#control intern managerial

[jupiterpilgrim]

Funny Games

Kim Chaewon x male reader

word count: 18K

commissioned fic

Okay, focus. Your phone is practically glued to your ear, the receiver getting uncomfortably warm as you pace the slightly-too-fancy hotel lobby. Papers rustle under your other arm—passports, flight itineraries, customs forms, a goddamn novella of logistical bullshit required to move four international superstars and their entourage across the planet for the next leg of this relentless promotion cycle. The air buzzes with the low hum of pre-travel anxiety, staffers murmuring into radios, security personnel scanning the perimeter with bored professionalism. Luggage carts glide silently across the polished marble floor, piled high with designer cases stickered with airline priority tags. Everything is accounted for, every contingency planned, every single detail triple-checked… except one. One small, perpetually infuriating, five-foot-four package of pure chaos currently MIA.

You check your watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. Twenty minutes past the absolute latest departure time for the airport run. Twenty minutes closer to missing the check-in window for a private charter, something the label definitely wouldn't appreciate footing the bill to reschedule. You end the call with a clipped, "Yeah, confirmed. Vans are waiting. Just… give us five," and shove the phone into your pocket, resisting the urge to hurl it across the lobby. Yunjin catches your eye from where she's lounging on a velvet armchair, scrolling through her phone.

"Still no sign of the princess?" she calls over, not bothering to lower her voice.

Sakura, seated beside her looking effortlessly chic even in comfy travel sweats, sighs dramatically. "Honestly, you'd think after all this time, she'd learn what a schedule is." Kazuha, ever the quiet observer, simply sips her bottled water, a tiny, knowing smile playing on her lips as she watches you practically vibrate with contained stress. Eunchae is the only group member not participating in the tour; she got stuck filming a TV reality show (lucky her, to be honest). You just shake your head, struggling to maintain control of the situation. Dealing with airline regulations and grumpy customs officials is one thing; managing Kim Chaewon's unique brand of calculated tardiness is a whole different level of managerial hell. Or heaven, depending on the day. And the context.

Right on cue, as if summoned by the sheer force of your frustration, the elevator dings softly. The doors slide open, and there she is. Kim Chaewon. Sauntering out like she hasn't a care in the world, let alone a plane to catch. She's dressed in ridiculously oversized, ripped jeans slung low on her hips, a cropped white tank top that barely covers the essentials, and a pair of chunky sneakers. Sunglasses are perched on her head, pushing back her perfectly styled, slightly messy brown hair. There's a lollipop stick poking jauntily from the corner of her mouth, and a smirk plastered across her face that says she knows exactly how late she is and gives precisely zero fucks. She doesn't even glance at the waiting staff or her bandmates, her eyes landing directly on you, challenge glinting behind the playful facade. No apology, no hurried explanation, just a slow, deliberate stroll towards the assembled group, hips swaying just enough to be noticeable.

You feel a familiar vein start to throb in your temple, a mix of pure exasperation and that other, much less professional feeling she always manages to stir up, even when she's actively sabotaging your carefully laid plans. She stops right in front of you, tilting her head, the lollipop stick rotating slowly between her lips. "Problem?" she asks with a feigned innocence. You have to physically restrain yourself from grabbing her by the shoulders.

"Problem? Chaewon, the problem is we were supposed to leave twenty-five minutes ago. The flight crew is waiting. The plane is waiting." Your voice is low, tight, trying desperately to maintain a semblance of authority despite the fact that everyone within earshot knows the score. She just shrugs, popping the lollipop out with a wet little smack.

"Oops? Lost track of time." The smirk widens. "Was busy." Doing what, you don't even want to imagine, though a few possibilities immediately spring to mind, each less appropriate than the last. Yunjin snickers softly from the couch. Sakura just shakes her head, a silent told you so in the gesture.

"Right," you say, your tone flat, promising retribution. "Well, get your ass moving. Now." You turn, expecting her to follow, ready to start barking orders to get everyone loaded into the waiting vehicles. But she doesn't move. You glance back. She's still standing there, that defiant little pout on her lips now.

"Or what?" she challenges, voice low, but loud enough for you, and probably the girls, to hear.

There it is. That flicker of challenge, the testing of boundaries that's as much a part of her personality as her talent. You meet her gaze, letting the professional mask crack just enough for her to see the warning underneath.

"Or," you lean in slightly, lowering your voice even further, pitching it just for her ears, ignoring the nearby staff pretending not to listen, "you and I are going to have a very detailed discussion about punctuality and following instructions later. Somewhere private. And loud." Her eyes flash, the corner of her mouth quirks up. That's the reaction you were looking for. Not fear, never fear, but that little thrill of anticipation, the promise of consequences she secretly craves.

She finally breaks eye contact, rolling her eyes dramatically, but there's no heat behind it now. "Fine, Dad," she drawls, grabbing her small carry-on bag from a nearby bellhop with maybe a bit too much force. She brushes past you, her shoulder deliberately bumping yours, her fingers trailing almost imperceptibly across the front of your jeans as she does. A jolt goes through you, a stark reminder of just how thin the line is between manager and… whatever the hell this is. You watch her swagger towards the exit, the sway of her hips definitely more pronounced now, a silent fuck you directed straight at your rapidly fraying composure.

Kazuha catches your eye again, that small smile widening slightly before she stands up smoothly. Sakura pushes herself up with a groan. "Come on, lovebirds, plane won't fly itself," Yunjin chirps, slinging her own bag over her shoulder and giving you a knowing wink as she follows Chaewon out into the bright morning sunlight towards the waiting black SUVs. You take a deep breath, smoothing down your shirt, trying to regain control.

Right. Airport. Focus.

The ride to the private airfield is a blur of logistics and barely contained annoyance simmering just beneath your professional exterior. You're in the lead SUV with some core staff, phone pressed back to your ear finalizing gate access and confirming the flight plan one last time. Through the tinted windows, you catch glimpses of the second vehicle carrying the girls, a sleek black Escalade gliding smoothly through the early morning traffic heading towards Narita. Japan first, a whirlwind of promo and a high-profile music show appearance, then onto LA for the US leg.

The schedule is brutal, relentless, and your brief, desperately needed month-long vacation already feels like a distant dream. You try to focus on the call, nodding along to the pilot's confirmations, but your mind keeps flashing back to Chaewon’s deliberate touch, the heat in her eyes when you issued that warning. Damn her. Damn this whole fucked-up dynamic you can't seem to escape, not that you entirely want to.

In the other car, Yunjin leans back against the plush leather seats, stretching languidly. She glances over at Chaewon, who's staring out the window, humming softly to herself, that infuriating lollipop stick back between her teeth.

"So," Yunjin starts casually, scrolling through Instagram, "you doing okay there, Chae? Seemed a little... wound up back at the hotel." Chaewon turns, pulling the lollipop out with a soft pop.

"Wound up? Me? Nah." She flashes a grin that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Just excited for Japan. It's been a while since we've been there."

Sakura snorts softly from the other side. "Right. Excited to go to Japan. That's definitely what had you practically vibrating out of your skin." Kazuha just adjusts her noise-canceling headphones, opting out of the incoming drama she can sense brewing.

Chaewon rolls her eyes. "Whatever. I don't know what you guys are talking about."

Yunjin just smiles knowingly. "Mmhmm. Sure you don't." She goes back to her phone, letting the subject drop. She knows Chaewon too well; pushing now won't get her anywhere.

The airport procedures are surprisingly smooth, a testament to the efficiency of the ground crew and the perks of private travel. No lines, minimal fuss through security and customs, just a swift walk across the tarmac under the surprisingly warm morning sun towards the waiting Gulfstream jet. It gleams, sleek and white, promising pressurized comfort and relative privacy for the next few hours. The girls board first, Yunjin offering a cheerful wave, Sakura a polite nod, Kazuha a quiet smile. Chaewon hangs back, deliberately letting you pass her on the boarding stairs. As you step onto the plush carpet of the jet's interior, she follows close behind, close enough that you can feel the faint warmth radiating off her skin, smell the sickly sweet cherry scent of her damn lollipop mixed with her expensive perfume. She bumps your arm "accidentally" as she moves past you towards the main cabin seating area, settling into a window seat without a word. You watch her go, jaw tight, before turning to have a final word with the flight attendant about the service schedule.

Once airborne, the atmosphere shifts. The low rumble of the engines becomes a background drone, the city shrinking below as you climb through the clouds. Staff keep to the forward galley, the flight attendants are discreet, and the girls mostly settle into their own routines; headphones on, tablets out, naps commencing. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The simmering tension from the hotel lobby, the car ride, the boarding process, it hasn't dissipated. It's coiled tight in the pressurized air, centered entirely around the small girl pretending to be engrossed in the view outside her window. You catch her reflection in the polished wood trim. She's not looking outside; she's watching you.

Waiting.

Testing.

Fine. Game on. It's been over an hour, you're at cruising altitude, and most people seem settled. Time for that "detailed discussion." You casually stand up, stretching as if heading for a drink, and make your way towards the rear of the plane, towards the surprisingly spacious lavatory. You slip inside, leaving the door deliberately unlocked, just cracked open a sliver. Pulling out your phone, you fire off a quick text, fingers tapping the screen with purpose: Bathroom. Now.

You don't have to wait long. Maybe thirty seconds pass before you hear the soft click of the cabin door opening and closing further down the aisle, followed by light, quick footsteps on the carpet. The bathroom door pushes open silently, and she's there, filling the small space, her presence immediately dialing up the intensity. That bratty smirk is back, but there's a nervous energy flickering underneath it now, a thrill chasing the defiance. She glances back down the empty aisle quickly before stepping fully inside and clicking the lock firmly behind her. The sound echoes slightly in the confined space. She turns to face you, leaning back against the locked door, crossing her arms over that cropped tank top. Her eyes challenge yours.

"Yeah?" she asks, voice low, trying to project nonchalance. You don't crowd her immediately, just hold her gaze, letting the silence stretch, amplifying the low hum of the engines vibrating through the floor.

"You've been pushing it, Chaewon," you state, keeping your voice level, pitched just loud enough for her over the engine noise. "All morning. Back at the hotel, on the stairs, just now. What the fuck is your deal?"

She shrugs, a deliberately dismissive gesture. "Don't know what you're talking about. Just excited for the trip." That smirk again.

God, you want to wipe it off her face. Or kiss it off.

You take a step closer, closing the small distance between you until you're invading her personal space, forcing her to tilt her head back slightly to maintain eye contact. Bullshit. You reach up, your hand gently but firmly closing around the column of her throat, thumb resting just under her jawline, fingers applying just enough pressure to make her breath hitch. Not painful, just… possessive. Controlling.

You watch her eyes darken slightly, the pulse jumping beneath your thumb. Her skin is so soft. You let your gaze drift over her face, taking in the sharp line of her jaw, the slight flush rising on her cheeks, the way her impossibly brown, perfectly cut bob frames her face. She’s stunning, even when she’s being an absolute menace.

"Don't lie to me," you murmur. "Is this because I was gone?" Her gaze flickers away for a fraction of a second before snapping back to yours, defiance warring with something softer, needier. She doesn't answer, presses her lips together stubbornly.

But you know. Of course, that's what it is.

A whole month you were off-grid, a proper vacation, sun, sand, zero work calls, zero idol drama, zero her. You needed it. Your sanity depended on it.

"Look," you sigh, loosening your grip slightly but not letting go, stroking your thumb along her jaw instead. "I needed that break, Chae. This job… it’s fucking insane. Managing schedules, dealing with labels, fixing fuck-ups… it’s non-stop. And you," you give her neck a tiny squeeze, "you don't exactly make it easy sometimes, do you? Acting out isn't going to help anything." Her eyes flash again, the bratty spark returning full force. She lifts her chin, straining slightly against your hold.

"Oh yeah? So what are you gonna do about it, boss?" she challenges, her voice laced with that familiar, infuriating blend of provocation and invitation.

A slow smile spreads across your face. You lean in until your lips are centimeters from hers, your breath mingling.

"I'm gonna start," you whisper, the words brushing against her mouth, "by shutting that pretty, bratty little mouth of yours." And then you crush your lips down on hers. It’s not gentle. It’s hard, possessive, a reclaiming. You tangle one hand in her short hair, tilting her head back, deepening the kiss, your tongue demanding entrance, tasting the lingering cherry sweetness from her lollipop mixed with her own unique flavor. She gasps into your mouth but kisses back just as fiercely, her arms coming up to wrap around your neck, pulling herself tighter against you. The small space seems to shrink further, filled with the heat radiating between your bodies. Your other hand slides down her back, over the curve of her waist, down to her ass.

You grab a handful, squeezing her tight, ripped denim digging into your palm, feeling the firm muscle beneath.

God, her body.

Tight, toned, compact perfection pressed flush against you. You grind your hips against hers reflexively, letting her feel exactly how much her little games, her proximity, affects you. You break the kiss, both of you breathing heavily, foreheads resting together. Her eyes are hazy, lips slick and slightly swollen.

"Fuck," she breathes out, a satisfied little smirk playing on her lips now. "Took you long enough."

You chuckle darkly. "You wanted attention, didn't you?" You slide your hand from her ass around to the front, pressing your knuckles against the apex of her thighs through her jeans. She lets out a shaky breath, her hips twitching against your hand.

"Always," she admits. "Especially yours." You meet her gaze, seeing the raw need there now, the bratty facade momentarily forgotten.

"Yeah?" you murmur. "Think you earned it?" She nods eagerly, biting her lower lip. "Okay then," you say, stepping back just enough to create a sliver of space, your hand dropping to the waistband of your own jeans. "Get what you came for. Unbutton my pants. Show me how much you missed me while I was gone." Her eyes light up, that mischievous, filthy smile spreading across her face, erasing any trace of vulnerability.

"Gladly."

Without hesitation, she sinks to her knees in the cramped space, the motion fluid and practiced, her gaze locked on yours as her nimble fingers go straight for the button of your jeans, popping it open with practiced ease.

That filthy little smile doesn't leave her face as her fingers deftly work the zipper down, the metallic rasp sounding obscenely loud in the confined space. She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of your jeans and boxers, pulling them down just enough, freeing you into the cool, recycled air of the lavatory. Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly for a second, a flicker of genuine appreciation crossing her features before the bratty confidence slams back into place. You're hard already, straining against the sudden freedom, the head slick with precum from the kiss and the proximity.

She doesn't dive right in, though. Oh no, that wouldn't be her style. This is part performance, part genuine reverence, all designed to drive you absolutely insane. She leans forward, her bob falling forward, curtaining her face slightly as she just looks for a moment, her gaze tracing the length of you, thick and ready. Her breath hitches audibly, warm air ghosting over your sensitive skin. You grip the edge of the small vanity counter behind you, bracing yourself, watching her. This part, the anticipation, the way she draws it out, is almost as potent as the act itself.

"Fuck," she breathes out, the word a reverent whisper against your cockhead. Her eyes flick up to meet yours, dark and dilated, full of undiluted want. "God, I missed you.” She reaches out a hesitant finger, tracing the prominent vein running down the shaft, a feather-light touch that sends a shiver straight up your spine. "Really fucking missed this." Her fingers wrap around the base, gently testing your weight, her touch surprisingly cool at first before her body heat starts to transfer. You watch her lower her head slowly, her nose practically brushing against you. She inhales deeply, deliberately, her eyes fluttering shut for a second. "Mmm, missed your smell," she murmurs, almost purring the words. It’s ridiculous, performative, and yet undeniably hot.

She knows exactly what she’s doing, playing up this devoted sub angle she slips into when she truly wants something. She presses a soft, closed-mouth kiss right to the sensitive tip, then another just below it, her lips incredibly soft. "Missed your taste," she whispers against your skin before flicking her tongue out, tasting the bead of precum, humming her approval. "So fucking good." Another slow lick, this time circling the head, deliberate and agonizingly slow. She looks up at you again through her lashes, a challenge in her eyes now. "You know nobody makes you feel this good, right?" she states, not asks, her fingers tightening slightly at your base. "Nobody gets to have this but me."

You don't answer, just watch her, your breath coming faster, the low hum of the Gulfstream's engines fading into a dull roar in your ears. She seems to take your silence as confirmation, a smug little smirk touching her lips before her focus returns entirely to your cock. She showers the head with tiny, wet kisses, murmuring praises, telling you how perfect you are, how hard she’s making you, how much she loves knowing she’s the only one who gets you like this. It’s a litany of filth and adoration, custom-designed to stroke your ego as much as your cock. Her hair brushes against your inner thighs as she moves.

Then, finally, she opens her mouth. Her lips, slick with spit now, close around the head, engulfing the most sensitive part of you in wet heat. A low groan escapes your throat, involuntary, and you fist your hand tighter on the counter edge. Her tongue immediately goes to work, swirling, flicking, teasing, while her lips maintain that perfect pressure. She bobs her head slightly, taking just the tip into her mouth, sucking gently, testing your reaction. Her eyes are fixed on yours, watching every micro-expression, gauging your pleasure. Seeing your jaw clench, your eyes darken, only seems to spur her on. The bratty challenge morphs into focused determination, the determination to absolutely wreck you right here, thirty thousand feet above the Pacific, in a bathroom barely big enough for one person.

She changes tactics, her mouth sliding further down, taking more of you in. Jesus, she’s good. So fucking good. Her throat muscles work, creating an incredible suction as she slides down, then eases up, her lips and tongue creating friction on the way back. It’s slow, deep, worshipful, completely at odds with the frantic energy she displayed just moments ago. One of her hands rests on your thigh, fingers digging in slightly for balance, while the other continues its gentle stroking at your base, coordinating perfectly with the rhythm of her mouth. She varies the pressure, sometimes sucking hard enough to make you see stars, other times easing off, teasing the underside with her tongue, finding that sensitive ridge and working it relentlessly. You let your head fall back against the cool bulkhead, eyes closed now, just focusing on the overwhelming sensations radiating from your groin. The tight heat of her mouth, the slick glide, the slight scratch of her teeth now and then—carefully controlled, just enough to illicit a gasp.

You can hear her little contented hums around you, the wet sounds of her work echoing slightly off the walls. She knows exactly how much you love this, how much you need it, especially after being away. This is her reclaiming you, marking her territory in the most intimate way possible. The plane hits a patch of minor turbulence, a slight jostle that makes her pause for a second, her grip tightening on your thigh. She looks up, eyes wide for a moment, before a wicked grin splits her face. The added element of risk, the thinness of the locked door separating you from discovery, clearly just makes it hotter for her. She lowers her head again, her pace picking up slightly, getting sloppier, faster, sucking harder, her head nodding with increasing urgency as she feels you twitching in her mouth, reacting to her skilled attention.

That wicked grin doesn't fade as she dives back down, the brief pause and jolt of turbulence seemingly flipping a switch in her. The slow, almost reverent pace vanishes, replaced by something frantic, greedier. Her head bobs faster, much faster, taking you deeper, almost gagging on your length but pushing through it, her throat muscles working overtime. The sounds are wetter now, louder, sloppy sucking noises mingling with her quickened breaths through her nose.

She knows exactly where you're heading, can feel the tension coiling tight in your hips, the way your breathing has turned ragged. She wants to push you over the edge. Her free hand leaves your thigh and joins the other at your base, both thumbs pressing firmly against your perineum. She pulls back just enough to dart her tongue out, licking down the entire length in one wet stripe before taking you back in just as quickly. Then, without warning, she shifts her attention lower. Her hot mouth slides off you momentarily, leaving you exposed and hypersensitive in the cool air, before closing firmly around your balls.

"Fuck," you gasp out loud this time, your hips bucking involuntarily off the counter. The sensation is intense, shocking; the wet heat engulfing you there, the gentle suction, her tongue swirling against the tight skin. She takes one, then the other, into her mouth, sucking gently, flicking her tongue, paying devoted attention while her fingers still expertly work your shaft. She alternates, mouth on your balls, fingers stroking, then mouth back on your cock, faster, sloppier than before, driving you absolutely insane. She glances up, eyes glazed but focused, seeing the loss of control blooming on your face. A tiny, triumphant smirk plays on her lips around you.

"Like that, huh?" she manages to mumble, the words distorted. "Want me to suck your fucking soul out through your balls?"

God, yes.

You can't even form words, just groan, a raw sound torn from your throat. The combination is too much; the relentless friction on your shaft, the dizzying attention to your balls, the tight confines of the bathroom, the constant hum of the engines a vibration deep in your bones, the sheer fucking audacity of doing this right now.

Control snaps.

Your hands shoot out, burying themselves in her silky brown bob. You grab two handfuls, tilting her head back slightly, forcing her mouth wider around you. Her eyes widen in surprise, a small, muffled gasp escaping around you, but there's no fear there, only widening pupils filled with manic excitement.

"Yeah," you grit out, your voice rough, barely recognizable. "Fucking take it. All of it." You start to move, thrusting your hips forward, fucking her face, setting a harsh, driving rhythm. No more gentle give and take, just pure, selfish need. You drive into her mouth, pushing past her limits, feeling the resistance at the back of her throat, pushing through it anyway. Her hands fly up, gripping your thighs, holding on as you use her mouth relentlessly.

Her head nods back and forth with each rough thrust, her hair tangling in your fingers. You look down at her, at her beautiful face, cheeks flushed, eyes watering slightly from the force, spit shining on her chin where it escapes the corners of her mouth. She’s trying to keep up, trying to match your rhythm, muffled sounds of pleasure and choked effort escaping her. But this isn't about her pleasure anymore, not entirely. This is about yours. About the overwhelming, crashing need to come that's consuming every thought.

Each downward stroke of your hips forces a deeper groan from your chest, the pressure building unbearably. You pull back slightly, almost out, just to slam back in, burying yourself deep in her throat, feeling her gag reflex kick in, hearing the choked sound she makes. You do it again, harder, faster, chasing that release, feeling it clawing its way up your spine, tightening everything inside you into one unbearable knot of pure sensation as you fuck her pretty, willing mouth like it owes you everything.

Each thrust is deliberate now, a punctuation mark emphasizing your ownership in this moment, right here, miles above the earth in this ridiculously small, vibrating metal tube. You drive deep, pulling back just enough to hear her ragged gasp for air before slamming back in, pushing the boundaries, treating her mouth like nothing more than a tight, wet hole designed solely for your pleasure. And fuck, she takes it. Her eyes, slightly teary now from the force and the gag reflex you keep triggering, are locked on yours, wide and impossibly dark, reflecting a mixture of overwhelmed submission and pure, unadulterated adoration.

She loves this.

Loves being used, pushed, treated like your personal plaything when the mood strikes. Loves knowing she’s the only one you’d ever do this to, the only one who could take it and still look up at you like you hung the goddamn moon. Her hands are still gripping your thighs, knuckles white, anchoring herself against your relentless assault. Muffled whimpers and choked sounds escape around you, sounds of effort, of pleasure pushed right to the edge of pain, sounds that only fuel the fire roaring through your veins.

"That's it, baby," you rasp out. "Take it all. Fucking earn it." Your thrusts become less rhythmic, more frantic, chasing that final, explosive release that's clawing its way up from your balls. You can feel the orgasm building, an unstoppable surge coiling low and tight, demanding release. "God, Chaewon, fuck..." You look down at her, at the beautiful mess she is beneath you; spit slicking her chin, hair mussed and tangled in your grip, eyes glazed over but still fiercely focused on you.

This image, her complete surrender mixed with that inherent bratty defiance simmering underneath, is the final push. With a guttural roar that seems to vibrate through the thin walls of the lavatory, you come. Hard. Your hips stutter, pulsing uncontrollably as thick ropes of cum shoot deep into her throat, spasm after spasm racking your frame. You feel her choke, her body tensing instinctively as she struggles to swallow the sudden, huge flood. Her eyes squeeze shut for a second, a single tear finally escaping, tracking a path through the faint sheen of sweat on her cheek. But she swallows. God damn her, she swallows every last drop, her throat working convulsively, taking all of it down like the devoted little slut she is when you push her this far.

The intensity drains out of you almost as quickly as it came, leaving you momentarily boneless, breathing heavily, forehead pressed against the cool metal wall above her head. Your grip on her hair loosens, fingers automatically smoothing the strands you were just gripping so tightly. You stay there for a long moment, embedded deep within her, your rapidly softening cock still held snugly by her lips and throat.

The only sounds are your harsh breaths gradually evening out and the faint, wet noises as she finishes swallowing, clearing her throat delicately. It’s strangely intimate, this quiet moment after the storm. Finally, slowly, you pull out, your cock sliding free with a soft, wet sound. She stays kneeling, looking up at you, her lips plump and red, slightly glistening. There’s a smudge of her mascara under one eye, and her cheeks are flushed a deep pink.

She looks thoroughly wrecked. And impossibly beautiful. Leaning down, you gently cup her cheek with your hand, thumb stroking softly across her flushed skin, wiping away that single tear track. Her eyes flutter slightly at the tenderness, a stark contrast to the rough handling moments before.

"Fuck, Chae," you murmur. "Missed you too, brat. So fucking much."

A small, genuine smile finally touches her lips, tired but satisfied. She leans her cheek into your palm for just a second, a silent acknowledgment. You grab a couple of paper towels, dampen them slightly, and gently wipe her mouth and chin, cleaning her up. She takes them from you wordlessly and finishes the job herself, quickly fixing her hair in the small mirror, smoothing her tank top. The transformation back to idol Kim Chaewon is swift, though the flush on her cheeks and the slightly dazed look in her eyes might linger.

"Okay," you say quietly, checking your own appearance quickly. "Give it five minutes. Then head back out like nothing happened." She nods, her gaze meeting yours in the mirror, a shared spark of conspiracy and satisfaction flashing between you.

"Five minutes," she confirms. You unlock the door, peek out quickly; the aisle is still clear, the cabin quiet, then slip out, leaving her alone in the small space, the scent of sex and cherry lollipop hanging faintly in the air. You walk back to your seat, sinking into it, feeling utterly drained but deeply satisfied, the earlier stress replaced by a languid sense of calm as you wait, counting the minutes until she rejoins the world as if nothing had happened.

—

The touchdown at Narita is smooth, the private jet taxiing to a remote stand far from the commercial terminals, a small bubble of privileged quiet before the storm. But even before the engines fully spool down, the energy shifts. Phones reappear, makeup is touched up, professional smiles click into place. You’re already on your feet, coordinating with the ground crew via headset, confirming vehicles, security perimeter, and the route to the hotel. The brief, intense intimacy of the lavatory encounter feels like it happened in another lifetime, shoved firmly back into the mental box labeled 'Later'. Right now, you're Manager-nim, orchestrating the intricate ballet of moving four global stars through a country.

The jet door opens, revealing the crisp Tokyo air and a phalanx of serious-looking Japanese security personnel alongside your usual team. You step out first, surveying the scene, giving clipped instructions. Then the girls emerge, blinking. And Chaewon… fuck, the transformation is always jarring. One moment she was kneeling on a bathroom floor, looking wrecked and sated; the next, she's Kim Chaewon of Le Sserafim, waving brightly, a picture of sweet, bubbly professionalism. Her brown bob is perfect, her smile dazzling, her energy infectious as she greets the ground staff with polite bows and cheerful "Ohayou gozaimasu!" greetings.

The walk through the designated private channel towards the waiting vehicles is a controlled chaos you know well. Muffled screams and frantic chanting of "Le Sserafim! Le Sserafim!" echo from somewhere beyond the security cordon, a testament to their massive popularity here. Camera flashes strobe intermittently from permitted press areas, capturing their every move. You stick close, scanning the surroundings, murmuring directions into your radio, occasionally guiding one of the girls with a light touch on the back (purely professional, of course). But your eyes inevitably find Chaewon. She's interacting effortlessly with her members, laughing at something Sakura says, adjusting Kazuha’s collar playfully.

To the world, she's an adorable idol, the charismatic leader. But then, amidst the flashing lights and the buzz of the crowd, her eyes find yours across the short distance separating the group from the security detail. It’s just a flicker, barely a second long, but it hits you like a physical jolt. There’s no sweetness in that glance. It’s pure, unadulterated knowing. A glint of challenge, a silent reminder of exactly where her mouth was just a couple of hours ago, a promise of unfinished business.

Her lips quirk almost imperceptibly, a shadow of that filthy smirk, before she turns back to wave at a particularly loud group of FEARNOTs, the idol smile firmly back in place. You quickly look away, refocusing on the path ahead, feeling a familiar heat crawl up your neck. Yeah, keeping control around her is a constant battle, a tightrope walk between your responsibilities and the raw, magnetic pull she exerts.

—

The days that follow blur into a relentless cycle of promotion. Early morning call times for music show pre-recordings, interviews with Japanese magazines, high-energy fan meet-and-greets, rehearsals, sponsor events. You're constantly in motion, managing schedules, liaising with local teams, troubleshooting inevitable hiccups, ensuring the girls are where they need to be, looking and sounding perfect. You operate on caffeine and adrenaline, maintaining a professional buffer zone around yourself. Mostly. But she’s always there. A constant presence, radiating that dual energy. On stage, during interviews, she’s flawless. Charming, witty, hitting every mark, captivating everyone with her charisma. She signs albums for fans, her eyes crinkling in a perfect crescent moon smile, head tilted attentively as she listens to their excited chatter. You watch from the wings, clipboard in hand, discussing logistics with a stage manager, and you have to admire her professionalism. She’s damn good at her job.

But then, during a brief water break backstage, tucked away from most of the crew, she catches your eye again. She's leaning against a roadie case, pretending to stretch, but her gaze is locked onto yours. She slowly, deliberately runs the tip of her tongue across her upper lip, mimicking the action from the plane, before taking a long, slow sip from her water bottle, her throat working. It’s blatant. Provocative. A silent dare right there in the middle of the professional chaos. You just glare back, shaking your head slightly, trying to convey 'knock it off' without drawing attention. She just offers a tiny, almost invisible shrug, a silent 'make me,' before Yunjin calls her over to look at something on her phone, breaking the connection.

The tension is a constant hum beneath the surface, especially when you're confined in the same space for extended periods; dressing rooms, rehearsal studios, vans during transit. The other members notice, of course. They're not blind, they are already very familiar with this twisted dynamic. Yunjin occasionally throws amused, knowing glances between you two. Sakura sometimes sighs with theatrical exasperation when Chaewon gets particularly “energetic” (read: subtly provocative towards you) during downtime. Kazuha remains the serene observer, missing nothing but saying little.

During one rehearsal for a demanding choreography piece, the instructor is giving notes. You're standing off to the side, watching intently, making mental notes about stage positioning. Chaewon is front and center, sweat glistening on her forehead, breathing heavily but focused. The instructor praises her intensity. As the group resets for another run-through, Chaewon turns, ostensibly to grab her water bottle from near where you're standing.

She meets your gaze directly, her chest still heaving slightly.

"Hard work, right Manager-nim?" she asks innocently, but her eyes hold that familiar, challenging heat. Before you can respond with a noncommittal professional grunt, she adds, quieter, almost under her breath, "Makes me thirsty." She grabs her bottle, takes a long drink, and turns back to the formation, leaving you standing there, jaw tight, feeling thr unspoken meaning.

Yeah, you think grimly, watching her perfectly execute the next sequence. Keeping things under control around Kim Chaewon is going to be the hardest part of this entire goddamn tour.

—

The fan meeting is a sensory overload, bright lights everywhere, cheerful music blasting from speakers, and the high-pitched buzz of hundreds of excited FEARNOTs packed into the event hall. Rows of fans clutch albums and gifts, shuffling forward patiently for their brief, precious moments with the idols. You’re stationed near the side of the stage area, ostensibly overseeing the flow, liaising with security and event staff, but your attention keeps getting snagged by Chaewon. For the first hour, she’s perfect. Idol Chaewon in full effect: adorable aegyo, attentive listening, dazzling smiles, expertly signing albums, making every fan feel like the center of the universe. She laughs, she jokes, she poses for photos with peace signs and hearts. Standard procedure.

But you know her.

You see the restless energy simmering beneath the surface, the way her eyes occasionally flick towards you when she thinks no one is looking.

She’s bored.

And when Chaewon gets bored, she gets mischievous.

It starts subtly. A slightly longer hand-hold with a particularly handsome fanboy. Laughing just a bit too loudly, head thrown back, at something another fan says. Small things, easily deniable. But then comes a fan near the end of the line, maybe early twenties, clearly nervous but trying to be cool. He says something, probably complimenting her, and Chaewon leans way forward across the table, elbows planted, chin resting on her hands, giving him her undivided, intense attention. Her smile turns from sweet idol to something… sultry. Predatory. "Oh really?" you hear her say, voice pitching slightly lower, playful but undeniably flirty. "Tell me more about that." She bats her eyelashes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering near her collarbone. The fan turns beet red, stammering.

And Chaewon?

She glances sideways, directly at you, a tiny, triumphant smirk flashing across her face for a nanosecond before turning back to the flustered fan, completely ignoring the staff member gently trying to move the line along. You feel your jaw clench so hard your teeth ache. That little shit. She’s doing it on purpose, pushing your buttons in front of hundreds of people, knowing you can’t react.

The moment the last fan is gone and the doors close, before the girls are even fully off the stage platform and heading towards the backstage waiting room, you're moving towards her. She sees you coming, that bratty, challenging glint back in her eyes, though she pretends to be engrossed in conversation with Kazuha. You don't wait until you're fully backstage.

"What the hell was that, Chaewon?" you demand, keeping your voice low but harsh, stopping right in front of her, forcing Kazuha to awkwardly sidestep around you.

Chaewon blinks, feigning innocence. "What was what? I was just being nice to the fans. Isn't that my job?" The saccharine sweetness in her voice makes you want to throttle her.

"Don't play dumb with me," you hiss, leaning in slightly. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. Leaning across the table like that, practically purring at the guy. You trying to start something?"

Her eyes flash. "Maybe I was just appreciating a compliment," she shoots back, crossing her arms. "Is that against the rules now, Manager-nim? Or are you just jealous?"

That does it.

"Jealous? I'm pissed off because you're playing stupid, risky games in public when you know better!" Your voice rises slightly, catching the attention of the other members who are just entering the waiting room, looking utterly drained. Sakura groans, dropping onto a nearby couch.

"Oh my god, are you two seriously doing this now? We just finished a three-hour fan meet." Yunjin collapses next to her, pulling off her shoes. "Seriously. Can you guys just... not? Fight on your own time. Some of us want to go back to the hotel and pass out." Kazuha just shakes her head silently, already pulling out her phone, tuning out the familiar drama.

Chaewon ignores them, her gaze locked on yours, a thrill dancing in her eyes as she sees the anger simmering there. She loves this. Loves seeing you lose control, even just a little.

"Maybe I like playing risky games," she says softly, defiantly. You look at her, really look at her; the flushed cheeks, the challenging glint, the slight pout of her lips, and a wave of conflicting impulses washes over you: pure rage, and an equally potent desire to throw her over your shoulder, take her somewhere private, and show her exactly what happens when she pushes you too far. You want to punish her, break down that bratty defiance until she’s begging, but you also just want to have her, right now.

You take a deep, steadying breath, shoving the unprofessional thoughts down. Work first.

"Fine," you say curtly, trying to keep your voice flat and cold now, which you know unsettles her more than shouting. "We'll discuss your... appreciation... later." You turn away from her, clapping your hands together, shifting back into manager mode. "Alright everyone, good work today. Vans are waiting outside. Let's move, quick." You avoid looking directly at Chaewon as you herd the exhausted group towards the exit, focusing on coordinating with security for the departure.

The ride back to the hotel is thick with silence. The earlier exhaustion is now overlaid with the residue of your argument. Chaewon stares out the window, pointedly ignoring you, though you can feel the nervous energy radiating off her. She knows she crossed a line. She also knows retribution is coming. As the vans pull into the hotel's underground parking garage, and the girls start gathering their belongings, Chaewon makes a move towards the elevator with Sakura and Yunjin, maybe thinking she can slip away to the safety of her own room. No chance. Before she can take more than two steps, your hand shoots out, fingers wrapping firmly around her wrist. Her head whips around, eyes wide with surprise, maybe a flicker of apprehension mixed with the underlying excitement.

"Not so fast," you say. The other girls pause, exchange weary glances, but don't intervene. They know this dance.

"Where are we going?" Yunjin asks tiredly, already pressing the elevator button. "You three, head up. Get some rest," you instruct, your gaze fixed on Chaewon. "She's coming with me." You tug gently but firmly on Chaewon’s wrist, pulling her away from the group, towards the opposite elevator bank that leads to a different wing—your wing. Her eyes search yours, the earlier defiance replaced with a hesitant, almost breathless anticipation.

"With you?" she echoes, her voice small. "To your room?" You start walking, pulling her along beside you. She stumbles slightly but keeps pace, her wrist still captive in your grip.

"Yeah," you confirm, punching the button for your floor. As the elevator doors glide open, she looks up at you, a nervous smile playing on her lips, that familiar bratty spark returning.

"Are you… are you gonna punish me?" she asks, a kind of silly, almost happy tone in her voice. She already knows the answer. You meet her gaze, letting her see the banked anger, the possessive intent, the promise of exactly what she's been provoking all day.

"What do you think?"

The path there is filled with silence and tension for what you both know is to come, the heavy hotel room door clicks shut behind you, the sound sealing you both in, cutting off the outside world and unleashing the tightly coiled tension that’s been vibrating between you all damn day. You don't waste a second. Before she can even process the surroundings (the king-sized bed dominating the space, the generic hotel art, the city lights filtering through the sheer curtains), you've got her backed against the door, your mouth crashing down on hers. It’s not like the possessive claim on the plane; this is pure, unrestrained frustration bleeding into raw hunger. Your lips move roughly against hers, demanding, punishing, tasting the lingering sweetness of whatever lip tint she wore for the fans.

Your hands are everywhere, tangling in her hair, cupping the back of her neck, pressing her impossibly closer against the solid wood. She makes a surprised noise deep in her throat, her hands flying up to your chest, pushing slightly at first, more out of reflex than resistance. But you don't relent. Your kisses trail frantically across her cheekbones, her jawline, down the elegant column of her neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin just below her ear. You feel her resistance melt away, replaced by trembling anticipation.

"Fuck… you're crazy," she gasps out between kisses, a breathless sound that’s half sigh, half suppressed giggle. Her hands fist in the fabric of your shirt now, holding on. "Absolutely fucking insane." She tilts her head back, granting you better access to her throat, a silent offering.

And yeah, she loves it.

Loves seeing you like this: completely undone by her, control shattered, driven solely by the need to have her. It feeds that bratty ego, confirms her power over you, even as you’re physically dominating her. That thought just fuels your frustration further. You pull back just enough to meet her eyes, seeing the amusement warring with rapidly escalating arousal in their dark depths.

"You think this is funny?" you growl. "You think pulling that shit back there was funny?" Before she can answer, you're attacking her clothes. There's no finesse, no gentle undressing. Your fingers fumble impatiently with the buttons of her stylish blouse, frustration mounting until you just rip it open, sending small pearl buttons scattering across the plush carpet. She gasps, a genuine shock this time, but doesn't stop you. You tug the ruined fabric off her shoulders, revealing the simple black bra underneath.

Next are her jeans, the zipper comes down with a harsh rasp, the button popped, and you're shoving them down her hips, impatiently tugging until they pool around her ankles. You force her to step out of them, nearly tripping her in the process. Now she stands there in just her black lace bra and matching panties, looking slightly disheveled, breathless, and utterly fucking delectable. Her body is exactly as you remember; compact, toned, dancer’s muscles defined beneath smooth skin. Tight little stomach, lean thighs, those perfect handfuls of breasts barely contained by the flimsy lace.

This body, this fucking perfect, infuriating body, drives you to the brink every single time.

With another low growl, you scoop her up, she yelps in surprise, take two strides across the room, and unceremoniously dump her onto the center of the massive bed. The mattress bounces, jostling her. Before she can react, you're following her down, crawling onto the bed, pinning her beneath your weight. One knee nudges her thighs apart slightly, settling comfortably between them, while your hands trap her wrists loosely above her head against the pillows. She stares up at you, her breathing quick and shallow, eyes wide, that familiar mixture of challenge and submission swirling within them.

"Answer me," you demand, leaning down close. "Who do I belong to?" A slow, infuriatingly bratty smile spreads across her face. She licks her lips deliberately.

"Hmm, let me think," she teases, tilting her head slightly. "Maybe that cute fanboy from earlier? He seemed pretty appreciative." Your grip tightens instinctively on her wrists, and your free hand shoots to her throat, fingers wrapping around it, applying firm, steady pressure. Not enough to truly hurt, never that, but enough to make her breath catch, enough to steal the bratty smirk right off her face, enough to demand her full, undivided attention.

Her eyes widen, the playfulness vanishing. "Don't," you squeeze slightly harder, feeling the frantic pulse jump beneath your thumb, "fuck with me right now, Chaewon. Answer the question. Seriously." You watch her pupils dilate, watch her swallow nervously against your grip. Her voice is husky, slightly strained when she finally speaks, all traces of laughter gone.

"You," she breathes out. "I belong to you." Her gaze locks with yours, raw desire blazing there now, open and undisguised.

That’s the answer you needed. You lean down and capture her mouth in one last bruising kiss, pouring all your possessive anger and overwhelming need into it, before abruptly pulling away. You slide off her, off the bed, standing beside it as you take off your own clothes with shaking hands. Shirt, jeans, boxers, discarded onto the floor without a second thought, leaving you completely naked, hard and aching, your arousal throbbing in the air between you. She watches you from the bed, propped up slightly on her elbows now, her gaze tracking your every move, her lips slightly swollen, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

You stalk back towards the bed, your eyes fixed on the flimsy black lace barely covering her small, perky breasts. Reaching her, you don't bother with the clasp. You hook your fingers under the front strap of her bra and just yank. The delicate fabric rips with a satisfying tearing sound, the strap snapping near the cup. You toss the ruined garment aside, exposing her completely. Her breasts are perfect; small, perky, round, with tight, rosy nipples already pebbled hard from the cool air and anticipation.

"Fuck," you groan, reaching out, cupping one breast, thumb immediately finding the nipple, rubbing, teasing, rolling it between your fingers. She gasps, arching slightly off the bed, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Your other hand isn’t idle. It slides down her flat stomach, over the waistband of her black lace panties, fingers dipping beneath the damp fabric. Just as you suspected. She’s soaking wet. Your fingers find her clit immediately through the slick folds, pressing down, starting a slow, firm rubbing motion. A choked moan escapes her lips, her hips twitching uncontrollably against your hand.

"Been thinking about this all day, haven't you?" you murmur against her ear, your breath hot on her skin as your fingers continue their relentless friction. She nods frantically, eyes still closed, biting down hard on her lower lip.

"Since… since the fan meet," she confesses. "Knew… knew you’d be pissed. Knew you’d… fuck… do this… Knew I’d get you back here… make you punish me…" Her hips buck harder against your hand as you increase the pressure, rubbing faster now, feeling her slickness coating your fingers, knowing she’s already close, exactly where you both want her to be.

"Fuck, yes," you groan against her skin, your lips leaving her nipple momentarily to press against the soft swell of her breast. "You knew exactly what you were doing back there, didn't you? Playing the innocent little idol while planning this whole damn thing." Your fingers don't stop their relentless friction against her clit, pressing down harder now, rubbing faster through the soaked lace of her panties.

The fabric is practically useless, just a thin, wet barrier between your touch and her desperate core. She whimpers, a high, strained sound, her hips lifting off the bed, trying to meet the pressure of your hand. "Wanted… wanted you angry," she gasps out, eyes squeezed shut tight. "Wanted you… like this… losing control… for me."

Her honesty, even now, is breathtakingly audacious. She orchestrated this, provoked you deliberately, just to get this reaction, to have you looming over her, naked and furious and hard, touching her exactly like this. That knowledge, instead of cooling your anger, twists it into something sharper, hotter. Possessive satisfaction wars with the lingering irritation.

Fine. If she wanted you to lose control, you'll show her exactly what that looks like.

Your mouth latches back onto her nipple, sucking hard this time, drawing the peak deep into the heat of your mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive nub while your teeth graze lightly, sending jolts straight through her. She cries out, louder this time, her back arching dramatically.

"Ahh! Fuck… yes, there…"

Her fingers, which were lying limply by her sides, clench into fists, gripping handfuls of the bedsheets. You switch breasts, giving the other nipple the same harsh, demanding attention, lavishing it with bites and sucks that border on painful, but you know it's the edge she craves.

Meanwhile, your fingers below continue their merciless rhythm, circling, pressing, sometimes slipping just inside her wet folds to tease the entrance before returning to that hypersensitive nub hidden beneath the lace. You feel the muscles in her thighs quivering, her whole body trembling under your touch.

"Look at you," you murmur, pulling back slightly to look down at her, taking in the sight. Flushed chest marked faintly by your mouth, nipples tight and glistening, hips twitching uncontrollably, that little patch of black lace soaked dark with her arousal. "Such a fucking mess for me already. Was flirting with that fanboy worth this, Chaewon?"

Her eyes snap open, blazing with a mixture of pleasure-fueled haze and defiance. "Yes," she grits out, panting heavily. "Knew you'd… knew you'd make me pay. Make it… good."

Oh, you'll make her pay, alright.

You slow the rubbing motion of your fingers, shifting to a teasing, agonizingly slow circle, barely applying pressure. Her hips immediately still, a frustrated whine escaping her lips. "No… don't stop… please…" she begs, the word torn from her throat. Her eyes plead with you, the earlier challenge momentarily eclipsed by raw, desperate need. "Please, I need it…" You lean down, capturing her lower lip between your teeth, biting gently before soothing it with your tongue.

"Need what?" you whisper against her mouth. "Use your words, baby. Tell me exactly what you need me to do to that wet little cunt of yours." Her breath hitches, a full body shudder running through her.

"Need you… need your fingers… harder," she gasps, bucking her hips again, trying to create the friction you're denying her. "Please, I'm so close…"

You chuckle. "Close? We just started." You resume the faster pace for a few moments, feeling her immediately start to unravel again, moans spilling from her lips, before slowing down once more, dragging out the torture. "You wanted my attention," you remind her as you lave attention back to her straining nipple, sucking gently now, contrasting with the denial happening below. "You pulled that stunt at the fan meet, made me watch you flirt, knowing it would drive me insane. Now you've got my undivided attention. Every second of it focused right here." Your fingers press down hard again, eliciting another sharp gasp. "And right here." Your mouth closes over her nipple again, sucking strongly.

"Fuck… yes… please, please don't tease," she whimpers, tears starting to well up in the corners of her eyes; tears of frustration and overwhelming sensation, not sadness. "I can't… can't take it…" Her hands release the sheets, reaching for you, fingers digging into your biceps. "Touch me properly… please… I'll be good…" That last part, the promise to be good, makes you pause.

You lift your head, meeting her tear-filled, desperate gaze. "Be good?" you repeat, raising an eyebrow. "Where's the fun in that, Chae? I seem to recall liking it when you're bad. When you push my buttons. When you make me angry enough to do this." Your fingers slide fully under the wet lace now, pushing the fabric aside, finally making direct contact, skin on slick skin. Her breath catches in a strangled sob as your thumb finds her clit directly, pressing down with bruising force. "Isn't this what you wanted? Punishment?" You start rubbing again, faster, harder than before, no more teasing, just relentless friction directly on the nerve center of her pleasure.

Her head thrashes against the pillows, coherent words dissolving into ragged moans and cries. "Yes! Yes… punish me… fuck… please, please make me come…" she begs brokenly, her body bowing off the mattress, completely consumed by the sensations you're creating.

Your thumb works relentlessly, rubbing that swollen nub of flesh with a speed and pressure that has her completely unraveling. Her hips jerk frantically against your hand, chasing the friction, chasing the release you’re holding just out of reach. Moans tear from her throat, incoherent and raw, her head tossing back and forth against the pillows, brown hair sticking to her sweat-slicked temples. You lean down, your mouth finding hers again, kissing her deeply, swallowing her desperate sounds as your fingers continue their merciless assault below.

She kisses you back with a frantic energy, biting at your lip, her tongue tangling with yours in a desperate dance. You feel the tell-tale clenching deep inside her, the tremors intensifying, she’s right there, teetering on the very brink. That’s when you slow your hand, easing the pressure almost entirely, though you don’t stop touching her, just letting your thumb rest against her throbbing clit. The abrupt change rips a choked sob from her lips, her eyes flying open, wide with frustrated tears and disbelief.

"No! Why—why did you stop?" she cries out. "Please… I was so close… fuck, please…" Her whole body seems to hum with frustrated energy, like an engine revved too high and suddenly stalled. You lift your head slightly, meeting her desperate gaze.

"Close to coming?" you ask, voice deceptively soft. "Is that all you want, Chaewon? Just to get off?"

Her brow furrows slightly, confusion warring with the overwhelming physical need. "I… yes… no… I need…" she stammers, unsure how to answer, her body still trembling violently.

You slide your thumb deliberately, agonizingly slowly, across her clit again, eliciting another full-body jolt and a sharp intake of breath. "Tell me," you command softly, leaning closer, your breath warm against her ear. "Tell me what you really want inside you right now. What you’ve been thinking about since you decided to pull that stunt today. What you were thinking about on the plane." Her eyes squeeze shut again, a fresh wave of heat washing over her face.

"You," she whispers. "Need you. Please… God, just… just fuck me already. Please, I need your cock. Need it inside me now."

There it is. The desperation. The specific begging. The complete surrender hidden beneath the demand. A slow, satisfied smirk spreads across your face. You lean down and press a hard, possessive kiss to her lips.

"Finally," you murmur against her mouth. "Took you long enough to ask properly." You pull your hand away from between her legs, ignoring her immediate whimper of protest. Supporting yourself on one arm, you shift your position, moving down her body slightly, nudging her legs further apart with your knee. Her soaked black panties are still there, tangled and pushed mostly to one side, framing the slick, pink folds they barely conceal anymore. You hover over her, letting her feel the heat radiating off your body, letting her see the thick, rigid length of your cock, slick with precum, poised right at her entrance. Her eyes are glued to you, wide and hungry, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Your free hand drifts down, tracing a path from her collarbone, over her still-pebbled nipple, down across her trembling stomach, fingers dipping briefly into her navel before smoothing lower. You pause, your palm resting flat against the slight curve of her lower belly. "God, you're beautiful like this," you say, your tone thick with genuine awe, momentarily forgetting the anger, the punishment, just lost in the sight of her beneath you: utterly wrecked, flushed, trembling, and completely open for you. "So fucking beautiful when you finally drop the act and just want."

Her breath hitches at the unexpected tenderness in your voice, her eyes softening for a fraction of a second before the overwhelming physical need takes over again.

"Then please," she whispers, voice trembling, her hips lifting instinctively off the bed, trying to meet you, "Just… do it. Fill me up."

That’s all the invitation you need. You adjust your angle slightly, guiding the thick head of your cock against her slick entrance. She gasps as you press forward, the blunt tip nudging, pushing against her folds. She’s so wet, so ready for you, there’s almost no resistance as you slide in. Inch by agonizing inch, you fill her, stretching her, embedding yourself deep within her tight heat. Her eyes roll back in her head, a long, keening moan tearing from her throat as she takes all of you.

Fuck, she feels incredible.

Tight, hot, slick, clenching around you instinctively. You pause there for a moment, buried deep inside her, letting you both savor the feeling of connection, of being fully joined. Her hands come up, gripping your shoulders tightly, nails digging in slightly. You look down at her face, flushed and beautiful, lips parted, eyes hazy with pleasure. Then, slowly, deliberately, you pull back, almost all the way out, before thrusting back in with a smooth, powerful stroke that sinks you back to the hilt. Her head slams back against the pillows, another loud moan ripped from her lips.

"Yes! Fuck… like that…" she pants.

You start to move, establishing a rhythm, slow and deep at first, each thrust deliberate, possessive. You watch her face, watch the waves of pleasure washing over her features with every push and pull. The bedframe begins to protest subtly beneath your combined weight, the only sound in the room besides her increasingly loud moans, your own grunts, and the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding as you start to fuck her properly, giving her exactly what she begged for.

You settle into a deep, driving rhythm, fucking her with a steady power that has her completely losing herself. Her legs instinctively wrap around your waist, pulling you deeper, locking you in place. Each thrust forces a breathy moan past her lips, her head thrown back against the pillows, eyes half-lidded and hazy with pure, unadulterated pleasure. She meets your rhythm, hips lifting off the bed to take every inch, her body moving in perfect, desperate sync with yours. Remembering how she reacted earlier, you slide one hand down between your bodies, fingers easily finding her slick folds again. She gasps as your thumb presses firmly against her clit, resuming that relentless rubbing motion even as you continue to pound into her tight heat.

"Oh god! Fuck, yes... there!" she cries out, voice high and strained. "Don't stop… don't stop touching me… please…" Her back arches impossibly high, pushing her cunt harder against your relentless fingers, her core muscles clenching tightly around your cock with each pulse of pleasure radiating from her clit.

You watch her face contort, watch the cords in her neck stand out, watch her bite down hard on her swollen lower lip to stifle a scream. She’s so close, right on the precipice, vibrating like a live wire beneath you. "You like that, huh?" you grunt out, speeding up your thrusts, driving into her faster, harder, while your thumb circles mercilessly. "Like me fucking your tight little cunt while I rub you raw?" Her answer is a broken sob, a frantic nod, eyes squeezed shut.

"Yes! Please… fuck… I'm gonna… I'm gonna—!"

And just like that, you stop. Everything halts. You freeze mid-thrust, deep inside her, your fingers still pressing against her clit but ceasing all movement. The sudden absence of friction, of motion, is like hitting a brick wall at full speed. Her eyes fly open, wide with shock and disbelief, her body locked in that pre-orgasmic tension. A strangled, frustrated cry rips from her throat.

"No! What— Why?!" She writhes beneath you, hips bucking uselessly, trying to recreate the movement, the friction, anything to push her over that agonizing edge you left her dangling from. "Don't stop! You can't stop now!!" she pleads, glaring up at you, frustration warring with the lingering haze of pleasure in her eyes. Her whole body is trembling, desperate for the release you just snatched away. A slow, cruel smirk spreads across your face.

You love this. Love seeing that bratty confidence dissolve into pure, frustrated need. Love knowing you have complete control over her pleasure, giving and taking it away at will.

"Why not?" you ask innocently, withdrawing slowly, deliberately, until you're almost completely out, letting the air hit her sensitised flesh before sinking back in just an inch, a torturous tease. "Thought we were taking our time. Making you pay for being such a brat earlier, remember?"

She lets out another frustrated scream, pounding her fists lightly against your shoulders. "You asshole! I hate you!" she spits out, though there’s no real heat behind it, only the desperate edge of denied pleasure. "I was right there!"

You chuckle darkly, leaning down to kiss her forehead, a mocking gesture of affection. "I know," you murmur against her skin. "Wanted to see that pretty little look of desperation on your face. Wanted to hear you beg." You pull out of her completely then, ignoring her sharp gasp of protest. The sight of her lying there, flushed, panting, legs still slightly spread, slick with her own juices and utterly frustrated, is exactly the reward you were looking for.

"Now," you say, your voice dropping back into that low, commanding tone, tapping her thigh lightly. "That was fun, but I think I want a different view. Get up." She stares at you, confused for a second, still reeling from the denied orgasm. "Get up," you repeat firmly. "On your hands and knees. Now." You watch as the understanding dawns in her eyes, followed by a flicker of renewed anticipation mixing with the lingering frustration.

She slowly, deliberately pushes herself up, arranging herself on her hands and knees on the vast expanse of the hotel bed, her back arched slightly, presenting herself exactly as you commanded. Her breathing is still ragged from the denied orgasm, her body trembling slightly. You stay standing by the bed for a moment, just looking.

"You know," you say conversationally, though your voice is low and carries an edge, "putting up with your bullshit all day… dealing with your little games, your provocations… it's not easy, Chae." You walk slowly around the side of the bed, approaching her from behind. "Think I deserve a little reward for my troubles, don't you?" Her head is bowed slightly, dark hair falling forward, obscuring her expression, but you see the way her shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. You stop right behind her, your gaze fixed on the perfect curve of her ass, cheeks flushed pink, held high in the air. The sight is fucking perfect. Pure temptation, deliberately offered yet radiating a nervous energy.

This view alone is almost reward enough. Almost.

You reach out, placing both hands firmly on her hips, fingers digging slightly into the soft flesh above the hip bones. She flinches slightly but holds her position. Then you slide your hands down, cupping the full weight of her ass cheeks, squeezing possessively. They’re firm, toned from hours of dancing, yet incredibly soft beneath your palms.

"Yeah," you murmur, leaning down close to her ear, your breath ghosting over her skin. "Definitely need a reward." You give her left cheek a hard squeeze. "And I know exactly what I want." You feel her tense up immediately, a silent don't you dare vibe radiating off her. "Think I'm gonna use this pretty little asshole today," you state matter-of-factly, your thumb pressing pointedly right near the tight pucker nestled between her cheeks. She flinches violently this time, trying to pull away slightly, her head whipping around to glare at you over her shoulder.

"Like hell you are!" she snaps, the bratty facade slamming back into place hard. "Forget it! No-fucking-way!" It's cute, her defiance, especially when you can feel the nervous tremors running through her body beneath your hands. You know this is more about the shock, the boundary pushing, than actual refusal. You just need to nudge her past the initial fear.

So you act. Your open palm connects sharply with her right ass cheek, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet room. A startled cry bursts from her lips, followed immediately by a low, involuntary moan of pleasure that betrays her true feelings. The pink flush on her cheek deepens instantly to a bright red handprint.

"See?" you say softly, leaning close again, stroking the stinging flesh gently now with your fingertips. "Your body doesn't lie, even when your mouth does." You slide your hand down between her legs from behind, your fingers brushing against her still-damp cunt lips, making her gasp and squirm. "Stop acting like you don't want this just as much as I do."

She shakes her head stubbornly, though her breathing is noticeably faster now. "I don't..." she starts, but her voice lacks conviction. "Be nice," she adds quickly, almost a plea, shifting her weight nervously. "If you're... if you're gonna do it, at least be gentle." A negotiation.

Progress.

"Gentle? After the stunt you pulled today? After making me chase you down, deny you…" Your hand slides slowly up her back, tracing the delicate knobs of her spine, sending shivers across her skin. "…I don't know if you've earned gentle, baby girl." You pause, letting the implication hang in the air, feeling her tremble beneath your touch. "But maybe," you continue, "maybe if you admit you want it. Admit you want my cock stretching that tight little hole. Tell me you want me to use your ass."

She stays silent, chewing on her lower lip, clearly warring with herself. The idea excites her, you know it does, but the vulnerability, the submission required, still makes her hesitate.

Fine. You lift your hand again.

This time on the other cheek, just as hard, leaving another matching handprint. She cries out again, louder this time, arching her back, her hips pushing back against you reflexively.

"Okay! Okay!" she gasps out, desperation tinging her voice. "Fuck! Just… just make me come! Please! If you… if you do that… just promise you'll make me come after. Properly this time!"

Ah, framing it as a means to an end. Her way of conceding while still maintaining a sliver of control, linking it back to the orgasm you denied her. Clever little brat.

"Oh, I'll make you come, Chaewon," you promise darkly, sliding your hand back down to cup her stinging ass cheek. "Believe me. You'll be screaming before I'm done with you." You lean forward, pressing your hardening cock against the cleft of her ass, letting her feel your intention. "But first," you growl possessively, "Daddy gets his reward." You pull back slightly. She stays frozen, hands planted firmly on the mattress, ass still high, waiting. You bring your fingers to your mouth, wetting them thoroughly with spit, before reaching down again. She flinches as your wet fingers make contact with her tight, wrinkled anus, smearing the slick saliva around the delicate opening. She whimpers softly, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Relax," you murmur, though there’s no real gentleness in your tone. You spread her cheeks slightly with the fingers of one hand, exposing the tiny, dark pucker fully. Then, you lower your head. Her whole body tenses, anticipating penetration, but instead, your tongue darts out, flicking directly against the tight knot of her asshole. She cries out, a sharp, shocked sound, her hips jerking violently.

You ignore her reaction, pressing your mouth firmly against her, your tongue swirling, licking, probing relentlessly at the forbidden flesh. You taste the faint saltiness of her skin, mixed with the slight sweetness of your own spit. You lap at the entrance, circling it, teasing it, dipping the very tip of your tongue against the resistant opening, making her gasp and squirm, her knuckles white where she grips the bedsheets as you begin to meticulously, thoroughly rim her perfect little asshole.

Your tongue works relentlessly, meticulously exploring every fold and crevice of her tight little asshole. You lap and swirl, sometimes flicking the tip directly against the stubborn pucker, other times applying broad, wet strokes that leave glistening trails of saliva on her flushed skin. Her initial violent flinch gives way to a series of involuntary shudders and twitches.

Her hips jerk sporadically, little uncontrolled movements that betray the intense, unfamiliar sensations overwhelming her system. Muffled sounds vibrate through the mattress as she presses her face into the pillows: strangled gasps, low whimpers, sounds that are halfway between protest and burgeoning pleasure. Her knuckles are bone-white where she grips the hotel sheets, her only anchor in this storm of forbidden stimulation. The bratty defiance she tried to cling to just moments ago is dissolving rapidly under the sheer focused intimacy of your mouth on such a taboo part of her body.

Satisfied that you’ve thoroughly worshipped, teased, and prepared her with your mouth, you lift your head slightly. Her skin is flushed a deep red where your mouth was, glistening with spit. You bring your hand back up, spitting generously onto your fingers again, ensuring they’re thoroughly slick. She must sense the shift in intent because she tenses again, her whole body going rigid beneath you.

"Easy now," you murmur. You place the tip of your middle finger directly against her entrance. It’s incredibly tight, clenched shut reflexively. "Just breathe for me, Chaewon. Relax that pretty little ass." You apply steady pressure, not forcing, but firmly pushing against the resistance. She lets out a sharp, choked gasp, her breath hitching, her hips trying to buck away instinctively.

"No… wait… fuck, that's…" she whimpers into the pillow, the words barely coherent. You hold the pressure steady, not pushing further yet, just letting her feel the blunt intrusion pressing insistently against her unwilling muscle. Your other hand comes up, splaying across her lower back, pressing down gently but firmly, keeping her in place, preventing escape. "Shhh. Just relax. Let it happen," you command softly, continuing to push with infinite patience.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the tight ring of muscle begins to yield. You feel the initial, intense resistance lessen almost imperceptibly as she forces herself to unclench, perhaps driven more by your command and the inevitability of the situation than actual desire at this point. You push your fingertip just inside, breaking the seal. She cries out again, a sharp, wounded sound this time, her whole body shuddering violently. You pause immediately, letting her adjust to the strange, invasive fullness. Your finger is only partially inside, but it’s enough. Enough to stretch her, enough to make her acutely aware of the intrusion. You keep your hand steady on her back, murmuring low words of encouragement mixed with possessive praise.

"That's it… good girl… taking it for me…"

After a long moment, her ragged breathing starts to even out slightly, the violent trembling lessening, though she still feels incredibly tense beneath your hands. Carefully, you push your finger deeper, sliding it slowly all the way in until your knuckle rests against her slick flesh. Her reaction is less sharp this time, more of a long, low groan that vibrates deep in her chest. You start to move your finger inside her, just a slight curl, a gentle probing, exploring the tight, virgin passage. The inner walls clench around your digit instinctively, hot and incredibly snug.

You add more spit to your thumb and forefinger, then bring your forefinger up to join the middle one, pressing the second tip against her opening alongside the first. This renewed pressure makes her gasp and tense all over again, her head lifting slightly from the pillow to look back at you, eyes wide and pleading.

"Too much… please…" she whispers, her voice strained. But beneath the fear, beneath the discomfort, you see something else flickering in those dark eyes. A spark of intense, almost horrified arousal. The taboo nature of it, the slight pain mixed with the undeniable intimacy, is starting to override her fear, starting to tap into that deeper, darker well of desire she tries so hard to keep hidden behind the bratty facade.

"You can take it," you state calmly, confidently, leaving no room for argument. You push again, slowly, relentlessly, working the second fingertip past the resistant ring of muscle. She cries out again, arching her back, her knuckles white on the sheets. But this time, there’s a different quality to the sound; less pain, more overwhelmed sensation. You finally slide the second finger all the way in beside the first. Two fingers filling her tight asshole, stretching her significantly. You keep them still for a moment, letting her body accommodate the increased fullness. Then, slowly, you begin to flex them, scissoring them slightly, putting pressure on the thin wall separating her ass from her cunt.

That does it. A low, guttural moan rumbles up from her chest, completely involuntary. Her hips, instead of trying to pull away, give a small, tentative push back against your fingers. Just a slight pressure, but it’s unmistakable.

Acceptance.

Desire overriding discomfort.

The bratty idol is gone, replaced by pure, raw lust responding to the intense, forbidden stimulation. Her moans become lower, throatier, less about protest and more about the overwhelming sensations flooding her body. Her breathing quickens again, turning into shallow pants. She’s melting. Unraveling. The careful walls she maintains crumbling under the focused pressure of your fingers buried deep inside her ass, stretching her, prepping her, making her body betray her mind as pure sensation takes over.

Your two fingers move inside her tight passage, flexing, stretching, exploring the surprisingly yielding muscle deep within. It's fucking mesmerizing, watching your own fingers disappear inside her asshole, feeling the intense, almost suffocating heat clenching around them. You work them slowly at first, a gentle scissoring motion, letting her body grow accustomed to the feeling of being filled in such a forbidden way. Her initial panicked tension gradually bleeds away, replaced by something else entirely. The moans vibrating up from her chest lose their edge of fear and discomfort, deepening into low, guttural sounds of pure, overwhelmed sensation.

Her hips start to move, not pulling away anymore, but rocking back against your hand in a slow, tentative rhythm, chasing the pressure, seeking more. The bratty facade, the nervous fear—it’s all gone now, stripped away by the raw intensity of the taboo act, leaving only base instinct and burgeoning lust. She’s completely lost in the feeling, face pressed into the mattress, ass high, body trembling not with fear, but with sheer, unadulterated arousal.

"Fuck, Chae," you grunt, watching the way her muscles clench and ripple around your fingers. "You feel so fucking good like this. So tight." You slide your fingers out slightly, then push back in deeper, eliciting another long, throaty moan from her. Yeah, she's enjoying this now, whether she fully admits it to herself or not. The proof is in the way her body responds, the way her sounds have turned undeniably hot, the way she’s unconsciously pushing back against your touch.

Time to push her a little further.

You draw your fingers almost all the way out, the wet sucking sound loud in the room, making her whine in protest. "Think you're ready for a third?" you ask, already reaching to slick another finger with spit. You see her head lift slightly, enough to glance back at you over her shoulder, eyes wide and dark. Panic flickers there again, but it's mixed with something else now, a desperate, almost frantic need.

"No!" she gasps out, shaking her head frantically. "No more fingers! Please! It's… it's too much!" Her voice trembles, on the verge of tears again, but not from pain. It's the overwhelming stimulation, the feeling of being stretched, filled, pushed towards an edge she’s never experienced before. "Please," she begs, "just… just use your cock now. Please! I need… I need you. Not more fingers. Fuck me. Just fuck me now!"

Hmm. She wants the real thing now, the thick fullness of your cock replacing the probing intrusion of your fingers. You pause, holding her gaze.

"You sure about that?" you ask, testing her resolve one last time. "It's gonna be tight, baby girl. Tighter than you can imagine."

She nods frantically, tears finally spilling, tracking paths down her temples into her hair. "Yes! Yes, I'm sure! I don't care! Just… please! I need you inside me. Need you to make me cum. Fuck me!"

Alright then. If she’s begging for it…

Slowly, carefully, you withdraw your fingers from her tight, stretched opening. The slick flesh puckers slightly as your digits slide free, leaving her momentarily empty, whining softly at the loss of sensation. You shift your weight, getting into position behind her, grabbing your already hard cock, thick and throbbing, slick with precum. You add a generous amount of spit to the head and shaft, then reach down and smear more onto her abused, glistening asshole, ensuring the entrance is as slick as possible. You position the thick, blunt head of your cock right against the opening, the very same spot your tongue and fingers were just moments ago. She feels the pressure, the heat, and lets out a shaky, anticipatory breath, her whole body tensing like a drawn bowstring.

"Okay," you murmur, placing your hands firmly on her hips again to steady her, and yourself. "Easy now. Just breathe. Take me."

You push forward slowly, incredibly slowly. The head of your cock meets the fierce resistance of her virgin sphincter. It’s unbelievably tight, a tiny, stubborn ring of muscle determined to deny you entry. Much tighter than your fingers, much tighter than her cunt ever was. You push harder, steadily, feeling the muscle fight back, refusing to yield easily. Chaewon cries out, a sharp, high-pitched sound of intense pressure bordering on pain, her nails digging crescent moons into the mattress.

"Fuck! It… it hurts…" she gasps, trying to pull forward slightly.

"Shhh, I know, baby. Just for a second. Breathe," you command softly but firmly, holding her hips steady, preventing her escape. You maintain the pressure, unwavering, feeling the tiny muscle begin to stretch, to quiver, to finally, reluctantly, give way just enough. With a final, determined push, the wide head of your cock pops through the resistant ring, burying itself just inside her asshole.

She screams, a raw, torn sound muffled by the pillow, her entire body locking up, rigid with the shock and intense stretching sensation.

"FUCK!! Oh god…" she chokes out, trembling violently. You immediately still, holding yourself there, just the head buried inside her scorching heat, letting her body adjust, letting the initial sharp pain subside into an intense, overwhelming fullness.

"You okay?" you ask. She doesn't answer verbally, just gives a jerky little nod, her breathing coming in harsh, rapid pants.

After what feels like an eternity, but is probably only thirty seconds, you feel the iron clench of her inner muscles ease almost imperceptibly. The violent trembling lessens slightly. Taking that as your cue, you start to push again, millimeter by agonizing millimeter, sliding deeper into the incredibly tight, virgin passage. It’s like pushing through hot, wet velvet lined with steel. Every inch is a battle, stretching muscles that have never accommodated anything like this before. She groans continuously now, low, guttural sounds ripped from her throat, her hips twitching uncontrollably.

You push until you’re buried halfway inside her, the sheer friction and tightness almost unbearable for you both. You pause again, letting her adjust.

"That's it… taking my cock in your tight little ass… fuck, you feel so good, Chae… so fucking tight…" Slowly, tentatively, you begin to move, just a slight withdrawal, then a slow push back in. Not thrusting yet, just… moving. Letting her feel the friction, the fullness, the strange intimacy of being fucked in her tightest, most forbidden place. Her groans start to change subtly. The edge of pain is still there, but it's being overlaid with something else now. A lower, throatier sound. A gasp that sounds suspiciously like pleasure. She pushes back against you slightly, a tiny, almost involuntary movement.

"Oh… fuck…" she breathes out, the words shaky. "That… feels…" She doesn't finish the sentence, but you can see it in the way her body is starting to subtly respond, the way her tension is morphing into something else. Despite the intensity, despite the initial pain, despite everything… she’s starting to enjoy it. The slow, careful invasion, the anal sex she begged for, is starting to ignite a different kind of fire within her.

You continue to move with excruciating slowness, each careful slide in and out a deliberate exploration, a gradual claiming of this new, incredibly tight territory. Your cock feels ridiculously thick, almost too big, encased in her scorching, virgin heat. The muscles inside her clench and flutter around you with every subtle shift of your hips, involuntary spasms that betray the intensity of the sensations bombarding her system. You withdraw further than before, pulling almost completely out until just the swollen head remains inside, stretching the abused opening, before slowly, inexorably pushing back in, sinking deeper this time, aiming for the hilt.

She cries out at the renewed pressure, the feeling of being stretched further than before, her hands gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles are bloodless. But the sound is different now. The sharp edge of pain is still there, undeniably, a high-pitched whine woven through the sound, but it’s underpinned by a lower, throatier moan that speaks of something else entirely. Pleasure. Dark, unexpected, overwhelming pleasure rising up to meet the pain.

"Fuck..." she groans into the pillow, the word drawn out, husky. "It's so… so full…" Her hips give another tentative push back against you as you slide deep, a movement that’s clearly instinctive now, her body seeking more despite the intensity.

"Yeah?" you grunt, keeping your pace slow, torturous. "Feeling good now, baby girl? Starting to understand why I wanted this so bad?"

She shakes her head, though the movement lacks conviction. "It… hurts," she gasps, but then immediately contradicts herself with another low moan as you grind down slightly, putting pressure on her prostate through the thin rectal wall. "But… fuck… don't… don't stop."

There it is. The admission.

The confusion melting into need.

You oblige, continuing the slow, deep strokes, focusing on stretching her, letting her body acclimate, letting that strange, addictive ache build within her. You watch the muscles in her back ripple, the way her ass cheeks clench with each deep invasion.

Gradually, tentatively, you increase the range of your motion, pulling further out, thrusting deeper in, the pace quickening almost imperceptibly. With each slightly faster, slightly deeper stroke, her reactions intensify. Her moans become less inhibited, louder, echoing slightly in the luxurious hotel room. Her hips lift higher off the bed, pushing back against you with more force now, actively meeting your thrusts, demanding more. The initial discomfort seems forgotten, burned away by the sheer intensity of the friction, the feeling of being filled so completely, so tightly, in a way she’s never experienced before. It’s pushing buttons she didn’t even know she had.

"More," she suddenly gasps out, the word sharp, desperate. You pause fractionally, surprised by the sudden demand.

"More what?" you ask, pulling back slowly again, teasing her. "More pain? More pleasure?"

She twists her head to look back at you, eyes wild, glazed over, pupils blown wide. The bratty defiance is completely gone. "Both!" she cries, her voice cracking. "Fuck, just… go deeper! Harder! It hurts, but… I need it! Please!"

Her plea, her sudden craving for the intense mixture of pain and pleasure, sends a jolt of dark satisfaction straight through you. She’s finally letting go, embracing the anal, embracing the intensity she secretly craves.

"Oh?" you say, a low chuckle rumbling in your chest as you oblige, slamming back into her with more force than before, burying your cock to the root. She screams, a raw, unfiltered sound this time, her back bowing violently.

"FUCK YES! LIKE THAT!" she pants, already pushing back against you as you withdraw slightly.

"Knew you had this twisted little streak in you," you growl, picking up the pace now, fucking her with more purpose, less caution. The slow stretching phase is over. Now it’s about feeding that burgeoning need she just confessed. Your thrusts become faster, harder, driving into her tight asshole relentlessly. The wet, slapping sounds intensify, mingling with her increasingly frantic moans and gasps. Each impact resonates through her body, through yours. It's still incredibly tight, the friction almost overwhelming, but her body is accommodating you now, slick juices mingling with your spit, easing the passage just enough for the rougher pace.

"Deeper!" she demands between ragged breaths, bucking her hips back against you violently with each thrust. "Harder! Don't be gentle anymore! PUNISH ME!”

Her words, her explicit begging for a rougher fucking, for the punishment she initially resisted, push you closer to your own edge. You oblige her demands, your thrusts turning punishing, slamming into her without reservation, your hips colliding with her stinging ass cheeks. You reach down, grabbing her hips firmly again, controlling her movements, angling her body perfectly to take the full force of your assault. She’s crying out continuously now, a litany of "fuck," "yes," "more," "harder," interspersed with high-pitched keening sounds as you hammer into her relentlessly. The pain is definitely still there, you can see it in the way she grits her teeth, the tension in her shoulders, but it’s being consumed by the pleasure, by the sheer overwhelming intensity of your cock violating her tightest passage, stretching her, filling her, driving her absolutely insane, exactly the way she just begged you to.

You continue hammering into her tight asshole, the pace relentless now, feeding off her desperate pleas for more, for harder, for deeper. Each thrust slams your pubic bone against her stinging ass cheeks, the impact echoing the sharp smacks you start delivering again with your free hand. Another bright red handprint blooms on her flesh. She cries out, a raw sound that’s equal parts pain and pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

"Look at me," you command, then you give another violent slap. "Turn your fucking head and look at me while I fuck your ass!"

She hesitates for only a fraction of a second before obeying, twisting her neck, her sweat-dampened dark brown hair falling across her face as she forces herself to meet your gaze over her shoulder. And fuck… the look in her eyes. It hits you like a physical blow. Gone is the idol, gone is the brat, gone is even the desperate negotiator from moments ago. What’s left is pure, raw submission. Her eyes are wide, hazy, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the brown irises. They’re swimming with a potent cocktail of pleasure so intense it borders on agony, mixed with a dawning awareness and acceptance of her role in this moment. She looks utterly debased, completely wrecked, like a used little whore feeling nothing but the overwhelming pleasure of having her tightest hole brutally claimed.

Seeing her like that, so beautifully broken and openly craving the degradation, sends a fresh wave of scorching lust tearing through you.

Your cock pulses inside her already impossibly tight sheath. "Fuck, yes," you hiss, your pace increasing further, turning frantic. Your thrusts become punishingly deep, aiming to bruise, to overwhelm. More slaps rain down on her already vividly marked ass, the sharp sounds punctuating your relentless rhythm. "That's what you are, isn't it?" you sneer, leaning close to her ear again. "Just my dirty little whore. Taking my cock up your ass like you were born for it."

Instead of flinching or protesting, a broken sob escapes her lips, quickly followed by a breathless affirmation. "Yes! Yes… I am… your whore…" she chokes out. "Please… Master… make me cum! Please, I need it!" Hearing her call you Master, hearing her own the degrading label while begging for release… it’s almost enough to make you lose it right then and there. But not yet.

She needs to cum first.

"Oh, I'll make you cum, slut," you promise her. "You'll fucking scream for me."

You start pounding her then, truly pounding, all semblance of control dissolving into pure, animalistic need (yours and hers). You fuck her asshole with a brutal intensity that borders on violence, each thrust seemingly aimed at rearranging her insides. She screams, raw, throat-tearing screams that are muffled slightly as she buries her face back into the pillows, unable to maintain eye contact under the sheer force of the assault. Her body convulses around your cock, muscles clenching desperately, threatening to tear under the strain. Your handprints stand out starkly against her flushed skin, angry red marks blooming across her perfect ass, a visible testament to the punishment she craved.

"Yes! Punish me! H-harder! Plea—!" she manages to scream between ragged gasps, her words barely coherent but her intent crystal clear. She’s reveling in it now, chasing the overwhelming sensation, the pain amplifying the pleasure into something almost transcendent. As you continue your relentless assault, feeling her inner muscles clench tighter and tighter, signaling her own approaching climax, she suddenly cries out again, a different note in her voice. "Wait! Please… touch me! Touch my pussy… need it… please, while you fuck my ass!"

Without missing a beat, your free hand dives down between her legs, fingers easily finding her soaking wet cunt. She’s dripping, slick juices coating her inner thighs. Your fingers slide inside her effortlessly, finding her G-spot almost immediately while your thumb presses hard against her throbbing clit.

"Like this, whore?" you growl, starting to finger her rhythmically, matching the brutal pace of your cock pounding her ass. "Want me to fuck both your holes at once?"

The combination is instantaneous and explosive. Her screams turn into high-pitched, incoherent shrieks. Her whole body locks up, seized by tremors.

"YES! FUCK! I'M GONNA CUM! I'M FUCKING CUMMING!"

You look down at her writhing form, at your fingers buried in her slick cunt, your cock buried deep in her violated ass. "That's right!" you roar, feeling your own climax roaring up your spine, hot and unstoppable. "Fucking whore! Cumming with my cock rammed up your asshole!"

She screams back, delirious, "I AM! I AM YOUR WHORE! FUCK!" Her inner muscles clench violently around your cock and fingers as her orgasm rips through her, a massive, shuddering wave that seems to go on forever.

Seeing her come apart like that, screaming your name, calling herself your whore, completely shattered by the pleasure and degradation, is the final trigger. Your own control snaps completely. With a final, guttural roar, you pound deep inside her one last time, your hips slamming against her ass as your balls tighten, unleashing a thick, heavy torrent of hot cum deep within her ravaged asshole. You feel the pulsing release flood her tight passage, filling her completely. You keep thrusting even as you come, maybe three or four more deep, shuddering strokes, chasing that incredible friction, milking every last drop of seed into her.

Finally, utterly spent, you collapse partially on top of her, your cock still buried deep inside her, both of you panting heavily, drenched in sweat, the room thick with the smell of sex and spent exertion. You stay like that for several long moments, your chest heaving, feeling the residual spasms of her orgasm clenching weakly around your softening cock. She feels completely boneless beneath you, utterly fucked out.

Slowly, reluctantly, you pull out of her asshole. The withdrawal creates a wet, sucking sound, and immediately, thick, creamy white ropes of your cum begin to leak out from the abused opening, running down between her ass cheeks onto the already stained sheets. You watch it for a second, a possessive satisfaction settling deep in your gut. Then, leaning down, you dip two fingers into the warm, sticky puddle leaking from her. You straighten up slightly, reaching forward. She stirs slightly as you gently turn her head to the side. Then, deliberately, you smear the sticky mixture of your seed and her slickness across her cheek, leaving a glistening, pearly white streak from her cheekbone down towards her kiss-swollen lips.

A final, degrading mark of ownership.

Your reward.

You stay poised over her for a long moment, watching the faint tremor that still runs through her exhausted limbs, listening to her ragged breathing slowly, gradually evening out. The harsh lines of anger and possessive fury on your own face soften as you take in the aftermath. Her cheek glistens obscenely with the mark you left, her ass is a canvas of angry red handprints, her body utterly spent beneath you. The primal urge that drove the last hour begins to recede, replaced by a wave of something softer, more protective. This is the other side of the coin, the necessary balance to the intensity you both crave. Gently, carefully, you slide off the bed, the movement pulling your still-softening cock fully free from her abused asshole with another wet sound. You ignore the mess on the sheets for now, rounding the bed to where she lies, still mostly curled on her front, face turned away.

You reach down, placing a hand softly on her shoulder. She flinches almost imperceptibly, a lingering echo of the tension, before relaxing slightly under your familiar touch.

"Hey," you murmur softly, your voice returning to its normal timbre, stripped of the earlier harshness. You gently nudge her, encouraging her to roll onto her side, facing you. Her movements are slow, sluggish, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. Her eyes flutter open, meeting yours. They’re still hazy, but the wild, desperate look is gone, now you can see a profound weariness and a soft vulnerability that always tugs at something deep inside you.

Carefully, you slide onto the bed beside her, gathering her limp body into your arms, pulling her close against your chest. She sighs, a long, shaky exhalation, melting into your embrace, burying her face against your shoulder. You hold her tight, just letting her feel your solid presence, your warmth. After a few moments of silence, punctuated only by your steady breathing, you press a soft kiss to her sweat-dampened forehead.

"You okay, Chae?" you whisper against her skin. She nods weakly against your shoulder, not speaking yet. Just taking comfort. You smooth her tangled hair back from her face, taking in the sight of her; wrecked, yes, utterly ruined from the intensity of your fucking, makeup smudged, lips swollen, cheek marked… but still breathtakingly beautiful.

"How's… how's your ass feel?" you ask quietly, your hand drifting down to rest gently on her lower back, careful not to touch the still-stinging handprints yet. She shifts slightly in your arms, a soft wince crossing her features.

"Burning," she mumbles, her voice muffled against your chest, slightly hoarse. She pauses, then adds, almost shyly, "But… but it felt good. Really good. Eventually." A small, tired smile touches her lips, a flicker of the satisfaction beneath the exhaustion and soreness.

You smile back, tightening your hug fractionally. "Yeah?" you murmur. "You were fucking amazing, baby girl. Took it all like a champ." You pull back just enough to look at her face again, gently tilting her chin up with your finger. "Still so beautiful," you whisper, meaning it with every fiber of your being. "Even now. Especially now."

Her eyes soften further, a genuine warmth filling them, chasing away the last shadows of the intense scene. "You mean so much to me, hope you know this," she whispers, the words soft but clear, carrying the weight of everything that exists between you; the chaos, the intensity, the darkness, and this quiet tenderness. Leaning down, you press the tip of your nose gently against hers, an eskimo kiss, intimate and sweet.

"You mean a lot to me too, Chaewon," you reply sincerely.

You start peppering little kisses across her face; her eyelids, her temples, the tip of her nose, her other cheek, carefully avoiding the cum-smeared one for now. You kiss her shoulders, the curve of her neck, lingering wherever she sighs softly or leans into the touch. Your hands stroke her back gently, soothingly, tracing patterns on her skin. You feel the tension slowly seeping out of her muscles, her body relaxing fully into yours, seeking comfort and reassurance after the storm.

She nuzzles closer, sighing contentedly. "Okay," she murmurs after a while, her voice stronger now, though still laced with exhaustion. "You punished me." It’s a simple statement of fact, acknowledging the preceding events without judgment. "Now I need affection," she continues, tilting her head back slightly to look up at you, a familiar glint of demanding expectation returning to her eyes, though softened by vulnerability. "Need you to make me feel better. Fix me."

It’s her way of asking for aftercare, framing it within the dynamic: the punishment phase is over, now comes the reward, the recovery, the gentle attention she craves just as much as the roughness.

You nod, understanding completely. "Yeah?" you ask softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. "Gonna take care of you." You punctuate the promise with another soft kiss, this time on her lips, slow and tender, a stark contrast to the bruising kisses from earlier. She sighs into the kiss, melting completely, ready to receive the gentle care she needs, and that you’re more than ready to give.

—

The next few days are a whirlwind of tightly packed schedules as the Japan promotion continues its relentless pace. You move between cities—long car trips, followed by the familiar routine of hotel check-ins, venue walkthroughs, rehearsals, and performances. Amidst the controlled chaos you orchestrate, you find a private, ongoing source of amusement: watching Kim Chaewon navigate the lingering aftermath of your intense "punishment" session.

It’s subtle, mostly. She’s a professional, pushing through the demanding choreography with her usual fierce energy, hitting every mark, captivating the cameras. But you notice things. The slight hesitation before she drops into a deep squat during one particularly grueling dance break. The almost imperceptible wince when she has to sit down quickly on a hard stool during a backstage interview segment.

The way she shifts her weight very carefully when settling into van seats for transit, trying to find a position that doesn’t put direct pressure on her still-tender backside. She tries to hide it, of course, maintaining her bright idol facade, but you see it. You know her body too well, know the specific brand of soreness that kind of intense fucking leaves behind.

During a rehearsal break, while the other girls are clustered around a monitor reviewing playback with the performance director, you catch her carefully lowering herself onto a bench, biting her lip slightly. You’re standing nearby, discussing lighting cues with a tech, but you pause, catching her eye. You raise a single eyebrow, a silent, questioning smirk playing on your lips. Her eyes widen fractionally before narrowing into a glare. A faint pink flush creeps up her neck. She quickly looks away, pretending to be intensely interested in stretching her hamstrings, though her movements look suspiciously stiff.

Later, waiting to go on stage for a music show performance, she’s standing near you, adjusting her mic pack. "Everything okay there, champ?" you murmur quietly, pitching your voice so only she can hear over the backstage buzz. "Moving a little... carefully today."

"Shut up," she hisses back under her breath, her cheeks flushing again. "It's your fault, asshole." Despite the insult, there’s no real heat behind it, just embarrassment and a flicker of something else… maybe a reluctant acknowledgment of the pleasure mixed with the pain. You just chuckle softly. Seeing her slightly flustered, knocked off her usual bratty pedestal by the physical reminder of your time together, is definitely an enjoyable perk of the job.

The tour progresses. Another city, another round of fan signs, interviews, variety show appearances. You keep things professional, maintaining your distance during work hours, focusing on logistics, schedules, managing staff. But the awareness between you two remains, a live wire humming just beneath the surface. Those stolen glances across crowded rooms, the brief brushes of fingers disguised as accidental contact, the silent promises exchanged in fleeting moments; it all continues, building a quiet tension alongside the public demands of their careers.

Finally, there’s a slightly less frantic day scheduled, focused mainly on internal meetings and practice ahead of the next major performance. You book one of the hotel's large, mirrored dance studios for a mid-afternoon session with the group to review recent performance footage and discuss upcoming choreography changes. You head there early yourself, wanting to get the tech set up, projector, speakers, monitors, before the girls arrive. You figure you have a good twenty minutes before anyone else is due. The studio is vast, empty, sunlight streaming through the large windows overlooking the Tokyo skyline. You're busy fiddling with cables connected to a laptop when the door clicks open softly behind you. You glance back, expecting a staff member, maybe one of the choreographers.

But it's Chaewon. Alone. She slips inside, closing the door quietly behind her, leaning back against it for a moment. She’s dressed down in loose sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, hair tied back casually, looking younger, softer than her stage persona. But there’s nothing soft about the look in her eyes as she pushes off the door and starts walking slowly towards you across the polished wooden floor.

It’s that look.

The one you saw on the plane just before she followed you into the bathroom. The one you saw at the hotel just before you dragged her to your room. It’s predatory, challenging, and utterly focused on you. No greeting, no explanation for being so early. She just stalks towards you, purpose radiating from her small frame. She stops a few feet away, tilting her head slightly, studying you. Her gaze is intense, unwavering. You straighten up from the laptop, meeting her stare, a sense of wary anticipation prickling your skin.

You know this look.

You know what it means.

"Something I can help you with, Chaewon?" you ask, keeping your tone carefully neutral, though your heart rate picks up slightly. "Meeting's not for another twenty minutes." She doesn't answer immediately, just continues to watch you, a slow, deliberate smirk starting to spread across her face. It’s the bratty smirk, the one that promises trouble, the one that always precedes her doing something impulsive and usually inappropriate.

Finally, she speaks, voice low and husky, cutting straight through the quiet studio air. "Yeah," she says, taking another step closer, invading your personal space. "You can help me." She pauses, letting the tension hang heavy between you, her eyes darkening with undisguised need. "I'm horny," she states bluntly, the words hitting you with the force of a physical blow. "Like, really, really fucking horny. And it's all your fault.”

You just stare at her for a second, the sheer audacity of it, the way she stands there radiating pure, unfiltered need mixed with that infuriating bratty confidence. A slow smirk spreads across your face. Fault? Maybe. But fuck, if this is the consequence, you’ll take the blame every damn time.

"My fault, huh?" you repeat, stepping forward, closing the remaining distance between you until you're crowding her space, backing her up against the sturdy table holding your laptop and the projector. "So I guess it's my responsibility to fix it then."

"Damn right it is," she breathes, her hands coming up to fist in the front of your shirt, pulling you even closer.

There's no room for hesitation, no thought given to the fact that you're in a professional space, that the rest of the group is due any minute. Your mouth crashes down on hers, rough and demanding, swallowing the surprised gasp that escapes her lips.

She meets your intensity instantly, kissing you back with a desperate, frantic energy, teeth clashing slightly, tongues tangling in a wet, messy battle for dominance. Her hands scrabble at your belt buckle while yours yank impatiently at the drawstring of her loose sweatpants. Fabric rustles, metal clinks. You break the kiss only long enough to shove her sweats and panties down her thighs in one messy bundle, kicking them aside. Simultaneously, she manages to pop the button on your jeans, yanking the zipper down with surprising strength.

You groan into her mouth as her cool fingers brush against your already straining cock, freeing you from the confines of your boxers. There's no time for finesse, no room for foreplay beyond the frantic kissing and fumbling. You hike her up slightly, lifting her onto the edge of the table amidst the scattered cables and paperwork. She wraps her legs around your waist instantly, her bare skin smooth against the rough denim of your jeans. You position yourself, the head of your cock pressing against her entrance, already slick and ready (apparently her declaration wasn't an exaggeration). With a low growl, you thrust forward, burying yourself inside her familiar heat in one smooth, deep stroke.

She cries out, arching back against the table, head thrown back, ponytail falling across her shoulder. "Fuck! Yes!" The sound bounces off the mirrored walls, loud and unrestrained in the empty room. You start moving immediately, a fast, hard rhythm driven by pure, pent-up need. Your hands grip her hips, pulling her tighter against you with each driving thrust, making the table beneath her wobble precariously. Her hands clutch at your shoulders, nails digging in slightly as she rides out the initial onslaught.

The sounds of your bodies colliding, wet and percussive, fill the space, obscene and undeniable. You fuck her right there, half-sprawled across the tech setup, surrounded by mirrors reflecting the raw, urgent coupling from every angle. She meets your frantic pace, hips bucking, breath coming in ragged gasps, low moans tumbling from her lips. You’re maybe a minute into this frantic fucking, lost in the rhythm, in the heat, in the sight of Chaewon coming undone beneath you, when the unmistakable click of the practice room door opening cuts through the haze.

Shit.

Your rhythm falters for a split second. Chaewon freezes beneath you, eyes flying wide, a gasp caught in her throat. You both turn your heads towards the door. Standing there, framed in the doorway, are Sakura, Yunjin, and Kazuha. Sakura has one hand still on the doorknob, her expression caught between weary resignation and mild disbelief. Yunjin leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a knowing, thoroughly amused smirk already spreading across her face. Kazuha, ever serene, simply blinks slowly, taking in the scene: you, pants half undone, buried deep inside Chaewon who’s sprawled half-naked on the equipment table, with quiet, unreadable neutrality.

The silence stretches for a beat, broken only by Chaewon’s shaky breathing and the distant sounds of the traffic far below.

"Seriously?" Sakura sighs, finally breaking the tension. "Right on the table with the meeting notes? Really?"

Yunjin pushes off the doorframe, sauntering further into the room. "Wow, Chae," she drawls, her smirk widening as her eyes rake over the scene. "Couldn't even wait twenty minutes? Someone's eager." Kazuha just shakes her head almost imperceptibly, moving silently towards the mirrored wall to start her usual pre-practice stretching routine, pointedly ignoring the spectacle in the center of the room.

Chaewon flushes scarlet, burying her face against your shoulder for a second, a flicker of genuine embarrassment warring with something else… a thrill. You feel it ripple through her body. This isn't the first time they've walked in on something, though perhaps never quite so… blatant. You look from the members back down to Chaewon. Her face is still hidden, but you feel her tremble slightly; not from fear, but from suppressed laughter or excitement. Fuck it. You’re already balls deep, she’s clearly not entirely opposed to an audience, and frankly, stopping now would be more awkward than just… continuing. Besides, you have a meeting to run.

You share a quick glance with Chaewon as she lifts her head slightly, her eyes gleaming with mischievous understanding. A slow, predatory grin spreads across her face now. Oh, she’s definitely into this. Game on. You tighten your grip on her hips, resuming your thrusts, slowly at first, then settling back into a steady, deep rhythm. Chaewon gasps again, arching into the movement, her eyes fluttering shut for a second before snapping open, darting glances between you and her audience.

"Right," you announce, pitching your voice to carry across the room, adopting your normal, professional Manager-nim tone, completely ignoring the fact that you are currently fucking the group's leader on the meeting table. "Everyone find a seat, or, uh, just stand wherever. Kazuha, good, keep stretching. We need to go over the schedule for the next seventy-two hours." You continue fucking Chaewon, your cock sliding in and out of her tight, wet heat with smooth, deliberate strokes. She moans softly beneath you, biting her lip, her eyes glued to Yunjin and Sakura who are now reluctantly finding spots to sit on the floor near the wall, trying their best to look bored or annoyed, though Yunjin's smirk hasn't faded.

"Okay," you continue, pulling a stray itinerary sheet off the table from beside Chaewon’s hip, careful not to dislodge her. "Tomorrow morning, call time is 06:00 sharp. Vans leave for the TV station at 06:30." Each syllable is punctuated by a steady thrust deep inside Chaewon. You feel her clench around you, a shaky sigh escaping her lips. She deliberately pushes her hips up to meet your next thrust, making a louder, wetter sound echo in the room. Her eyes flick towards Sakura, a silent, bratty challenge in her gaze. Sakura just rolls her eyes dramatically and pointedly pulls out her phone.

"We have pre-recording from 07:30 until approximately 11:00," you continue reading from the sheet, adjusting your grip on Chaewon's thigh, angling her slightly for deeper access. She lets out a louder moan this time, digging her nails into your back. "Uh, please try to keep vocal cord strain minimal during the waiting periods. Water bottles are essential." You pause your thrusts momentarily to emphasize the point, looking directly at Yunjin, who raises an eyebrow skeptically.

"Minimal strain," Yunjin repeats dryly, her gaze flicking pointedly towards Chaewon, who is currently biting your shoulder to stifle a particularly loud gasp as you start moving again, faster this time. "Got it."

You ignore the sarcasm, resuming both the fucking and the briefing. "After pre-recording, we head directly to the Shibuya venue for soundcheck for tomorrow night's showcase. Soundcheck is scheduled for 13:00."

Chaewon is moaning almost continuously now, low, breathy sounds that she barely tries to hide. She throws her head back again, exposing the long line of her throat, her body slick with a fine sheen of sweat. She deliberately meets Kazuha’s serene gaze in the mirror, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she pushes back hard against your cock, her moans turning into performative little cries. Kazuha, incredibly, just continues her elegant stretches, seemingly unfazed, though a tiny smile plays on her lips.

"The showcase soundcheck should take about ninety minutes," you continue, your own voice becoming slightly strained as Chaewon starts writhing beneath you, actively chasing sensation. "Then we have a two-hour block for hair, makeup, and final wardrobe fittings back at the hotel before heading back to the venue." You punctuate the sentence with a particularly deep thrust that makes Chaewon scream your name, the sound sharp and shocking in the room.

Sakura jumps slightly, glaring first at Chaewon, then at you. "Could you maybe try to keep the… commentary… down?" she asks tightly, clearly losing her patience. "Some of us are trying to process actual information here."

Chaewon just laughs breathlessly, gripping your hair. "Sorry, Kura!" she calls out. "He's just hitting it really good right now!" You groan, burying your face in her neck for a second, trying to regain control of both the meeting and your own rapidly escalating arousal. This is insane. But fuck, it's hot. You lift your head, looking back at the itinerary, trying to focus.

"Right. Wardrobe. I’ll make sure the team has confirmed all accessory pairings by," you glance at your watch, your thrusts slowing slightly again to regain composure, "16:00 tomorrow." You slide one hand down between Chaewon's legs, fingers easily finding her slick, swollen clit amidst the chaos. She gasps sharply, hips bucking violently off the table as you start rubbing. Her eyes roll back in her head.

"Fuck! Yes, there!" she cries out.

"Okay, I think I'm gonna need noise-canceling headphones for the rest of this tour," Yunjin announces loudly, though she's watching the scene with undisguised fascination now.

You just keep fucking Chaewon, pounding into her relentlessly while your fingers work magic on her clit, pushing her higher and higher. The professional briefing is dissolving into primal sounds and movements. You glance at the itinerary again, trying to find your place. "Uh… post-showcase… dinner meeting with… Japanese label execs… check your updated schedules later tonight," you manage to get out between gritted teeth, feeling your own climax starting to build, fueled by her frantic moans, her exhibitionist pleasure, the sheer fucking audacity of doing this right here, right now, while simultaneously trying to conduct business.

She’s incredibly close, body trembling, whimpering incoherently now. She keeps glancing towards the others, her face flushed crimson, eyes glazed with a mixture of shame and intense pleasure. Knowing they're watching, knowing they can hear every wet slap, every choked moan, is clearly amplifying everything for her. "Also," you add, trying to maintain a shred of professionalism even as you feel Chaewon’s inner muscles begin to clench frantically around you, signaling her approaching orgasm, "remember the fan meet and greet event on Saturday requires the specific themed outfits discussed last week."

You punctuate this instruction with a series of faster, harder thrusts, deliberately pushing her closer to the edge, enjoying the way she gasps and claws at your back. Sakura groans and covers her face with her hands. Yunjin just shakes her head, laughing silently. Kazuha is now sitting calmly in a near-perfect split against the mirrored wall, seemingly meditating amidst the chaos.

The sheer normalcy of their reactions somehow makes the scene even hotter, more surreal. You continue fucking Chaewon, detailing flight times for the next leg of the tour, visa check reminders, and social media posting guidelines, all while she moans and squirms beneath you, thoroughly enjoying being the center of attention in the most debauched way possible, right in the middle of a scheduled work meeting.

Your fingers work her clit with frantic speed, mirroring the relentless pounding of your cock deep inside her. Chaewon is completely lost, gone, head thrown back, body convulsing around you, chasing that final, explosive release. Her breath comes in ragged, hitching sobs, her nails digging painfully into your back. All focus is on pushing her over that edge, on watching her completely shatter for you, for her reluctant audience.

"Yes! Fuck... almost there... almost..." she gasps, her voice strained to the breaking point. You give one last, brutal thrust, sinking your cock as deep as it will possibly go, while your thumb presses down with bruising force on that hypersensitive nub. That's all it takes.

"I'm—I’M CUMMING! Fuck-fuck-fuck! Oh god, yesssss!” Her scream rips through the practice room, high-pitched, primal, utterly unrestrained. Her entire body locks up, seized by violent, full-body spasms as her orgasm crashes over her in a massive, tidal wave. She convulses around your cock, her inner muscles clenching with shocking intensity, milking you, pulling you closer to your own brink. Her eyes are squeezed shut, face contorted in a mask of pure ecstasy so intense it looks like agony. She screams your name, over and over, mixed with incoherent pleas and praises, completely oblivious to anything but the overwhelming flood of pleasure racking her small frame.

Watching her come apart like that, so loud, so completely wrecked, combined with the sheer fucking audacity of doing this in front of everyone, finally shatters your own control. The pressure builds unbearably low in your balls, an unstoppable surge demanding release.

"Fuck!" you roar out, feeling the familiar tightening deep within. "Fuck, Chaewon, I'm gonna cum! Right now!"

Her orgasm is still shuddering through her, leaving her boneless and gasping, but your words cut through the haze. Her eyes snap open, glazed but instantly understanding. With a speed that defies her exhausted state, she scrambles off the table, legs shaky, nearly collapsing onto the floor. She doesn't hesitate. Doesn't pause to catch her breath. Doesn't even seem to register the other girls staring in stunned silence now. She immediately drops to her knees on the polished wooden floor right in front of you, landing with a soft thud, looking up at you with those wide, dark, completely debauched eyes. Her chest is heaving, sweat plasters strands of hair to her forehead, her lips are swollen and kiss-bruised, but her gaze is steady, expectant, ready. She tilts her head back slightly, offering her face, her mouth slightly open.

You don't need a second invitation. With another guttural groan ripping from your throat, you give your cock a few quick strokes, and then you explode. Thick, heavy ropes of hot cum shoot from the head of your cock, splattering across her upturned face. You pump furiously, emptying yourself onto her, coating her cheeks, her chin, her forehead, even tangling in her eyelashes and hair. Spurts hit her neck, dribbling down towards her chest. She doesn't flinch, doesn't turn away, just stays kneeling there, accepting the hot, sticky load, her eyes fluttering shut briefly as the thickest ropes hit her directly. Behind her, the previous nonchalance of the other members finally shatters. Sakura lets out an audible gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, eyes wide with genuine shock and maybe a touch of disgust.

"Oh my god! Seriously?!" Yunjin bursts out, her usual amused smirk replaced by wide-eyed disbelief, half-laughing, half-appalled. "Right in her face?! In front of us?!" Even Kazuha stops her stretching mid-pose, her serene mask cracking as she stares, her mouth slightly agape.

You finally sag forward slightly, bracing your hands on your knees, catching your breath, your cock still dripping the last remnants of your release. Below you, Chaewon remains kneeling, utterly still for a moment, her face a canvas of your thick, white seed. Then, slowly, deliberately, she opens her eyes. There's no shame there. No embarrassment. Only a profound, bone-deep satisfaction, a hazy glow of pleasure mixed with something else… triumph. She lifts a hand, not to wipe anything away, but to slowly, almost languidly, dip a finger into the thickest patch of cum on her cheek. She brings the finger to her lips, licking it clean with a contemplative expression, her eyes still locked on yours.

Then, with excruciating slowness, she turns her head, looking directly at Sakura, then Yunjin, then Kazuha. A slow, smug, utterly defiant smirk spreads across her cum-covered face. She holds their shocked gazes, practically radiating satisfaction, reveling in their reactions, letting them see her exactly like this: debased, used, marked, and absolutely fucking thrilled about it.

The statement hangs unspoken in the air: Yeah, he did this. To me. And you watched.

Sakura is the first to find her voice again, or rather, a strangled sound that’s somewhere between a gag and a sob. Her hand is still clamped over her mouth, eyes wide with a mixture of horror and utter disbelief.

"Chaewon! What in the actual FUCK?!" she finally splutters, voice muffled. "Are you serious right now? Right on your FACE?! With us watching?! My eyes… I think my retinas are permanently scarred!" She makes a little retching noise, turning slightly green.

Yunjin, who had been caught between shock and horrified laughter, finally lets out a loud, incredulous bark of laughter, though it’s tinged with genuine disbelief.

"Holy shit, Chae!" she exclaims, eyes darting between your dripping cock, Chaewon’s cum-smeared face, and your own slightly dazed expression. "You really are a different breed, aren't you? Zero fucks given. And Manager-nim! Bold move, sir! Very… direct." She fans herself dramatically with her hand. "I mean, I knew you two were freaks, but this? This is next-level. Emmy-worthy performance art, almost."

Even Kazuha, who had maintained her serene composure through most of the initial fucking, is visibly rattled. Her elegant stretching has completely stopped. She’s staring, mouth still slightly agape, her usual calm facade shattered into a million tiny pieces. A small, almost inaudible, "Jesus…" escapes her lips, which could mean anything from "amazing" to "horrifying" in this context. She blinks slowly, as if trying to process the image of her group leader kneeling, painted in your seed, looking utterly triumphant.

You finally manage to put your pants back on, trying to regain some sort of composure or morale. Below you, Chaewon remains kneeling, utterly still for a moment longer, her face a glistening canvas of your thick, white seed. Then, with excruciating, theatrical slowness, she turns her head, looking directly at Sakura, then Yunjin, then Kazuha. A slow, smug, utterly defiant smirk spreads across her cum-covered face. She holds their shocked gazes, practically radiating satisfaction, reveling in their reactions, letting them see her exactly like this: debased, used, marked, and absolutely fucking thrilled about it.

"What's wrong, girls?" Chaewon purrs. She deliberately licks a stray drip of cum from the corner of her lips, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Don't like the new makeup look? I think it’s rather fetching. Really brings out my eyes, don't you think?"

Sakura makes another gagging sound. "Fetching?! Chaewon, you look like a goddamn glazed donut that someone… violated! That’s his jizz all over your face! How can you be so… so… CALM?!"

"Calm?" Chaewon cocks her head, the picture of innocence if it weren't for the spunk artfully smeared across her features. "Oh, I'm far from calm, Kkura-chan. I'm actually feeling pretty fucking fantastic right now. Best facial I’ve had all tour, ten out of ten, would recommend." She winks at Yunjin.

Yunjin just shakes her head, a disbelieving smile playing on her lips. "You’re certifiable, Kim Chaewon. Absolutely, one hundred percent, off-your-rocker insane. But," she adds, her eyes twinkling, "I gotta admit, the commitment is impressive. You didn’t even flinch."

"Flinch? Why would I flinch?" Chaewon asks, genuinely puzzled. She then turns her attention to Kazuha, who’s still staring with wide, unblinking eyes. "Zuha, you’re awfully quiet. Cat got your tongue? Or maybe you’re just speechless at my… radiance?"

Kazuha finally seems to reboot. She closes her mouth, takes a slow, deliberate breath, and then says, with her signature quiet intensity, "It was… a very direct method of concluding the meeting's agenda. And perhaps… a new form of skincare." She giggles. "Very… sticky."

Chaewon lets out a delighted laugh, the sound surprisingly carefree. "See? Kazuha gets it! It’s innovative!" She then pushes herself up from her knees, her movements a little shaky but still full of that bratty confidence. She doesn’t bother wiping her face. Instead, she stretches languidly, like a cat, making sure to give the other girls a good, long look at your handiwork.

"You know," she says, "I was getting so horny with him fucking me on that table. But hearing you guys walk in? Knowing you were watching?" She shivers theatrically. "God, that just sent me over the edge. Made it so much better. My pussy was practically singing. So, thanks for that, girls. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?"

Sakura groans loudly and actually buries her face in her hands. "I am going to need SO MUCH THERAPY after this tour. And a new set of eyeballs. And maybe a hazmat suit for any future meetings."

Yunjin is just openly laughing now, clutching her stomach. "Oh my god, Chaewon, you’re a menace! A literal, walking, talking, cum-covered menace! But hey," she winks at you, "at least our leader is… thoroughly motivated for the showcase, right Manager-nim?"

You just stand there, trying to process the absolute chaotic energy that has just unfolded. You glance at the itinerary sheets scattered on the table, now probably slightly sticky themselves. The meeting notes seem utterly irrelevant.

"Right," you manage to say, clearing your throat. "Well. That was… productive. Any further questions about the schedule? Or shall we move on to… vocal warm-ups?"

Chaewon beams, still proudly displaying her facial. "I think my vocals are perfectly warmed up, thank you very much. Feeling very… open." She gives another pointed look at the other members, who just stare back, a mixture of utter defeat and begrudging awe on their faces. Yeah, the queen brat had done it again, and somehow, in the most fucked-up way possible, owned the entire room.

—

Tonight’s the night. One of the biggest music shows on this leg of the Japan tour, broadcast live, massive audience, high stakes. The backstage area is pure, unadulterated chaos, you can hear everywhere the noise of ringing phones, urgent voices yelling into radios in Japanese and Korean, the sound of the speakers from the main stage soundcheck, and the nervous energy vibrating off every single person rushing past. You’re right in the thick of it, trying to coordinate with the stage manager about last-minute camera blocking changes while simultaneously fielding a call from the label demanding updates on social media engagement metrics.

Standard pre-show pandemonium.

You find a marginally quieter alcove near a bank of humming equipment racks, leaning against the cool metal as you try to wrap up the call, needing just five minutes of relative peace to get your head straight before the final countdown begins. Staffers hurry past the opening of the alcove, barely registering your presence. Five minutes to showtime is practically an eternity in stage time, but also no time at all.

Just as you’re hanging up, mentally running through the checklist (mics, costumes, standby positions, water bottles), a figure detaches itself from the stream of people in the corridor and slips silently into the alcove with you. Kim Chaewon. Fully decked out in her stage outfit for the first performance block, hair and makeup flawless, looking every inch the superstar she is. But the look on her face isn't her usual pre-show focus or nervous energy. It’s something else entirely. That familiar, dangerous glint is back in her dark eyes, a predatory heat simmering just beneath the surface, fixed solely on you. She leans back against the wall opposite you, deliberately blocking the narrow exit.

"Busy?" she asks.

You take in her appearance, and fuck, your carefully constructed professional focus evaporates instantly. The stylists really outdid themselves tonight, leaning hard into the group’s edgier concept. She’s wearing impossibly tight, black leather hot shorts that hug every curve of her phenomenal ass and hips. Paired with that is a cropped, sleeveless black top made of some kind of sheer, shimmering mesh material, revealing tantalizing glimpses of the intricate lace bralette underneath. Fishnet stockings disappear into chunky, platform combat boots that make her legs look even longer and more incredible.

Heavy silver chains loop around her neck and waist, drawing attention to her bare midriff and the sharp lines of her collarbones. Her bob is styled messy but chic, framing a face with darker, smokier makeup than usual, emphasizing the intensity of her gaze. She looks stunning. Dangerous. Utterly, undeniably slutty. And knowing she’s probably wearing next to nothing under that getup makes your cock twitch instantly in your pants.

"Chaewon," you start, trying to inject a note of warning into your voice, acutely aware of the time, the location, the sheer insanity of whatever she’s clearly planning. "Show starts in less than fifteen minutes. What are you doing back here? You should be with the others near standby." Her smirk widens. She pushes off the wall, taking a slow, deliberate step towards you, her platform boots clicking softly on the concrete floor.

"Needed to see my favorite manager," she says innocently, though her eyes are burning holes into you. "Besides," she adds, stopping right in front of you, close enough that you can smell her perfume mixed with the faint scent of stage makeup, "this outfit…" She gestures down at herself languidly. "Feels kinda tight. Thought maybe you could help me… loosen up?" She reaches out, fingers trailing lightly over the front of your jeans, directly over your rapidly hardening cock. Your breath hitches. God damn her. She knows exactly what she’s doing, knows you find this look irresistible, knows you have a weakness for her in leather, knows the risk only makes it hotter for both of you.

"You’re insane," you manage to get out, voice rough, grabbing her wrist, intending to pull her hand away, to push her back towards the stage area. "Completely fucking insane," you repeat, but this time it’s a surrender, not a protest.

Her answering grin is pure wickedness. "Insanely horny," she corrects, leaning in, pressing her body flush against yours. You can feel the cool mesh of her top, the surprising warmth of her skin underneath, the hard planes of her stomach against yours. "Couldn't stop thinking about… last time," she whispers, referring to the practice room, her breath hot against your ear. "Need it again. Right now. Before I go out there." The thought of fucking her right now, dressed like this, backstage with staff potentially walking past any second… it’s reckless, stupid, and unbelievably hot. You’re already hard as a rock, pressing insistently against her bare stomach.

Fuck professionalism.

Fuck the schedule.

You need this too.

"Here?" you murmur, glancing nervously towards the alcove entrance. "We'll get caught." She just shrugs, already fumbling with your belt buckle again, her movements urgent.

"Make it quick then," she breathes, popping the button on your jeans. "And quiet."

As if that’s possible with her.

You groan, giving in completely. You spin her around, pressing her face-first against the cold metal of the equipment rack. Her amazing ass, encased in those tight leather shorts, is presented perfectly to you. You yank down your zipper, freeing your throbbing cock. Without bothering to remove her shorts, you just yank the tight leather fabric down slightly, pulling the thong she’s wearing underneath completely aside, exposing her slick, waiting cunt. There’s no time for lube, no time for prep.

You position yourself behind her, grab her hips firmly, and slam into her from behind. She cries out, the sound muffled against the metal rack, her body jolting forward with the force of the impact.

"Fuck! Yes!" she gasps, immediately arching her back, pushing back against you, taking you deeper. You start fucking her right there, hard and fast, your balls slapping against her leather-clad ass cheeks with each rough thrust. The angle is perfect, driving deep, hitting that spot that makes her legs tremble. The sheer mesh of her top rides up her back, revealing the intricate straps of her bra, the smooth skin beneath. The chains around her waist jingle softly with each desperate movement. It’s a sensory overload: the sight of her in that slutty outfit bent over for you, the feel of her tight heat clenching around your cock, the muffled sounds of her pleasure, the constant, underlying thrill of potential discovery. You reach around her body with one hand, fingers tangling in the mesh top, finding her already hard nipple through the fabric, pinching and rolling it roughly. She cries out again, louder this time, grinding her hips back against you frantically. "God, Chaewon, you feel so fucking good," you pant, fucking her faster, harder. "This outfit… drives me insane."

Suddenly, you remember your phone. The thought hits you with blinding clarity—you need to capture this. This moment. Her, like this, in this outfit, taking your cock backstage minutes before a major performance. You fumble in your pocket with one hand, still pounding into her with the other, managing to pull out your phone. Your fingers shake slightly as you quickly unlock it and open the camera app. Chaewon glances back over her shoulder, seeing the phone in your hand, her eyes widening slightly before a slow, knowing smirk spreads across her face.

She fucking loves this.

Loves the idea of being recorded, documented, in such a compromising, degrading position. She deliberately arches her back higher, pushing her ass out further, giving you an even better angle.

"Like the view?" she gasps out. You don't answer, just position the phone, angling it down slightly to capture the obscene sight of your cock disappearing into her slick folds, framed by the tight black leather and fishnets. Click. The shutter sound is barely audible over her moans and the backstage chaos. You quickly switch to video, hitting record. You hold the phone steady for a few seconds, capturing the raw movement, the glistening slickness, the way her muscles clench around you. Then you zoom in slightly, focusing on her face, flushed and sweat-slicked, lips parted, eyes hazy with lust as she glances back towards the camera again, sticking her tongue out playfully for a split second before biting her lip hard as another wave of pleasure hits her.

"Fucking whore," you growl, pocketing the phone again for now, needing both hands back on her body. You grip her hips tighter, slamming into her with a renewed, savage vigor, each thrust a brutal invasion against the unyielding metal of the equipment rack at her front. Her phenomenal ass, clad in that impossibly tight black leather, is presented perfectly for your assault. The fishnets dig slightly into her thighs with the force of your fucking.

"Fuck, yes, just like that! You love showing off for the camera, don't you, my little slut?" you growl, your voice rough against her ear. "Love being my little backstage whore, getting your tight cunt pounded right before you go out and pretend to be a good girl for the fans?"

Her answer is a series of choked, breathless moans, her head thrashing slightly, her body trembling violently against the rack. She nods frantically, a silent, desperate affirmation.

"Yes! Yes, daddy, please… fuck me harder! Make me your whore!" she begs, voice cracking. "Fill me up!"

You oblige, your cock piston-deep inside her, pounding relentlessly. Her cunt is so fucking tight, so hot, milking you with every desperate clench of her inner muscles as she gets closer and closer. You reach around her again, your fingers easily finding her swollen, hypersensitive clit, and begin to rub hard, fast circles against the nub already slick with her juices. The combination of your thick cock ramming into her and your fingers working her clit sends her completely over the edge.

"I'm gonna cum! OH FUCK, I'm cumming!" she screams, the sound dangerously loud, echoing slightly in the alcove, though hopefully lost in the general backstage din that’s starting to build as showtime approaches. Her orgasm rips through her, a violent, consuming wave. Her tight cunt clenches down on your cock like an iron vise, her body bucking and spasming against you. Watching her come apart like that, completely wrecked and screaming your name, knowing you have it all documented on your phone, pushes you right to your own fucking limit. You feel that familiar, unstoppable pressure building low in your balls, the surge that means you’re about to blow.

"Me too, baby, fuck! I'm gonna fill you up!" you grit out as you pound into her one last time, burying yourself as deep as you can possibly go. "Take it all, Chae! Take my fucking load!"

With a final, guttural roar, you flood her insides, pumping load after thick, hot load of your cum deep within her womb. You creampie her right there, bent over the equipment rack, careless of the staff just outside, careless of the impending show. You keep thrusting for a few more seconds even after you finish, short, sharp strokes designed to milk every last drop from your aching balls, ensuring she's completely full of you.

Finally, you pull out with a wet, sloppy sound, your seed mixed with her slickness dripping from your cock and down her leather-clad thighs. You lean your forehead against her sweat-slicked back, both of you panting heavily, the adrenaline slowly starting to recede, leaving a buzzing exhaustion in its wake. Her body is limp against the rack, trembling with the aftershocks of her intense orgasm.

You quickly, fumbling slightly, pull up your jeans and zip them, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Chaewon is slower, her hands shaky as she hastily pulls her thong back into place and yanks her leather shorts up, her face flushed a deep crimson. She turns, leaning back against the rack for support, her legs still visibly trembling. Her dark, smoky eye makeup is slightly smudged, her lips swollen and kiss-bruised, and there’s a dazed, utterly debauched look on her face that makes your cock twitch again.

"Fuck," she breathes out. "That was… insane. You filled me up so much, babe." She presses a hand to her flat stomach, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face. "I can feel you leaking out of me… and I have to go on stage like this."

The thought clearly electrifies her. Her eyes, though hazy with spent pleasure, gleam with a fresh wave of arousal.

"Good," you say. "Let every single one of those fuckers out there watch you perform knowing you’re full of my cum. Let them wonder why their perfect little idol leader is glowing so much tonight."

Chaewon’s smile widens, turning predatory. "They’ll have no idea I’m about to dance for thousands of people with your load dripping down my thighs, will they?" she purrs, taking a step closer, her hips swaying slightly. "God, that’s so fucking hot. Knowing I’m carrying your cum inside me while I’m up there… pretending to be so perfect."

She reaches out, her fingers tracing the outline of your still-prominent bulge through your jeans. "Maybe… maybe you should’ve put a little more in me. Just to be sure it lasts the whole show."

You grab her wrist, your grip firm. "Don’t push your luck, brat. You need to get out there." But the thought of her, on stage, under those bright lights, moving her body, secretly filled with you… it sends another jolt of possessive heat through you.

She licks her lips, that bratty confidence flooding back now that the immediate crisis of her orgasm has passed. "Or what, Manager-nim? Gonna punish me again later? Maybe get the other girls to watch next time while you fill all my holes?"

"Get the fuck out there, Chaewon," you growl, though there’s no real anger in it, just the lingering heat of your encounter. You give her ass one last hard slap, the sound sharp in the small space.

She yelps, but it’s mixed with a giggle. "Yes, daddy," she says, turning with a final, impossibly slutty wink. She saunters out of the alcove, adjusting the silver chains around her waist, the very picture of a superstar ready to take the stage, if you ignored the faint sheen of sweat, the slightly trembling hands, and the smug, secretive smile playing on her lips. You watch her go, a possessive smirk of your own tugging at your mouth. She was definitely going to be thinking about this, about your cum breeding her, for the entire performance. And fuck, so were you.

—

That backstage fuckfest before the big show in Japan? Yeah, that wasn’t an isolated incident. Not by a long shot. It was more like… the opening act for a whole new level of insanity. The rest of the tour, as Le Sserafim blazed their trail across Japan and then into the US, just got spicier, riskier, more ridiculously, addictively natural. It was like that one taste of blatant exhibitionism, of pushing boundaries with an audience, however unwilling or resigned, had unlocked something even wilder in Chaewon, and by extension, in you. Because who were you to deny her? Especially when her brand of chaos was so fucking intoxicating. The unspoken rules of your dynamic shifted subtly. It wasn't just about finding private moments anymore; it was about stealing them, flaunting them in the face of professionalism, daring the world to notice, knowing it mostly wouldn't, or wouldn't care if it did.

Cars became a frequent playground. Not just the plush, tinted-window privacy of a chartered SUV between the airport and hotel (though those saw plenty of action), usually her clambering over the center console, hiking up her skirt or yanking down her leggings for a quick, desperate ride on your lap while you tried to look impassively out the window as cityscapes blurred by. No, it escalated to riskier scenarios. Like that one time, stuck in gridlock traffic in some humid, bustling city in the US, on the way to a radio interview. She was in the back with you, Sakura beside her pointedly engrossed in a game on her phone, headphones on. Chaewon had started innocently enough, just leaning her head on your shoulder, complaining about being bored.

Then her hand had snaked down, under the loose drape of your jacket, finding your crotch, her fingers starting to knead and stroke you through your jeans.

"Think anyone would notice if I just… sucked you off right now?" she whispered, eyes glinting with that familiar dare. You’d just shaken your head, a silent ‘no fucking way,’ but your rapidly hardening cock betrayed your resolve. She took that as a yes, of course. Within seconds, she was sliding down in her seat, her head disappearing under your jacket, the discreet but unmistakable sounds of her mouth working on you filling the small space, while Sakura just sighed dramatically and turned up the volume on her game, not even glancing over.

The thrill of it, the sheer audacity, knowing the driver was just feet away, separated only by a thin partition, made you come so hard you nearly blacked out, Chaewon swallowing everything with a triumphant little smirk when she finally resurfaced, looking utterly pleased with herself.

Dressing rooms, naturally, remained a staple. Especially the chaotic, shared ones backstage at music shows or concert venues, where privacy was a laughable illusion. Those became her favorite hunting ground. She’d find you amidst the flurry of stylists, makeup artists, and other staff, grab your hand, and pull you into the tiny, curtained-off changing booth meant for a quick costume swap, the flimsy fabric offering zero soundproofing. "Quick," she murmured, already hiking up her stage skirt or tearing at the buttons of her elaborate top, "Got five minutes before we’re on. Make it count."

And you would.

Fucking her pressed up against a rack of glittering costumes, her muffled moans lost in the general din outside. Sometimes, one of the other girls would inadvertently yank the curtain aside, looking for a misplaced accessory, only to freeze, sigh, and pointedly turn around. "Seriously, guys? Again?" Yunjin’s voice, laced with amusement, became a familiar soundtrack to these encounters. Chaewon would just grin, arching her back, pushing herself deeper onto your cock, clearly reveling in the near-discovery.

Then there were the truly random public places. The service stairwell of a five-star hotel, reeking faintly of bleach and old cigarettes, where she cornered you after a press conference, pushing you against the cold concrete wall, her lips attacking yours before you could even protest. You fucked her standing up, her legs wrapped around your waist, her stage dress hiked up to her hips, the risk of a staff member or another hotel guest stumbling upon you making every thrust, every gasp, electrifyingly intense. Or the empty, echoing backstage corridor during a seemingly endless soundcheck for some outdoor festival. She’d even managed to initiate a blowjob in a surprisingly crowded airport VIP lounge once, under the guise of tying your shoelace, her head disappearing beneath the table for a few glorious, heart-stopping minutes while you tried to maintain a nonchalant conversation with a local tour promoter about flight logistics.

The thrill was a drug, and you were both hopelessly addicted.

The ultimate expression of this brazen new dynamic became the head-pat signal. It was something you’d developed half-jokingly, a specific, almost imperceptible way you’d pat her head, two quick taps, then a slow stroke down the back of her hair, that meant, unequivocally, now. It didn't matter where you were, who she was with, what she was doing. When that signal came, she was yours. Instantly. You used it sparingly, saving it for moments when her bratty confidence was at its peak, or when you just couldn't resist the urge to assert your dominance in the most public, yet discreetly private, way.

Like that time in the production office at a huge arena. She was deep in conversation with a local venue manager, a portly, serious-looking man who was explaining, with excruciating detail, the fire safety protocols for their pyrotechnics display. Chaewon was nodding along, looking a picture of polite, professional interest, asking intelligent-sounding questions. You walked up behind her, ostensibly to get a copy of the stage plot. As you leaned past her, you gave the signal. Two quick taps. A slow stroke. Her eyes, which had been fixed on the venue manager, flickered almost imperceptibly. She didn’t miss a beat in her conversation.

"...so the primary extinguishers are located at stage left and right, correct?" she asked smoothly. Then, turning slightly towards the venue manager with a dazzling smile, she said, "Excuse me for just one moment, sir. I just remembered something incredibly vital I need to discuss with my manager. Urgent artist matter. You understand."

Before the bewildered man could even reply, she had grabbed your hand, her grip surprisingly strong, and was pulling you towards a small, adjoining storage closet piled high with dusty audio cables and forgotten props. She practically threw you inside, slammed the door shut (no lock, just the illusion of privacy), and immediately dropped to her knees, yanking at your belt.

"You fucking tease," she hissed, her eyes blazing with that wild, needy fire as she freed your already-hardening cock. "Couldn't wait, huh?"

She took you into her mouth right there, surrounded by darkness and the smell of old dust, her expert mouth working magic while you listened to the venue manager muffled voice outside, still patiently explaining fire extinguisher classifications to the empty air. The sheer audacity of it, the closeness of potential discovery, made the hurried, desperate blowjob unbelievably intense. Later, when she emerged from the closet, all composure regained, apologizing sweetly to the venue manager for the "urgent interruption," the man just blinked, shrugged his shoulders with a sigh, and mumbled something about "these artists and their… urgencies," before tiredly resuming his safety briefing.

He didn't have a clue.

Almost no one ever really did.

And after these stolen moments, these frantic, risky encounters, came another ritual: the pictures. It had started innocently enough, a way to capture a particularly hot outfit, a particularly memorable fuck. But it quickly became part of the dynamic, part of the possessive thrill. You'd pull out your phone, sometimes even during the act if the angle was right, but mostly afterwards, while she was still flushed and dazed, her hair a mess, her clothes disheveled, that sated, almost feral look in her eyes.

"Stay like that," you murmured once, positioning her. Sometimes you’d have her pose, bent over a piece of furniture, ass cheeks still red from your handprints, looking back at the camera with a defiant smirk. Other times, it would be more candid: her sprawled on a dressing room couch, half-dressed, eyes hazy with pleasure. You took close-ups of her cum-covered face, the thick ropes still glistening on her skin. Selfies of the two of you, her pressed against your side, both of you looking like you’d just been through a war.

They weren't for sharing, not ever. They were for your private collection. Trophies. Reminders of her submission, her desire, her willingness to play these reckless games with you. Tangible proof of the wild, untamed creature she became when it was just the two of you, or even when it wasn't just the two of you, but she was performing solely for an audience of one. She never protested the photos. In fact, she seemed to enjoy it, often playing up to the camera, a silent acknowledgment of this shared, dirty secret, another layer to your fucked-up, intoxicating bond.

Through all the chaos, the endless travel, the high-pressure performances, the stolen moments of intense, often public, depravity, something deeper solidified between you. It wasn't just about the sex (though that was a huge, undeniable part of it). It was about the understanding. The unspoken connection. The way you could communicate with just a look, a touch, a specific kind of silence. You saw past her idol persona, past the bratty facade, to the vulnerable, needy, intensely loyal woman underneath.

And she, in turn, saw you not just as her manager, her handler, her secret lover, but as the one person who truly got her, who didn't judge her darkness but reveled in it alongside her. The one person she could be completely, unashamedly herself with. So, it wasn't entirely a surprise when, at the very end of it all, after the final encore of the final show of the seemingly endless tour, when you were both utterly exhausted, emotionally drained, and sprawled out on the king-sized bed in yet another anonymous luxury hotel room in LA, she turned to you, voice soft, almost fragile.

"You know," she began, tracing idle patterns on your bare chest with her fingertip, "through all this… all the crazy shit… all the times I thought I was going to lose my mind…" She paused, looking up at you, her eyes clearer, more vulnerable than you’d seen them in weeks. "I love you," she whispered, the words simple, direct, yet carrying the weight of everything you’d shared. You pulled her closer, pressing your forehead against hers, noses touching in that familiar, intimate way.

"I love you too, Chaewon," you replied. "So fucking much." You held her like that for a long time, the silence comfortable, profound.

"No one," she murmured eventually, her voice muffled against your skin, "no one understands me like you do."

And you knew, with absolute certainty, that she was right. And no one understood you, your own complicated needs and desires, quite like Kim Chaewon. You were two halves of a perfectly twisted whole, and in that moment, amidst the lingering scent of sex and exhaustion, that understanding was everything you could ask for.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Vittoria Elliott at Wired:

Elon Musk’s takeover of federal government infrastructure is ongoing, and at the center of things is a coterie of engineers who are barely out of—and in at least one case, purportedly still in—college. Most have connections to Musk and at least two have connections to Musk’s longtime associate Peter Thiel, a cofounder and chairman of the analytics firm and government contractor Palantir who has long expressed opposition to democracy. WIRED has identified six young men—all apparently between the ages of 19 and 24, according to public databases, their online presences, and other records—who have little to no government experience and are now playing critical roles in Musk’s so-called Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) project, tasked by executive order with “modernizing Federal technology and software to maximize governmental efficiency and productivity.” The engineers all hold nebulous job titles within DOGE, and at least one appears to be working as a volunteer. The engineers are Akash Bobba, Edward Coristine, Luke Farritor, Gautier Cole Killian, Gavin Kliger, and Ethan Shaotran. None have responded to requests for comment from WIRED. Representatives from OPM, GSA, and DOGE did not respond to requests for comment. Already, Musk’s lackeys have taken control of the Office of Personnel Management (OPM) and General Services Administration (GSA), and have gained access to the Treasury Department’s payment system, potentially allowing him access to a vast range of sensitive information about tens of millions of citizens, businesses, and more. On Sunday, CNN reported that DOGE personnel attempted to improperly access classified information and security systems at the US Agency for International Development (USAID), and that top USAID security officials who thwarted the attempt were subsequently put on leave. The AP reported that DOGE personnel had indeed accessed classified material. “What we're seeing is unprecedented in that you have these actors who are not really public officials gaining access to the most sensitive data in government,” says Don Moynihan, a professor of public policy at the University of Michigan. “We really have very little eyes on what's going on. Congress has no ability to really intervene and monitor what's happening because these aren't really accountable public officials. So this feels like a hostile takeover of the machinery of governments by the richest man in the world.”

[...] “To the extent these individuals are exercising what would otherwise be relatively significant managerial control over two very large agencies that deal with very complex topics,” says Nick Bednar, a professor at University of Minnesota’s school of law, “it is very unlikely they have the expertise to understand either the law or the administrative needs that surround these agencies.” Sources tell WIRED that Bobba, Coristine, Farritor, and Shaotran all currently have working GSA emails and A-suite level clearance at the GSA, which means that they work out of the agency’s top floor and have access to all physical spaces and IT systems, according a source with knowledge of the GSA’s clearance protocols. The source, who spoke to WIRED on the condition of anonymity because they fear retaliation, says they worry that the new teams could bypass the regular security clearance protocols to access the agency’s sensitive compartmented information facility (SCIF), as the Trump administration has already granted temporary security clearances to unvetted people. This is in addition to Coristine and Bobba being listed as “experts” working at OPM. Bednar says that while staff can be loaned out between agencies for special projects or to work on issues that might cross agency lines, it’s not exactly common practice.

WIRED’s report on the 6 college-aged men between 19 and 24 that are shaping up DOGE in aiding and abetting in co-”President” Elon Musk’s technofascist takeover.

[the-final-sif]

I know you are studying law, and I just wanted to ask is there any reason why Quackity wouldn't want to deal with this union thing outside of a court room? Does he just think they're bluffing or does he just think he has enough evidence that he had no idea about the workplace environment and payment issues.

I'm actually not studying law! I keep up with a number of cases and one of my younger brothers is studying law/in the process of becoming a lawyer, but I'm not in college for it or anything. It's mostly just a personal interest and a willingness to sit down and read through case law for like 10 hours to understand why something has to happen a certain way. That and a willingness to go bother the lawyers I know to help understand things.

That aside, I honestly think that some of it is arrogance and an assumption that he's safe because he's not physically in France. Which is a very bad assumption, but he'd hardly be the first person to make it. It's very clear that he doesn't have anyone remotely competent near his company because they would've told him to avoid hiring people in the EU like a plague.

In this case, since he's clear got control over the company (ie being able to come in and change anything he wants whenever he wants), it wouldn't matter if he was aware or not, at least to my understanding.

Within US law at least, there's something called "constructive knowledge" which basically means "regardless of whether or not you actually knew about this, if you were behaving reasonably and according to your duties then you should have known about this". This means that negligence isn't an excuse, particularly when you have managerial responsibility. You can't ignore illegal shit happening and not do your job and then claim no responsibility for the outcome. You have a duty of care to employees, which includes stuff like ensuring people get paid, health and safety measures and also that you aren't employing like, minors illegally or in unsafe conditions.

If employers could just like, not ask for any details about who someone is and thus not be liable for any of their actions, they would happily do that. But they can't, you're supposed to know and keep all this information on file for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is taxes.

Speaking as someone who works at a company with international workers, it's not easy to do and you need to be careful how you do it. If you do it willy-nilly, you end up doing a lot of labor crimes. Like what happened here.

[charles-leclerc-official]

My brief take on Newey rumors and possible news:

First I want to preface this with there is a lot we don't know and I want to take rumors about specifics for what they are rumors.

I think that if it is true that Ferrari rejected Newey and he is in fact going to Aston then a few things start to make sense.

First, I think that if any of what we've heard about Newey's demands to Ferrari are accurate that's not as simple as hiring a technical or aero director. Having that much influence over the department is edging into TP territory. Which to me says that Newey wants to level up in his own career. Ferrari on the other hand is not looking for a TP or another managerial role like that, they are looking for a technical director and engineers. This is probably a simple difference in goals. Newey wants a different job than Ferrari has an opening for.

Also there could be a lot of things that he asked for with regards to veto power and hiring that Ferrari just contractually could not offer. It would be giving an outsider a lot of control over the team. And while that might be a good thing it could also prove to be a lot of trouble.

I would say this does also explain why he left Red Bull. Aside from the wealth of internal issues at the team, if Newey wanted a promotion and they refused or just didn't have the position open then it makes sense. To me this signals that he wants to step up from just being and engineer and technical director. Which at this stage in his career it makes sense.

I think that the claims that Ferrari dropped the ball and we are doomed because we didn't give one man what he wanted is really placing too much value on Newey. He is a very talented man, and I am sure he'd be doing good things at Ferrari. But at the same time he isn't a magic bullet. There are a lot of other engineers who have been making equally competitive cars. We are all talking about how Mclaren have the fastest car, well they did that without Newey and also took things in different directions from Red Bull. So getting Newey does not automatically equal the best car.

In any case I don't think this is bad for Ferrari. The way this is being spun narrative wise is painting a really skewed picture I think. There is a lot that goes into these negotiations, and they are a two way street.

I want to see Ferrari acquire new engineering talent, because there are a lot of skilled engineers who have new ideas to bring to the sport.

[houseofdissension]

⸻ 𐄁 𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐍𝐄𝐑-𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐄  𝐈𝐍𝐂.  //  𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓  𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄  𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐃  𝟎𝟎𝟏-𝐁

MANAGERIAL  PERSONNEL  ENROLLMENT  RECORD FLOOR  OF  DISSENT:  40TH  LEVEL  –  HIGH-CLEARANCE  ONLY This  submission  pertains  to  internal  authorization  under  the  Dissension  Initiative.  All  biometric  and  behavioral  data  logged  herein  is  protected  under  Clause  9.4  of  the  Executive  Containment  Protocol.

( Post-entry  memory  reclamation  is  prohibited.  Managerial  insight  must  remain  unclouded.  Proceed  with  composure.  You  are  now  accountable  to  the  structure. )

[  𝗩𝗢𝗟𝗡𝗘𝗥-𝗗𝗢𝗪𝗡𝗘  𝗜𝗡𝗖.  //  𝗡𝗢𝗡 𝗗𝗜𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗠  ]

╰── santiago cabrera,  47,  cis-male,  he & him ]＞  𝙾𝙱𝚂𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙴𝙳  𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙴𝚃  𝙻𝙾𝙶:  The  individual  known  informally  as  [  NICOLÁS “NICO"  CÁRDENAS  ]  has  been  noted  for  presence  within  the  Downe’s  Hollow  parameters.  According  to  behavioral  estimates,  they  present  at  approximately  [  FOURTY-SEVEN  ]  and  have  been  under  evaluation  for  [  SIX YEARS  ].  During  scheduled  daylight  hours,  they  are  recorded  operating  in  the  role  of  [  THE WARDEN  /  NON DISSENTED  ].  Community  observation  reports  suggest  notable  behavioral  markers:  prone  to  [  TRICKSTER  ]  under  stress,  yet  reportedly  [  APPEALING  ]  in  collective  settings.  Volner-issued  residency  placement:  [  ALABASTER GREEN  /  ALABASTER GREEN PRIVATE HOUSING  ].  Echo  archetypes  detected  in  personality  patterns  include:  [  an obsidian chalice of memory-rot, held to the lips but never swallowed — his charm, a velvet razor, masking the scream of a boy still trapped behind locked doors; a penance-machine in a tailored suit; his pulse syncs to surveillance and sonatas. where forgiveness should bloom, only ritual — ruthless, immaculate, divine; a candle burning beneath water — grief bending through the pressure of control. love becomes leverage. remorse, design. & still, somewhere, a cello mourns him.  ].  𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂:  under  continued  observation.  Decompression  tolerance  uncertain.  Reintegration  probability:  TBD.

𐄁  𝗩𝗢𝗟𝗡𝗘𝗥-𝗗𝗢𝗪𝗡𝗘  𝗜𝗡𝗖.  //  𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗧-𝗦𝗘𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧  𝗢𝗡𝗕𝗢𝗔𝗥𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚  𝗘𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗨𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡

FORM  82-D  |  RESIDENCY  JUSTIFICATION  INTAKE: Your  responses  are  recorded  under  Civic  Harmony  Protocol  6.1.  Please  answer  with  full  clarity  and  personal  accountability.  Ambiguity  may  result  in  further  observation.

1.  Please  describe  the  circumstances  of  your  initial  transition  into  Downe’s  Hollow.

Nicolás  adjusts  his  cufflink  —  not  out  of  need,  but  rhythm.  A  gesture  he’s  perfected  over  years  of  answering  questions  without  answering  them.  The  light  hits  the  silver  just  right,  casting  a  faint  glimmer  along  the  bone  of  his  wrist.  ❝ Circumstances?  That  word  makes  it  sound  accidental.  No.  I  walked  in  willingly.  My  name  was  already  on  the  ledger  before  I  arrived  —  they  just  hadn’t  inked  it  yet. ❞   His  voice   thrums  in  his  throat,  a  contemplative  hum. He  leans  back  slightly,  the  leather  of  the  chair  creaking  beneath  him  like  an  old  confession.   Outside,  the  wind  scratches  against  the  windowpane,  unnoticed.  ❝ Let’s  call  it…  a  quiet  invitation.  After  a  string  of  obligations  I  was  no  longer  interested  in  upholding.  Downe’s  Hollow  offered  anonymity.  Control.  A  chance  to  help shape  something  life  changing. ❞  He  smiles,  but  it  never  quite  touches  his  eyes.  Something  ancient  flickers  there  —  calculating,  fond  almost.  Like  an upward  tug of  his  lips  making  itself  evident  in  his  tone,  curling   &   self-satisfied  if  not  playful.  ❝ And  me?  I  wanted  silence.  The  kind  you  earn,  not  the  kind  you're  buried  in. ❞ Fingers  steeple,  his  breath  still,  like  a  cathedral  holding  itself  together  just  long  enough  not  to  collapse.   ❝ So  I  took  the  job and became  The  Warden.  Learned  the  language  of  the  company  like  it  was  my  native  tongue.  And  haven’t  heard  a  single  unnecessary  noise  since. ❞ He  doesn’t  blink.  Doesn’t  fidget.  The  kind  of  man  who  turns  torment  into  tenure.

2.  At  the  time  of  your  arrival,  what  were  you  running  from,  or  toward?

A  thumb  smooths  along  the  line  of  his  lapel  —  absent-minded,  precise.  Not  to  correct  anything,  but  to  occupy  the  space  where  discomfort  would  live  in  a  lesser  man.  The  stillness  he  keeps  around  him  isn’t  stillness  at  all  —  it’s  choreography,  the  illusion  of  calm  placed  just-so  atop  a  coil  of  wire  &  flame.  Light  glances  off  the  ridge  of  his  cheekbone,  lending  him  the  look  of  something  carved.  He  speaks  only  once  the  silence  feels  full,  shaped,  intentional.  Not  before. ❝  I  wasn’t  running  from  anything.  ❞  It’s  said  gently,  like  a  bedtime  lie.  One  he’s  told  himself  enough  times  to  get  the  tone  right.  He  takes  that  pausing  moment  just  like  he  always  does  to  assess.   Pulse,  sting  of  adrenaline,  twitching  tendons  nestled  behind  the  eyes,  anything  that  might  hide  bill  of  a  liar’s  fixings.   Humor  usually  shades  it.  His  eyes  drag,  slowly,  toward  a  spot  in  the  corner  where  the  wallpaper  buckles  slightly.  Flawed  things  have  always  fascinated  him.  Imperfect  seams.  Old  wounds.  Names  spoken  behind  closed  doors.  ❝   That  word  —  running  —  it  implies  fear.  Urgency.  A  suitcase  and  a  conscience.  ❞  He  exhales  a  sound,  nearly  a  laugh,  more  like  a  memory  that  tried  to  escape  and  got  caught  in  his  throat.  ❝   I  don’t  panic.  I  adapt.  Quite well.  ❞ He  can  count  on  this life,  the  steady  money  in  his  bank  account,  the  luxury.  That  sound  when  he  sits  back  in  his  Chesterfield  real  leather  office  chair  —  the  breath  of  expensive  discomfort  —  has  always  pleased  him.  Somewhere  behind  his  eyes,  old  train  stations  burn.  A  passport  stamped  in  someone  else’s  blood.  A  voice  he  hasn’t  heard  in  years  calling  him  by  the  wrong  name. ❝  There  were…  conversations  being  had.  Doors  closing  without  sound.  The  kind  of  attention  a  man  like  me  doesn’t  want  to  attract  unless  he’s  holding  the  leash.  ❞  Fingers  brush  along  the  armrest,  tracing  a  grain  he  knows  by  touch.  Every  space  he  occupies  becomes  a  confessional  eventually.  The  trick  is  never  kneeling.  ❝  So  I  came  here.  To  order.  To  erasure,  but  on  my  terms.  Dissension  doesn’t  care  what  came  before.  It  asks  only  what  you’re  willing  to  do  now. Same with Volner-Downe.  ❞  What  they  will  never  know  is  that,  somehow,  he  still has  his  righteousness,  his  insufferable  piety  about  morality  but  when  it  comes  down  to  it,  he  holds  all  of  this  on  his  own.   Black  &  white  are  constructs;  the  law  of a  manmade  code.   ❝  And  I  was  willing.  I  still  am.   ❞ A  ghost  of  a  smile  haunts  the  corner  of  his  mouth  —  dangerously  civilized.  ❝   Let  others  run.  I  arrive.  And  when  I  do,  I  stay unless I need to otherwise.  ❞  He  rests  his  hands  together,  cathedral-like,  as  if  in  prayer  or  judgment.  Perhaps  both.  Just  as  in  youth.

3.  Do  you  believe  you  chose  this  life,  or  were  chosen  for  it?

The  question  hangs  in  the  air  like  perfume  left  behind  by  someone  who’s  already  walked  out  the  door.  It  doesn’t  startle  him.  He’s  been  answering  versions  of  it  his  whole  life  —  sometimes  with  a  smile,  sometimes  with  a  punch,  sometimes  not  at  all.  Today,  he  chooses  simplicity.  A  breeze  filters  through  the  cracked  window  —  thin,  citrus-sharp,  carrying  with  it  the  distant  sound  of  something  mechanical  humming  under  the  floor.  Nicolás  shifts  his  weight  —  not  because  he's  uncomfortable,  but  because  stillness,  for  him,  is  never  quite  empty.  It  hums  too.  He  drags  a  knuckle  across  the  stubble  along  his  jaw,  slow  and  absent,  like  someone  rewinding  a  memory  he  doesn’t  plan  to  explain.  His  body’s  all  loose  geometry now  —  slouched  in  the  chair  like  it  belongs  to  him,  like  the  room  does  too.  The  only  part  of  him  holding  any  tension  is  the  way  his  eyes  never  quite  stop  watching  the  door.  Just  in  case. ❝  You  ever  see  a  dog  chase  its  own  shadow?  Thinkin’  it’s  got  somewhere  to  be?  It’s  like  that.  ❞  His  voice  breaks  the  quiet  like  jazz  cutting  through  static — low,  smooth,  a  little  tired  around  the  edges.  The  chair  groans  faintly  as  he  leans  back  —  not  out  of  arrogance  (  well,  not  fully  ),  but  to  get  comfortable.  He  always  speaks  better  when  his  spine  isn’t  doing  the  work.  One  hand  slips  into  the  inner  pocket  of  his  blazer,  fishing  out  a  toothpick  like  it’s  a  cigarette.  He  doesn’t  light  anything,  of  course.  Just  rests  it  between  his  teeth,  the  barest  twitch  of  his  jaw  giving  it  motion.  ❝   I  thought  I  was  making  decisions.  Real  ones.  ❞  He  taps  his  thumb  once  against  his  forefinger,  rhythmic,  like  a  heartbeat  trying  to  remember  its  tempo.  ❝   Thought  I  was  choosing  the  next  city.  The  next  name.  The  next  bed.  ❞ Grin  lifting  —  crooked,  soft,  not  quite  sad.  He  flicks  the  toothpick  to  the  other  side  of  his  mouth,  jaw  ticking  once  before  settling  again.  Every  movement  is  smooth,  practiced,  but  never  rehearsed  —  like  he’s  been  living  inside  the  same  moment  for  too  long  and  just  learned  to  make  it  look  graceful.  ❝   But  looking  back?  I  was  just  following  the  pattern.  Like  a  record  that  doesn’t  know  it’s  been  skipping  the  same  groove  for  years.  ❞ Nicolás  lets  a  chuckle  clutter  his  throat,  then  his  gaze  drops,  lands  on  a  scuff  in  the  floor  —  probably  his  own  doing,  from  a  week  ago.  Something  about  the  imperfection  pleases  him.  Proof  he  was  here.  The  comes  the  sigh  —  deep,  not  dramatic.  Like  the  kind  of  breath  you  take  when  a  song  ends  &  the  silence  comes  back  heavier  than  you  remembered. ❝  Life  doesn’t  always  ask  for  your  input.  ❞  He  lifts  his  head  again,  one  brow  slightly  raised,  as  though  testing  the  weight  of  honesty  in  the  air.  ❝  But  the  reality  is  quieter  than  that.  It  didn’t  arrive  all  at  once.  It  just…  happened.  ❞  The  lights  overhead  buzz  faintly,  casting  long  shadows  across  the  table.  Nicolás  glances  at  his  reflection  in  the  glass  —  a  vague  shape,  stretched  and  blurry.  Fitting. ❝  So  no.  I  don’t  think  I  chose  it.  But  I  stayed.  ❞  Somewhere  behind  his  calm,  there’s  a  something  that  scintillates  —  something  wounded  that  learned  to  wear  good  shoes  and  show  up  on  time.  Not  because  it  healed, but  because  bleeding  was  boring.  ❝  And  maybe  that’s  the  most  honest  answer I can give.  ❞

4.  When  you  envision  the  person  you  used  to  be,  what  part  of  them  still  lingers  in  the  current  design?

The  room  has  that  late-afternoon  hum  to  it  —  light  hanging  low,  casting  everything  in  honey  and  ruin.  There’s  a  flicker  of  dust  in  the  air,  caught  in  the  rays  like  static  searching  for  a  signal.  Nicolás  watches  it  for  a  moment,  head  tilted  —  not  distracted,  just…  considerate.  He’s  always  had  a  soft  spot  for  things  that  drift.  His  tie’s  slightly  loosened,  though  it  wasn’t  before  he  sat  down.  No  one  saw  it  happen.  That’s  the  way  with  him  —  he  unravels  in  inches,  never  threads.  He  doesn’t  answer  right  away.  Instead,  he  slips  a  coin  from  his  pocket  —  smooth,  dulled  with  age,  its  etching  nearly  worn  away.  He  doesn’t  flip  it.  Just  turns  it  once  between  his  fingers,  slow.  Like  something  precious.  Like  something  that’s  burned  him  before.  Voice  quieter  this  time,  but  not  uncertain.  Just  a  little  farther  away,  as  if  he's  talking  to  a  version  of  himself  sitting  in  the  doorway  behind  someone. ❝  He  was  louder.  Had  opinions  about  justice.  Thought  sharp  suits  could  keep  the  world  out.  ❞  the  coin  clicks  once  between  his  fingers.  ❝  That  kid, man  —  he  believed  there  were  rules.  Thought  if  you  played  nice,  you  could  rewrite  the  ending.  ❞  His  gaze  drops,  not  out  of  shame,  but  memory.  The  kind  that  buzzes  behind  the  ribs,  unwanted  but  familiar.  ❝   I  liked  him, though.  Even  when  he  got  in  the  way.  ❞ &  just  like  that,  his  posture  resets — familiar,  cool,  indifferent.  Not  careless.  Just  unwilling  to  bleed  where  it  won’t  be  noticed.  ❝  I  was  stubborn,  overly  romantic.  Too  quick  to  trust  a  well-worded  lie.  ❞  Then,  more  to  himself,  the  ghost  of  a  grin  brushing  the  corner  of  his  mouth:  ❝  Got  burned  for  it.  A  few  times. It's all good, lessons learned.  ❞  There’s  a  silence  that  follows  —  thick,  but  not  uncomfortable.  The  kind  you  get  between  old  friends  who  know  not  to  fill  space  just  because  it’s  there.  He  lets  it  settle  like  dusk. Fingers  curl  loosely  around  the  coin  again  before  he  tucks  it  away,  like  the  thought  itself.  Back  where  it  came  from.  Kept,  but  caged. ❝  What’s  left  of  him?  ❞  Nicolás  glances  up  now,  eyes  clear  and  unsettling  in  their  calm.  ❝  I  think  he’s  the  reason  I  don’t  flinch.  ❞   A  breath.  Dry.  Clean.  ❝  Not  because  I  stopped  feeling  it  —  but  because  he  never  stopped.  We’re  not  the  same, but  I  still  carry  his  voice.  He’s  just  quieter  now.  Mostly  speaks  when  I’m  trying  to  sleep.  ❞  The  corner  of  his  mouth  lifts  again.  Not  a  smile  this  time  —  just  shape  memory.  Then  silence.  Heavy,  holy.  Like  he  just  said  something  important. 

5.  In  your  current  state  of  clarity,  how  would  you  describe  your  belief  in  the  Dissension  Procedure?

The  ceiling  fan  churns  lazily  above,  dragging  warm  air  in  slow,  reluctant  circles.  Nicolás  watches  it  spin  like  he’s  trying  to  remember  if  he  ever  really  slept  beneath  one  without  locking  the  door.  His  sleeve’s  been  rolled  to  the  elbow,  revealing  a  line  of  muscled  forearms  and  scarred  skin  near  the  crook  of  his  arm  —  faint,  healed,  but  unmistakably  human.  That  raised  blemish  older  than  the  name  he  answers  to  now.  The  light  slants  across  his  collarbone,  soft  gold  split  by  shadow.  For  a  second,  he  says  nothing.  Just  presses  a  thumb  against  the  edge  of  his  jaw,  slow  and  firm,  like  he’s  keeping  something  from  leaking  out. ❝  Clarity,  huh.  ❞  He  floats  levity  into  his  voice.  He  doesn’t  laugh  this  time.  The  word  lands  heavy  in  his  mouth,  sits  on  his  tongue  like  copper.  ❝  Sounds  clean.  Clinical.  Feels  more  like…  exposure.  ❞  His  hand  hovers  near  his  throat,  as  if  to  loosen  the  button  he  never  fastened.  But  he  doesn’t.  Instead,  his  fingers  retreat,  folding  into  his  palm  —  tight,  bone-white  for  a  beat  before  easing  open  again.  A  small  rebellion,  swallowed  whole. ❝  The  Procedure  works.  ❞  It’s  spoken  plainly.  No  spin,  no  glamour.  However  something  in  him  flinches  —  not  visibly,  not  enough  for  most  to  catch.  It’s  in  the  stillness.  The  kind  that’s  practiced.  The  kind  that  says  if  I  move  too  fast,  I  might  feel  it  all  at  once.  ❝  It  works  too  well.  ❞  He  closes  his  eyes  briefly,  just  long  enough  to  see  someone  he  used  to  know  —  maybe  himself,  maybe  not.  Someone  who  looked  like  him  and  asked  questions  the  company  didn’t  want  answered. ❝  I’ve  seen  what  it  leaves  behind.  ❞  An  exhale.  His  voice  softens,  though  still  audible.  ❝  And  what  it  takes.  ❞ He  presses  the  pad  of  his  thumb  to  the  inside  of  his  wrist,  like  he’s  checking  for  something  —  pulse,  maybe.  Or  just  trying  to  remember  he’s  still  real.  The  guilt  doesn’t  show  in  his  posture.  It  lingers  elsewhere  —  in  the  breath  he  holds  too  long,  in  the  slight  hitch  between  words,  in  the  way  he  doesn’t  meet  eyes  for  a  full  sentence  and  a  half.  And  yet:  it's  not  a  thought  he  can  ever  fully  admit  to. ❝  Do  I  believe  in  it?  ❞  He  tilts  his  head,  a  half-shrug  blooming  through  his  shoulders  like  a  sigh  that  never  quite  makes  it  out.  ❝  I  believe  in  my  job.  I  believe  in  order.  In  results.  In  peace  and  silence  and  clean  exits.  ❞ But  he  remembers  the  screaming  &  confusion  —  muffled  through  glass  when  they  first  awake  after  the  procedure,  but  not  enough.  He  remembers  the  way  someone’s  voice  broke  on  the  fourth  recitation  and  never  found  its  way  back.  He  remembers  someone  trying  to  harm  themselves  from  a  decision  their  "other  self"  made.  ❝   Most times  I  sleep  easy.  ❞  He  drums  his  fingers  once,  twice,  against  the  table  —  then  stops.  That’s  enough.  ❝   Though  that’s  not  what  they  hired  me  for.   ❞ And  there,  finally,  he  looks  at  his  interviewer.  Fully.  Like  he’s  dared  them  to  hold  the  weight  of  what  he  carries. ❝  I  just  make  sure  the  machine  runs.  ❞   The  faintest  smile  flickers  at  the  edge  of  his  mouth,  confident and charming. Nicolás  stands  this  time  —  not  in  triumph,  not  in  comfort.  Just  to  put  a  little  space  between  the  interviewer  and  the  wreckage  he  almost  admitted  to.  The  fan  overhead  keeps  spinning.  And  somewhere  beneath  his  ribs,  the  guilt  curls  back  into  silence,  waiting  for  its  turn  again,  no  matter  how  much  he  buries  it. But his own survival is always paramount.

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞  𝐭𝐨  𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐫-𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞  𝐈𝐧𝐜.,  𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦  𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵  𝘪𝘴  𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺  𝘢𝘯𝘥  𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦  𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴  𝘵𝘩𝘦  𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.  𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳  𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦  𝘩𝘢𝘴  𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯  𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥,  𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳  𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭  𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥.  𝘞𝘦  𝘢𝘳𝘦  𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥  𝘵𝘰  𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯  𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴  𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘺  𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.

𝗪𝗲’𝗿𝗲  𝗵𝗼𝗻𝗼𝗿𝗲𝗱  𝘁𝗼  𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲  𝘆𝗼𝘂  𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿  𝗼𝘂𝗿  𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲. –  Compliance.  Continuity.  Purpose.

[theculturedmarxist]

The Tumblr Files

Tumblr has a habit of disappearing blogs that it seems to find objectionable. Alas, if only they were full of reactionary content they'd probably have been allowed to stay, but instead they're Leftists of various stripes, which makes them uncomfortable for the owners of Tumblr at best and dangerous at worst.

Regardless of what you think of Musk's purchase of Twitter, one good thing that came out of it was the release of the Twitter Files. Therein we learned of just how closely social media companies like Facebook and Twitter have integrated with the US government and its spying agencies.

Does the FBI have a direct line to TumblrHQ? I can't say for certain. I haven't seen any evidence of it yet, but Tumblr is a massive platform with a lot of reach. Its size alone makes it a prime target for surveillance if only because were the community left to its own devices it might start to develop its own ideas about how the world worked contrary to the bourgeois narrative, or what the US government currently calls "misinformation."

Some things to consider:

First, in the wake of the Democrats' 2016 presidential loss, the Professional-Managerial Class which make up its primary constituencies freaked out. The development of Russiagate was the response. This wasn't just about Trump winning the presidency though. The source of bourgeois terror was that the internet was an unregulated source of information, and people were starting to get the "wrong" ideas, as evidenced by Bernie Sanders immense popularity at the time, and Trump's victory.

Second, Russiagate triggered a concerted spy agency response to root out basically nonexistent "Russian influence" on social media "promoting misinformation." Pressure was put onto SM companies to "do something about Russian election meddling." Twitter's internal research found that there was basically nothing of the kind. This was the wrong answer, so Twitter was compelled by propaganda outlets and the threat of expensive legislation to "do something," and that something was to basically turn over its moderation process to US spy agencies.

30.“REPORTERS NOW KNOW THIS IS A MODEL THAT WORKS” This cycle – threatened legislation, wedded to scare headlines pushed by congressional/intel sources, followed by Twitter caving to moderation asks – would later be formalized in partnerships with federal law enforcement. 31.Twitter soon settled on its future posture. In public, it removed content “at our sole discretion.” Privately, they would “off-board” anything “identified by the U.S.. intelligence community as a state-sponsored entity conducting cyber-operations.” 32.Twitter let the “USIC” into its moderation process. It would not leave. Wrote Crowell, in an email to the company’s leaders: “We will not be reverting to the status quo.”

Why is this relevant to Tumblr? Because it has a large, influential community, which alone would necessitate its surveillance if not control, but especially because Tumblr is hemorrhaging money and is failing to gain ground against its competitors.

TechCrunch reported that CEO Matt Mullenweg spilled the beans during the Q&A, which was cohosted by COO Zandy Ring and attended by a meager 800 users, despite being plastered across every Tumblr account’s dashboard. According to Mullenweg, the platform is spending $30 million more than it’s making as it tries to desperately cling to relevance in its fight against Instagram and TikTok. Moreover, COO Ring explained that the platform is not seeing much of an increase in its userbase.

“People have this impression that we have massive growth right now, and we really don’t,” Ring said during the Q&A.

None of this necessarily means that it's Langley that's getting Leftist users booted off the platform. It could merely be personal biases on the part of the staff, against transsexuals, against pro-Palestinian activists. It does seem arbitrary and capricious enough. If the goal was, say, combating antisemitism by banning pro-Palestinian users, would there be so many fascists and outright Nazis on tumblr? Why does it seem like the majority of those that get banned just happen to be on the side which opposes imperialist Western narratives?

In any case, this markedly underscores that if the Western Left wants any hope of surviving on the web, it can't rely on corporate resources to do so.

[dailyanarchistposts]

Chapter 3. Economy

Don’t people need bosses and experts?

How can anarchists organize themselves in the workplace and coordinate production and distribution across an entire economy without bosses and managers? In fact, a great deal of resources are lost through competition and middlemen. Ultimately it is the workers who carry out all the production and distribution, and they know how to coordinate their own work in the absence of bosses.

In and around Turin, Italy, 500,000 workers participated in a factory takeover movement after World War I. Communists, anarchists, and other workers who were pissed off at their exploitation launched wildcat strikes, many of them eventually gaining control of their factories and setting up Factory Councils to coordinate their activities. They were able to run the factories themselves, without bosses. Eventually, the Councils were legalized and legislated out of existence — in part co-opted and absorbed into the labor unions, whose institutional existence was threatened by autonomous workers’ power no less than the owners were.

In December 2001, a long-brewing economic crisis in Argentina matured into a run on the banks which precipitated a major popular rebellion. Argentina had been the poster child of neoliberal institutions such as the International Monetary Fund, but the policies that enriched foreign investors and gave middle class Argentinians a First World lifestyle created an acute poverty for much of the country. Anti-capitalist resistance was already widely developed among the unemployed, and after the middle class lost all its savings, millions of people took to the streets, rejecting all the false solutions and excuses offered by politicians, economists, and the media, declaring instead: “Que se vayan todos! ” They all must go! Dozens were killed by police, but people fought back, shaking off the terror left over from the military dictatorship that ruled Argentina in the ’70s and ’80s.

Hundreds of factories abandoned by their owners were occupied by workers, who resumed production so they could continue to feed their families. The more radical of these worker-occupied factories equalized wages and shared managerial duties among all workers. They made decisions in open meetings, and some workers taught themselves tasks such as accounting. To ensure that a new managerial class did not arise, some factories rotated managerial tasks, or required that people in managerial roles still work on the factory floor and perform the accounting, marketing, and other tasks after hours. As of this writing, several of these occupied workplaces have been able to expand their workforce and hire additional workers from Argentina’s huge unemployed population. In some cases, occupied factories trade needed supplies and products with one another, creating a shadow economy in a spirit of solidarity.

One of the most famous, the Zanon ceramics factory located in southern Argentina, was shut down by the owner in 2001 and occupied by its workers the following January. They began running the factory with an open assembly and commissions made up of workers to manage Sales, Administration, Planning, Security, Hygiene and Sanitation, Purchasing, Production, Diffusion, and Press. Following the occupation, they rehired workers who had been fired before the closing. As of 2004, they numbered 270 workers and produced at 50% of the production rate before the factory was closed. Bringing doctors and psychologists on site, they provided themselves with healthcare. The workers found that they could pay their workforce with just two days of production, so they lowered prices 60% and organized a network of young vendors, many previously unemployed, to market the ceramic tiles throughout the city. In addition to producing tiles, the Zanon factory involves itself with social movements, donating money to hospitals and schools, selling tiles at cost to poor people, hosting films, performances, and art shows, and carrying out solidarity actions with other struggles. They also support the Mapuche struggle for autonomy; and when their clay supplier stopped doing business with them for political reasons, the Mapuche began supplying clay. As of April 2003, the factory had faced four attempted evictions by the police, with the support of the trade unions. All were forcefully resisted by the workers, assisted by neighbors, piqueteros, and others.

In July 2001, the workers of the El Tigre supermarket in Rosario, Argentina, occupied their workplace. The owner had shut it down two months earlier and declared bankruptcy, still owing his employees months in wages. After fruitless protesting, the workers opened El Tigre and began running it themselves through an assembly that allowed all workers a part in decision-making. In a spirit of solidarity they lowered prices and began selling fruit and vegetables from a local farmers’ cooperative and products made in other occupied factories. They also used part of their space to open a cultural center for the neighborhood, housing political talks, student groups, theater and yoga workshops, puppet shows, a café, and a library. In 2003, El Tigre’s cultural center held the national meeting of reclaimed businesses, attended by 1,500 people. Maria, one collective member, said of her experience: “Three years ago, if someone had told me we’d be able to run this place I’d never have believed them... I believed we needed bosses to tell us what to do, now I realize that together we can do it better than them.” [32]

In Euskal Herria, the Basque country occupied by the states of Spain and France, a large complex of cooperative, worker-owned businesses has arisen, centered around the small city of Mondragón. Starting with 23 workers in one cooperative in 1956, the Mondragón cooperatives included 19,500 workers in over 100 cooperatives by 1986, surviving despite the heavy recession in Spain at the time and with a survival rate many times better than the average for capitalist firms.

Mondragón has had a rich experience over many years in manufacturing products as varied as furniture, kitchen equipment, machine tools, and electronic components and in printing, shipbuilding, and metal smelting. Mondragón has created hybrid cooperatives composed of both consumers and workers and of farmers and workers. The complex has developed its own social security cooperative and a cooperative bank that is growing more rapidly than any other bank in the Basque provinces. [33]

The highest authority in the Mondragón cooperatives is the general assembly, with each worker-member getting one vote; the specific management of the cooperative is carried out by an elected governing council, which is advised by a management council and a social council.

There are also many criticisms of the Mondragón complex. To anarchists it comes as no surprise that a democratic structure can house an elite group, and according to Mondragón’s critics this is exactly what has happened as the cooperative complex seeks — and achieves — success within a capitalist economy. Although their accomplishment is impressive and gives lie to the assumption that large industries must be organized hierarchically, the compulsion to be profitable and competitive has pushed the cooperatives to manage their own exploitation. For example, after decades of sticking by their egalitarian founding principles regarding pay scales, eventually the Mondragón cooperatives decided to increase the salaries of the managerial and technical experts relative to the manual workers. Their reason was that they had a hard time retaining people who could receive much higher pay for their skills in a corporation. This problem indicates a need to mix manual and intellectual tasks to avoid the professionalization of expertise (i.e. creating expertise as a quality restricted to an elite few); and to build an economy in which people are producing not for profit but for other members of the network, so money loses its importance and people work out of a sense of community and solidarity.

People in today’s high-tech societies are trained to believe that examples from the past or from the “under-developed” world have no value for our situation today. Many people who consider themselves educated sociologists and economists dismiss the Mondragón example by classifying Basque culture as exceptional. But there are other examples of the efficacy of egalitarian workplaces, even in the heart of capitalism.

Gore Associates, based in Delaware, is the billion dollar high-tech firm that produces waterproof Gore-Tex fabric, special insulation for computer cables, and parts for the medical, automobile, and semiconductor industries. Salaries are determined collectively, no one has titles, there is no formal management structure, and differentiation between employees is minimized. By all capitalist standards of performance — employee turnover, profitability, product reputation, lists of best companies to work for — Gore is a success.

An important factor in their success is adherence to what some academics call the Rule of 150. Based on the observation that hunter-gatherer groups around the world — as well as successful communities and intentional communes — seem to keep their size between 100 and 150 people, the theory is that the human brain is best equipped to navigate webs of personal relationships of up to 150. Maintaining intimate relationships, remembering names and social status and established codes of conduct and communication — all this takes up mental space; just as other primates tend to live in groups up to a certain size, human beings are probably best suited to keep up with a certain number of companions. All Gore factories keep their size below 150 employees, so each plant can be entirely self-managing, not just on the factory floor but also including the people responsible for marketing, research, and other tasks.[34]

Skeptics often dismiss the anarchistic example of small-scale “primitive” societies by arguing that it’s no longer possible to organize on such a small scale, given the huge population. But there is nothing to stop a large society for organizing itself in many smaller units. Small-scale organization is eminently possible. Even within a high-tech industry, Gore factories can coordinate with one another and with suppliers and consumers while maintaining their small scale organizational structure. Just as each unit is capable of organizing its internal relations, each is capable of organizing its external relations.

Of course, the example of a factory producing successfully within the capitalist system leaves much to be desired. Most anarchists would sooner see all factories burned to the ground than anti-authoritarian forms of organization used to sugarcoat capitalism. But this example should at least demonstrate that even within a large and complex society, self-organization works.

The example of Gore is still problematic because the workers do not own the factory, and also because formal management could be reimposed at any time by the company owners. Anarchists theorize that the problems of capitalism do not exist only in the relationship between workers and owners, but also between workers and managers, and that as long as the manager-worker relationship persists, capitalism can reemerge. This theory is certainly born out by the Mondragón example, where over time managers gained more pay and power and renewed the unequal, profit-focused dynamics typical of capitalism. Taking this into account, several anarchists have designed an outline for a “participatory economy,” or parecon, though no one has yet had the opportunity to set up such an economy on any considerable scale. Among other things, parecon emphasizes the importance of empowering all workers by mixing tasks that are creative and rote, mental and manual, thus creating “balanced job complexes” that will prevent the emergence of a managerial class.[35]

During the rebellion in Oaxaca in 2006, people without prior experience organized themselves to run occupied radio and television stations. They were motivated by the social need for free means of communication. The March of Pots and Pans, the legendary women’s march on August 1, 2006, culminated with thousands of women spontaneously taking over the state-run television station. Inspired by the sudden sense of power they had won by rebelling against a traditionally patriarchal society, they took over Channel 9, which continuously slandered the social movements while claiming to be the channel of the people. At first, they made the engineers help them run the station, but soon they were learning how to do it themselves. One woman recounted:

I went daily to the channel to stand guard and help out. The women were organized into different commissions: food, hygiene, production, and security. One thing I liked is that there were no individual leaders. For each task there was a group of several women in charge. We learned everything from the beginning. I remember somebody asking who could use a computer. Then many of the younger girls stepped forward, saying, “me, me, I can!” In Radio Universidad, they announced that we needed people with technical skills, and more people came to help. In the beginning, they were filming headless people, you know. But the experience at Channel 9 showed us that where there’s a will, there’s a way. Things got done, and they got done well. In the short time [three weeks] that Channel 9 was running, until Governor Ulises commanded that the antennas be destroyed, we managed to spread a lot of information. Movies and documentaries were shown that you could never have imagined seeing on TV otherwise. About different social movements, about the student massacre in Tlatelolco in Mexico City in 1968, the massacres in Aguas Blancas in Guerrero and Acteal in Chiapas, about guerrilla movements in Cuba and El Salvador. At this time, Channel 9 wasn’t just the women’s channel anymore. It was the channel of all the people. The ones participating made their own programs as well. There was a youth program and a program where people from the indigenous communities participated. There was a program of denouncements, where anyone could come and denounce how the government had treated them. A lot of people from the different neighborhoods and communities wanted to participate, there was hardly enough airtime for all of them.[36]

After the occupied television station was taken off the air, the movement responded by occupying all eleven commercial radio stations in Oaxaca. The homogeneity of commercial radio was replaced by myriad voices — a radio station for university students, one for the women’s groups, one radio station occupied by the anarchists from a punk squat — and there were more indigenous voices on the radio than ever before. Within a short time, people in the movement decided to return most of the radio stations to their self-styled owners, but kept control of two of them. Their goal was not to suppress the voices that opposed them, as artificial as commercial voices are, but to win themselves the means to communicate. The remaining radio stations operated successfully for months, until government repression shut them down. One university student involved in taking over, running, and defending the radio stations said:

After the takeover, I read an article that said that the intellectual and material authors of the takeovers of the radios weren’t Oaxacan, that they came from somewhere else, and that they received very specialized support. It said that it would have been impossible for anyone without previous training to operate the radios in such a short amount of time, because the equipment is too sophisticated for just anyone to use. They were wrong.[37]

[lhs3020b]

Regarding the ongoing uBlock-vs-YouTube arms race, it's interesting how, in a way, it showcases Google/Doubleclick/whatever-they-call-themselves-now's slow downfall.

It's hard to remember now, but in the 2000s, people actually non-ironically liked Google. Even as late as 2014, you could still see pro-Google takes even in Leftist and semi-Left spaces. In 2014-19, for all its flaws you could still say Google services were useful, so they had that very-practical point in their favour.

Then the 2020s began and search became increasingly-useless.

(These days, I bookmark anything I need on the web, because goodness knows if I'll be able to find it twice).

YouTube's slide appears to be well under way. It's not new, certainly they've had problems for a while - crap moderation, reams of problematic content, an algorithm that pushes far-Right influencers apparently over all other videos, and then there is the sheer propensity of YT content-creators for scandal. (Just to think of a few recent examples of the latter, let's see ... there's the 8Passengers case, there's the ongoing illuminaughtii situation, and now there's the Sssniperwolf [just how many "S"'s does she need?] debacle. And they're not the only examples I can think of, just off the top of my head. If you dug, you could certainly find many, many more. Youtuber implosions aren't rare.)

Now the platform iself is going to war with its users.

That ... rarely ends well for platforms. (*cough* LiveJournal *cough*)

As to what's going on in the background, obviously I don't know for a fact, but we can take some guesses. They may involve the words "money", "managers" and possibly "venture capital". The venture capital model that supported many internet endeavours in the 2010s seems to have gone pop, likely as a side-effect of the pandemic-rebound inflation surge. Previously, with interest rates sat up against the zero lower bound for an entire decade, VC types could borrow huge amounts of money at little-to-no cost, and they would only need a handful of investments to pay off to recoup their costs elsewhere. Now, that's no longer true. Suddenly, the VC types can quickly find themselves dangerously overextended on debt, hence some of the desperation to claw back any pennies they can.

Though, it should be noted, this point perhaps doesn't fit YouTube so well. Google/Doubleclick have no shortage of money, and were apparently quite happy to run YT as a loss-leader throughout the late 2000s and all of the 2010s. Why did they suddenly panic this year?

I have a suspicion that the answer may lie in the word "management".

As for managers, both platform and business, one thing I've noticed is that managerial culture seems to have fallen off a cliff during and "after" (insofar as there is an "after") the pandemic. Lockdown seems to have messed them up; it does appear that a lot of them fear and resent the loss of minute-to-minute control over their staf that they had when everything was default-in-the-office-full-time. (One thing I've wondered about is what is the true ratio between people who go into management for the money and people who do it because actually, they don't care about the cash and are just a control freak acting out?) The authoritarian, hierarchical nature of the modern corporate internal structure means these people are incentivised to kick down at every opportunity.

Certainly, purely from personal experience, my own workplace has got a lot worse during and after the pandemic, and most of that seems to be coming down from the top.

Viewed in the light of this model, YouTube's platform dictats make slightly more sense - basically, managers seeing users doing something they don't like, and said managers then having a tantrum. Probably they're using the VC business model issue as their justification for their behaviour, and who knows, maybe some of them even believe it.

Anyway, we'll see how this all plays out, but perhaps this is a sign we all need less Google in our lives.

[lizhly-writes]

you know what, actually? shoving exam stuff in here is some REAL good fodder for making lots and lots of characters.

some members of the illustrious Gestell family:

Johannes Sabsa Sherwood Gestell: the head of the family. Nobody likes that he's the head of the family, including him. Mild adrenaline junkie; he regularly risks his own life playing detective.

Padme Cobit Gestell: the second-in-command of the Gestell family. In her youth, she went on an adventure that resulted in a -- curse? blessing? -- that allows her to always cut things into, specifically, 34 pieces.

Thomas Spencer Boseman Nist: handles logistics in the family, expenses in particular. Married into the family. Unamused by their identical names and roles.

Thomas Zoophilous Iso: handles logistics in the family, along with the other Thomas. Married into the family. Highly amused by their identical names and roles.

Itila Gestell: the heir to the Gestell family. A talented, rising star, and a household name.

and now: an explanation

Gestell: a German word for 'framework', referring to 'IT security frameworks', because that's what all of these are.

the people:

SABSA: the Sherwood Applied Business Security Architecture. Driven by risk and the 5 W's (who, what, where, etc). Therefore, I made him a detective

COBIT: Control Objectives for Info & Related Tech. Why Padme? Because this framework splits things into 4 areas (Plan & Organize, Acquire and Implement, Deliver and Support, Monitor & Evaluate), each of which can break down into 1 of 34 processes

NIST SP 800-53: a security control framework developed by the Department of Commerce (hence the emphasis on expenses). Spencer to represent SP, Boseman for 853 (hello, leetspeak). Thomas for TOM, or the division of controls into Technical, Operational, and Managerial

ISO-27000: Pretty much the above system, but international, which is why 'Thomas' is pretty identical to 'Thomas'. 'Zoophilous' to represent 200. I'm missing the 7, but I didn't feel like trying to work that in there.

ITIL: Name seems self evident. A household name because it is THE international standard for IT service management. therefore, it should be a household name, riiiiight??

[settledthingsstrange]

Capitalism is disappearing, but Socialism is not replacing it. What is now arising is a new kind of planned, centralized society which will be neither capitalist nor, in any accepted sense of the word, democratic. The rulers of this new society will be the people who effectively control the means of production: that is, business executives, technicians, bureaucrats and soldiers, lumped together by Burnham under the name of ‘managers’. These people will eliminate the old capitalist class, crush the working class, and so organize society that all power and economic privilege remain in their own hands. Private property rights will be abolished, but common ownership will not be established. The new ‘managerial’ societies will not consist of a patchwork of small, independent states, but of great super-states grouped round the main industrial centres in Europe, Asia, and America. These super-states will fight among themselves for possession of the remaining uncaptured portions of the earth, but will probably be unable to conquer one another completely. Internally, each society will be hierarchical, with an aristocracy of talent at the top and a mass of semi-slaves at the bottom.

This vision of a world beset by managerial convergence would become the basis for Orwell’s most famous novel, 1984. Now that world is taking shape.

[burgertaco6]

It is me again, once more but much more detailed in writing. If you are easily queasy with your imagination i advise you not to continue reading. This happened earlier today, which sadly sent me home early, and i still quite toil about it for that means i shall not earn much gold in my pocket.

So, it all started during the car ride to work. I put my shoes on while my dad was driving, as i dont have my own car and today is that time of the month where my body rejects unused anatomy of fertility for a new refreshing batch of horomones. When this feeling, aching in my body begins to chew its way through my large intestine. I think "Ah.. Just cramps, i had a loose stool before leaving home and when i woke up, surely it is nothing." but surely it meant doom i was in denial of.

Stepping out of the car i get this wave of not being able to control my body heat, making my way to clock in thus confirming i am working, then getting to actual work with wiping everything down to pass the time until we clean theaters. Its always quite dirty, but i make sure its not with adhd boredom inspiring me to get every nook and cranny making stuff look good as new.

Thats when it truly hit me, alike the trucks on freeways over bridges carrying tons of cargo. "You need to throw up." My body told me, the tingling of sulfuric on the base of my throat. "But surely not, i've eaten and taken pain relief! We must keep going, we only work two days this week, it will be worth it-" When i am interrupted with "No. You need to throw up, N O W."

I hurried as fast i could so not to expel on the floor, which was not very fast, doing some kind of unnatural clench to my stomach while keeping composure around the customers, looking sickly may disturb them. As i go to the third stall its like if i had gone blank, all i remember is spewing up. The first time was chunky as it was my breakfast that'd just come up, slightly foamy with a horrible smell. After the first i was dizzy, all of that digesting energy was gone as my body couldn't' find anything to get nutrients from, the first day in the morning is always a cleanser. The gripping feeling of hunger triggered me to barf once again, this second time more horrible than the last. Its complete liquid with little to no food, digestive acids having been forced up from my small intestine to replace the emptied stomach. It was like a disgusting mucus as it had gone up my nose on its way out.

Lightheaded, about to pass out from lack of vitamins and nutritions, i flushed and stumbled my way towards the sink. I make sure to clean VERY well of my face to remove anything that may be left upon my lips or nostrils, next were hands for that is customary rule of employee.

Entering the room of two heads who were on their managerial duty for the day, printing end times and writing out papers, they look at me with concern. Im asked "Whats up?" and i go "I just threw up twice, and im in great pain. I am so very sorry." They do not ask further question, there is not anger in their eyes. They say "Go. Go home." I cheer internally, 'OORAH!!!', but cannot crack a relieved smile from the oncoming feeling of thousands of knives in my innards down towards my legs. Worried coworkers look on with anguish of me when i entered the break room, typically i rarely leave early unless its assisting another getting more hours, grabbing my bag and drink i intended for dunch. Calling my father from the cellular device in tears and shakey breath he arrives within a few minutes (work is not much far from home). Im given the magical pink foam such dubbed "Pepto Bismol" to help as i go acquire comfortable loose clothing to prevent struggling in removal incase of another tragedy, so i pass out in my plastic furs safety. Waking, i stay in the warmth with less barfy tipsy, reading the rest of which i borrowed from the library. My feline companion is curled up with me, for the room was quite cold with a pleasant sunbeam on the foot.

To say i regret leaving work is true, but to say i wished to stay in my condition is a honest denial. I wish those who were there with me a peaceful but eventful day, hopefully i am not looked at differently by the powerful ones such as those managers from my moment of weakness, i quite love my duties with passion but to have so little days and so little guidance on chores is making me rethink. But i continue to push on.

That is all of the tragedy from which happened today, not much else of event besides an angry old lady and small child with metallic plastic helium friend on a string. Live on my worms, remember to stay hydrated and active.

[tejaswini-simandhar]

Are you aware of US CPA Exam changes from 2024?

US CPA is one of the most lucrative career options in the accounting field. The global demand for CPAs has increased exponentially over the last few years. Parallelly, the roles and responsibilities of CPAs have also varied in accordance with the ever-changing business landscape. The advent of digitization and the implementation of new technologies have revolutionized the finance and accounting industry. To ensure that CPAs are updated and competent with the technology-driven business landscape, AICPA has introduced the CPA Evolution Initiative.

The US CPA Exam Evolution Initiative will come into effect from January 1, 2024 and will have significant changes to the CPA curriculum. The passage below explores in detail the CPA 2024 changes.

CPA Evolution Initiative – What is the New Model?

The new model has been proposed to make the CPAs more tech competent. The new model will follow a Core + Discipline model with 3 Core Sections and 3 Discipline Sections.

CPA students have to study all three core sections. The three core sections are:

Financial Auditing and Reporting (FAR)

Auditing and Attestation (AUD)

Taxation and Regulation (REG)

CPA students can choose one discipline section out of the three. The three discipline sections are:

Business analysis and reporting (BAR)

Information systems and controls (ISC)

Tax compliance and planning (TCP)

Irrespective of the discipline section the CPA candidate chooses, he can opt to practice in other areas well. His choice of discipline section will not have any effect on his CPA licensure.

Transition Policy – What it Means to CPA Aspirants?

AICPA along with NASBA, have created a smooth transition policy for implementing the new changes. The transition policy is simple and straightforward. Below is the break of the transition policy and how it affects the CPA candidates.

Candidates who have passed and have credit for AUD, FAR, or REG on the current CPA Exam will not need to take the corresponding new core section of AUD, FAR, or REG on the 2024 CPA Exam.

Candidates who have passed and have credit for BEC on the current CPA Exam will not need to take any of the three discipline sections.

Candidates without credit for AUD after Dec 31, 2023, will have to take the AUD core section on the 2024 CPA Exam.

Candidates without credit for FAR after Dec 31, 2023, will have to take the FAR core section on the 2024 CPA Exam.

Candidates without credit for REG after Dec 31, 2023, will have to take the REG core section on the 2024 CPA Exam.

Candidates without credit for BEC after Dec 31,2023 will have to take one Discipline section on the 2024 CPA Exam.

The current sections and curriculum of the CPA exam will not be available for testing after Dec 2023.

CPA Exam 2024 – What are the Content Changes?

There are some significant changes in the curriculum of each section for the CPA exam 2024. The content from the section has been transferred to the other sections.

The only section that remains relatively unchanged is AUD. While no content has been removed from it, some content from BEC has been added to this section. The newly added topics in the AUD section are basic economic concepts and business processes and internal controls. Some existing content from FAR will be moved to the BAR discipline section under the new model. These topics include business combinations, R&D costs, stock compensation, and public company reporting, among many others. Some BEC topics have also been moved to the FAR section. Similarly, some existing REG content has been moved to the TCP discipline section. This content includes gross income concepts.

In the case of discipline sections, the BAR section includes complex technical accounting topics along with lease accounting and revenue recognition. It also includes certain topics from the BEC section such as managerial and cost accounting, variance analysis, non-financial measures of performance, and financial valuation decision models. ISC exam section will evaluate the candidate on knowledge of IT audit and advisory services. It also borrows some BEC topics. Lastly, the TCP discipline section evaluates the candidates on knowledge of federal tax compliance policies and focuses on complex tasks. As specified already, some REG topics have been included in the TCP section.

Below is the summary of how the content has been spread across different sections under the CPA 2024 model:

REG – REG + TCP

FAR – FAR + BAR

AUD – AUD

BEC – FAR + BAR + AUD + ISC

CPA Exam 2024 – Scoring Weight Changes

There is not much change in the scoring weight of the CPA exam. Under the new model, every section has a scoring weight of 50% MCQs and 50% TBSs, except one section. The ISC discipline section gives 60% weightage to MCQs and 40% weightage to TBSs.

CPA Exam 2024 – Section Time and Question Count Changes

There is no change in the section time. The current section time of 4 hours will remain the same for the new model as well. In the case of question count, the new model has 2 changes. The current model has a question count in the range of 62-72 MCQs and 8 Sims, except for BEC. The BEC exam has 4 TBSs and 3 Written Communication questions. Under the new model, the ISC exam section will have 82 MCQs and 6 TBSs. Similarly, FAR and BAR exam sections will have 50 MCQs and 7 TBSs

CPA Exam 2024 – Skill Level Changes

There are no changes in the skill level categories but there are a few minor changes in the skill level allocation for some sections. The changes to the question count also reflect the skill level changes. For instance, ISC with more MCQs has more skill allocation to Remembering and Understanding. AUD section lays more emphasis at Remembering and Understanding and Analysis levels, whereas FAR section lays emphasis at Remembering and Understanding and Application levels. The latter section has fewer questions at the Analysis level.

REG section retains the same skill level with no changes. FAR and BAR have more questions at the application level with MCQs having complex calculations. TCP section contains the highest percentage of questions at the Application level.

It should be noted that these changes are not finalized. There might be a few changes to the new model. But, the core concept of the model will remain the same. AICPA has announced that it is waiting for inputs on the new model till September 30, 2022. Post that, it will review the comments and make any changes if deemed fit. The blueprint will be finalized in December 2022 and will be published in January 2023.

[naxalbari1967]

How does a planned economy work? 

In capitalism, there are many businesses and they compete with each other. Businesses that are able to continuously make the most profits survive. Other businesses disappear sooner or later. This means that, if you chose to run a business, you will have to maximize profits. There is no other choice.

On top of that, a business is owned and controlled by an owner. Owners make up a small portion of the population. The rest work for these owners and have to obey them.

Businesses produce stuff that we all consume. In capitalism, a small group of people controls all production: only they get to decide what is produced, how much is produced, and to whom products go to. However, it is those who are not owners (the workers) who actually carry out production.

This means that in capitalism, not only most of us, who actually make stuff, have no control over production, but our labor is directed towards profit maximization.

In a centrally planned economy, not only all of us directly decide (such as via direct democracy) what is produced, how much is produced, and to whom products go to, but all of us are no longer inclined to maximize profits (that is, the purpose of production is no longer to maximize profits). In other words, something is made not because it is profitable to do so but because most of us find it useful.

Market economies are planned economies, they're just planned by an exclusive clique of wealthy landowners and debt salesmen. 

The myth of the Invisible Hand of the Market is just that: a myth. The economy does not consist of business owners behaving like monkeys on typewriters, acting randomly and letting natural selection phase out inefficient enterprises. Even in smallscale sole proprietorships, decisions are made carefully and intently by the owners.

Beyond this, the extreme bulk of economic activity is carried out by sprawling corporations with their own internal governments. Market demagogues pretend that only in communism is industry government-controlled, when in fact every private CEO is an elected official—only his electorate is a board of directors determined by shareholders, all of whom are accountable solely to the investor class and the financial institutions they exercise power through. The real laugh comes in when liberals bemoan the bureaucratization of socialist states—as if it's suddenly okay when a private company starts pulling Vice President positions out of its ass to pad out the ranks of the managerial class.

So much time, effort, and capital is spent from company coffers to attract the best executive talent, to analyze the market, to predict economic conditions, to make decisions based on those analyses and predictions, and then to implement those decisions within each enterprise. And the fact that every company needs to have a parallel bureaucracy, has to prop up a third-party research firm or insurance company to help them make sense of the world, results in a spiral of bloated and redundant industries that feel the need to sap economic resources and perpetuate the system of state that upholds their existence.

Every private actuary could be a state adjustor. Every Executive Vice President of Synergy Retention could be an onsite auditor. Every shareholder meeting could be a workers' assembly. The function would remain operatively unchanged while the form could be rendered humane and democratic. And by all indications, the democratic approach is the more efficient one, with the main drawback pointed to by critics being that it cuts out the middlemen who use their social position to enjoy the aristocratic comforts of previous eras' leisure classes.

There is no such thing as an unplanned economy in the modern world; the only question is who is allowed input and who the planners are accountable to.

[gayathrikbinoy]

Behind the Scenes of Smart Business: Why Management Audit Matters More Than Ever

Every organization tells a story—from the way it’s led, to how decisions are made, to how resources get used every day. But not all stories are told with clarity. Over time, even the best-run operations can drift into patterns that seem fine on the surface, yet cost time, energy, and potential beneath it all. That’s where management audits step in—not to judge, but to make sense of it all.

Forget spreadsheets for a second. This isn’t just about numbers. A management audit takes a deeper dive. It's a full-scope evaluation of how a company runs—not just what it earns. It looks at whether strategy makes sense, whether systems help or hinder, and how leadership impacts everything from workflows to morale.

In simpler terms? It’s like holding up a mirror to the inner workings of an organization—and asking the tough, necessary questions.

So What Is a Management Audit, Really?

A management audit is a structured, system-wide assessment of how leadership decisions and internal processes shape performance. It's less about balance sheets and more about the effectiveness of policies, organizational structure, people management, and day-to-day operations.

Instead of focusing only on money in and money out, it focuses on:

Planning and strategic direction

Use of physical, financial, and human resources

Team structures and responsibilities

Communication pathways

Managerial control systems

Performance benchmarks and feedback cycles

It’s the kind of audit that doesn’t just ask “What’s happening?”—it digs into “Why is it happening?” and “How could it be better?”

Financial vs. Management Audit: What’s the Difference?

They sound similar but work in very different ways.

Financial audits verify accounting records and make sure everything is compliant.

Management audits review how leadership decisions are made, how strategies are implemented, and how internal operations affect overall performance.

Financial audits track the past. Management audits guide the future.

The numbers might look fine, but if a company is losing time through inefficient meetings, misaligned departments, or lackluster leadership, that’s value slipping through the cracks. A management audit picks up on what spreadsheets can’t capture.

Why Organizations Turn to Management Audits

Growth is messy. Change brings friction. And even stability can sometimes lead to stagnation. A management audit helps organizations at all stages understand what’s working—and what’s holding them back.

Here’s what it helps uncover:

Operational bottlenecks – Where are things slowing down?

Leadership gaps – Are managers empowered? Are teams aligned?

Communication issues – Does information flow clearly between levels?

Process inefficiencies – Are systems outdated or too complex?

Cultural misalignment – Do values match behaviors?

Accountability breakdowns – Who’s responsible for what, and is it working?

Sometimes the problem isn’t in the people—it’s in the structure. Or maybe the strategy was solid three years ago, but hasn’t adapted. A management audit finds the weak spots, but also helps surface the strengths that can be built upon.

When Is the Right Time?

Not every business needs a management audit every year. But there are moments when stepping back and evaluating how things run internally makes all the difference.

During major growth or scaling

Before launching new products or services

Following leadership changes

When employee turnover is rising

After restructuring or mergers

During long-term strategic planning

Think of it as a reset. A reality check. A moment to regroup and realign.

What Comes Next: From Audit to Action

Audits are most powerful when followed by clear steps forward. That’s where management consultancy comes into play. Insights are great, but action transforms.

Consultants help translate audit findings into actual change. That could mean:

Redesigning team structures for better clarity

Simplifying communication chains

Updating performance tracking tools

Training managers in new leadership approaches

Creating better alignment between goals and tasks

It’s not just about writing a report and walking away. The goal is real improvement—improvement that sticks.

Objectivity Is Everything

Internal reviews have value, but even the most transparent teams can miss their own blind spots. That’s why having an external audit team can be so effective. Without internal bias or pre-existing loyalties, consultants can ask the tough questions and offer clear, unbiased insights.

It’s not about being critical—it’s about being honest. Sometimes the most valuable ideas come from someone who’s not too close to the day-to-day grind.

The Human Side of Audit

At its best, a management audit isn’t just about systems or structures—it’s about people. Are employees supported? Are leaders connected? Are teams motivated?

The answers often point the way forward. Better communication, stronger leadership, clearer expectations—these aren’t just buzzwords. They’re the building blocks of organizations that thrive.

Audits help bring all of that into focus.

The Path to Smarter Organizations Starts Here

Whether the aim is to boost performance, navigate change, or simply gain a clearer picture of how everything fits together, management audits create space for meaningful growth. Not surface-level fixes, but deeper insight into the way a business truly runs.

To explore what a professional management audit and consultancy process looks like, check out the details here: 👉 https://amlaconsultancy.com/management-audit-consultancy/

It’s not about pointing fingers. It’s about pointing forward.

[amol2208]

Management Formality – A Key Element of Organizational Structure and Control

Management formality is a foundational concept in the way organizations function. It refers to the degree of structure, standardized processes, rules, and documented procedures used to guide managerial decisions and employee behavior. Management formality is essential for establishing control, consistency, and efficiency in business operations. Without proper management formality, organizations risk disorganization, miscommunication, and lack of accountability.

Management formality is especially important in medium to large organizations where roles and responsibilities must be clearly defined. It ensures that managerial decisions are not based on personal discretion alone, but on set guidelines that support fairness and alignment with company goals. By incorporating management formality into daily operations, businesses improve predictability, compliance, and transparency.

A 2022 global business survey found that over 65% of high-performing firms maintain a high level of management formality in their internal governance. This includes written policies, reporting hierarchies, operational procedures, performance metrics, and legal compliance frameworks. Management formality also plays a major role in risk mitigation, as it reduces the chances of errors, conflicts, and policy violations.

Management formality is often reflected in areas like human resources, finance, procurement, and project management. For example, formal hiring policies ensure that recruitment follows a clear and objective process. In project management, formal stage gates and documentation ensure quality and cost control. Management formality adds layers of checks and balances to protect the organization and maintain accountability at all levels.

One benefit of management formality is that it supports scalability. As companies grow, informal practices become insufficient to handle complexity. A well-structured formal system allows for faster onboarding, better role clarity, and a more stable operating model. Additionally, management formality helps organizations meet regulatory requirements, which is essential in industries like finance, healthcare, and manufacturing.

However, too much management formality can become a barrier to innovation and responsiveness. Over-regulation and excessive bureaucracy can slow decision-making and frustrate employees. Therefore, the key is balance—having enough management formality to ensure control and consistency, while maintaining flexibility for creativity and adaptation.

In multinational companies, management formality becomes even more critical. Different jurisdictions have different laws and cultural expectations. By applying a uniform set of formal management standards, organizations can ensure compliance, maintain their brand reputation, and achieve global consistency.

Digital tools have made it easier to implement and monitor management formality. Software platforms can automate approvals, track compliance, and generate performance reports in real-time. As remote work and virtual collaboration increase, management formality provides a framework that enables accountability regardless of physical location.

Management formality also affects employee morale. When policies and processes are clear, employees feel more secure and are less likely to experience confusion or favoritism. According to a Gallup study, organizations with clear management formality report 18% higher employee satisfaction on average.

Reference:

Gallup Workplace Research – www.gallup.com

FAQs – Management Formality

Q1. What is management formality? Management formality is the use of structured rules, policies, and procedures to guide decision-making and organizational behavior.

Q2. Why is management formality important? It ensures consistency, accountability, risk management, and regulatory compliance across the organization.

Q3. Can too much management formality be harmful? Yes, excessive management formality can slow innovation, reduce flexibility, and create unnecessary bureaucracy.

Q4. Where is management formality most commonly applied? It is commonly applied in HR, finance, operations, and regulatory compliance functions.

Q5. How does management formality support global business? Management formality provides a standardized framework that helps multinational companies operate consistently across different legal and cultural environments.Management formality is not about rigidity—it's about responsibility and structure. Organizations that implement balanced management formality gain the trust of stakeholders, ensure compliance, and build a strong foundation for long-term success.

[footballworldcuptickets]

Gattuso Takes Charge as Coach with Eyes on FIFA 2026

FIFA 2026: Gennaro Gattuso, the indefatigable warrior from Italy’s 2006 World Cup triumph, has taken the controls of the Italian national team as their new head coach. With Luciano Spalletti having walked sideways, Gattuso’s mission is crystal clear: guide the Azzurri back to the international stage in the 2026 World Cup place they’ve been absent from since 2014.

His appointment comes at a pivotal moment, with former coach Luciano Spalletti stepping down and the Azzurri seeking a long-overdue return to the global spotlight. Italy’s nonappearance from the FIFA World Cup since 2014 has been a cause of national frustration, and Gattuso’s order is clear: lead Italy back to prominence at the FIFA World Cup 2026.

For Gattuso, this role is more than just another step in his coaching career; it’s a deeply personal milestone. Addressing the press in his first public appearance as head coach, he was characteristically blunt yet sincere, acknowledging the scale of the challenge ahead. I hope to be up to the task. It’s not easy, but in life, few things are, he said.

Gattuso Champions Team Spirit in Italy World Cup Rebuild

Much of the recent criticism surrounding Italy’s national team has centered on what some perceive as a talent drought. Many observers argue that the country no longer produces world-class players capable of competing on the biggest stage. Gattuso, however, refused to accept that narrative. They say we lack talent, but I think we have it. The goal is to lead Italy to the World Cup, he declared with conviction.

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Technique and tactics come second. The Italian jersey carries weight, but we must not be afraid. This emotional appeal reflects his belief that mental strength, mutual trust, and a shared sense of purpose will be key ingredients in Italy’s resurgence ahead of the FIFA World Cup. Known during his playing days for his fiery demeanor and tireless work rate, Gattuso stepping into the managerial spotlight appears more composed and introspective.

FIFA World Cup: Gattuso Embraces Growth and Youth in Italy Transitional Era

When asked about how he’s changed since hanging up his boots, he offered a candid reflection tinged with humor: My image as a player still lingers. I used to run and shout a lot… but now it’s different. A player like me wouldn’t cut my current team. It was a moment of levity, but also one that illustrated his growth. Gattuso may have built his reputation on raw intensity, but as a coach, he is focused on intelligence, balance, and adaptability.

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One of the first issues Gattuso had to address was the situation involving veteran defender Francesco Acerbi, who recently declined a call-up to the national team. While this kind of scenario might have sparked controversy in the past, Gattuso handled it with maturity and calm. I have nothing against him. But right now, I’m focusing on younger players.

Gattuso Eyes Long Term Revival as Italy Begins FIFA World Cup 2026 Quest

Though Italy triumphed at Euro 2020, their back-to-back failures to qualify for the World Cup in 2018 and 2022 were major blows. The path to redemption will not be easy, especially as the European qualifying campaign for FIFA 2026 begins. But Gattuso sees the challenge as an opportunity for transformation.

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He also brings with him a long-term vision. Rather than chasing quick fixes or relying solely on experienced players, Gattuso aims to build a team that can grow and evolve together. The journey to the FIFA World Cup 2026 is not just about securing qualification; it’s about laying the groundwork for sustained success. He believes that young Italian players, when surrounded by the right structure and atmosphere, can rise to the occasion.

Italy Road to Football World Cup 2026 Gattuso Balances Passion with Purpose

Instead, he is focused on the present and the future. We’re not building on what we were, we’re building on what we can become, he said, underscoring the shift from nostalgia to progress. His ultimate challenge lies in translating these ideals into results. Italy’s road to FIFA 2026 will be anything but smooth, filled with tough opponents, intense scrutiny, and little room for error.

The scheduling of friendlies, training camps, and qualification matches will test the depth and discipline of the squad. Every decision from tactical selections to leadership choices will be measured not just by wins and losses, but by whether they move the team closer to rediscovering its identity. Still, there is cautious optimism in the air.

Gattuso’s passion for the national team is undeniable, and his willingness to evolve from fiery midfielder to thoughtful leader gives Italy a fighting chance. If he succeeds in rekindling the pride and purpose that once defined the Azzurri, the team may well return to the global stage not just as participants in the Football World Cup, but as genuine contenders at the FIFA 2026.

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