, wrapping his arms around you to pull you closer. He snorts softly at how quick you fell back asleep.

“Love you too (Y/N).”

Ennoshita

You giggle, stumbling, and rest a hand against the wall next to you to stabilize yourself. Except the wall was warm and breathing, and had arms that wrapped under your shoulders to support you. You gasped softly, looking up bewildered. Instead of the humanoid brick wall you expected, you were greeted with a familiar face, eyebrow raised. You grin dopily in response, arms coming to encircle his neck.

“Chika! When did you get here? I thought you were a wall.” You burst into another fit of giggles and Ennoshita playfully rolls his eyes as he leads you to his car. You let him buckle you into the passenger seat, watching his hands intently. When he closes the door and climbs in the driver’s seat, you immediately grab the hand closest to you, clutching it tightly in your own as you turn slightly in your own seat, looking at him intently.

“Chikara, I have to tell you something important.” Your voice was surprisingly serious, and Ennoshita nodded, furrowing his eyebrows slightly as he waited for you to elaborate. You took a deep breath and he internally panicked a little bit, mind running every scenario that could come up.

“I think, no, I know, I like you, like, like like you. One could even say I love you.” Your eyes searched his face for a reaction and it fell, a pout forming when he laughed. You whined and sunk back in your seat, but he tightened his grip on your hand, bringing the other to cup your face, your watery eyes meeting his. “Aww baby,” he cooed, “I’m sorry I laughed, it’s just- I’d hope you liked me, especially since we’ve been married for 5 years.” He fought the urge to laugh at the way your eyes widened into saucers, mouth opening slightly.

“What! You’re telling me- I put a ring on this?” You motioned to him and he did laugh this time, endearingly lifting both of your hands to show you the rings on each of your fingers. “You sure did”

You whistled lowly, turning back to face correctly in your seat, letting him get buckled and start the car, waiting until he pulled away from the curb to grab his hand again, bringing them to your lap. “Damn, I did good.” He smiled, bringing your joined hands to his lips, kissing right below your ring.

“You sure did, We both- wait! Roll down the window, don’t throw up-“ he sighed, “it’s okay we can clean your dress at home just hold on we’re almost there.”