#(except the pre-rotation BUT)

[daenerystargaryensgirlfriend]

ALYSAAHSJDHNS

[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.

[icelogged]

my cookies really got me because these ads are literally too specific— decline all, private browser, ip you have done nothing ( •̥ ˍ •̥ ) ૮ – ﻌ–ა

[riddlesrizzler]

Sigma Nu's Sweetheart

summary: A diamond in a house full of snakes. characters: frat boy! mattheo. frat sweetheart! reader. frat boy! slytherins warnings: mentions of alcohol and making pledges do things (not hazing) word count: 2.3k

They called it the Snake House, though its real name-Sigma Nu-was etched in fading silver above the wrought iron gates that led to the manor. Hidden behind ivy-draped columns and shrouded by ancient oaks, the fraternity estate stood on the edge of campus like a secret too dangerous to be kept in daylight. No one quite remembered when Sigma Nu had been founded-some whispered it was pre-dating the university itself, rooted in ancient rites and blood oaths sworn beneath crescent moons. But in the present, it was feared, admired, and envied in equal measure.

The president of Sigma Nu was Mattheo Riddle, a name spoken with the kind of reverence reserved for legends and tyrants. Sharp of tongue and sharper of mind, Mattheo ruled the fraternity not with brutish dominance, but with a silken charisma that wrapped itself around you like a noose. He was all marble and firelight: smooth, cold, untouchable on the outside, yet flickering with something volatile beneath the surface.

His second-in-command, Theodore Nott, was the shadow behind the throne. Where Mattheo set the tone, Theo enforced it. He was quieter, more calculated, with a gaze like cut glass and a voice you only heard when he needed to remind someone of their place. The brothers called him “The Watcher”-not because he hovered, but because he saw everything.

The rest of the inner circle rotated like planets in their orbit.

Lorenzo Berkshire, with his floppy brown hair and wicked grin, handled social affairs-if such a title could be applied to the lavish masquerades and forbidden midnight galas he orchestrated. Enzo was charm incarnate, hiding razor-sharp instincts behind a glass of wine and a well-tailored coat. People underestimated him. That was their first mistake.

Draco Malfoy, heir to a crumbling aristocracy, served as treasurer. But that role was a formality. Draco was the gatekeeper to the legacy. His family had once poured obscene amounts of money into Sigma Nu, and though the vaults ran thinner now, his word still carried the weight of dynasties. Cold and calculating, Draco rarely spoke unless it was to remind others they weren’t worth speaking to.

Then there was Blaise Zabini, the strategist. He didn’t run the meetings or throw the parties. He played the long game-the one that was always three moves ahead. A cigarette always rested between his fingers, and secrets curled around him like smoke. Blaise’s role wasn’t official. It didn’t have to be. In Sigma Nu, knowledge was currency, and he was the quiet king of the underground economy.

Together, they formed the serpent’s head.

The house itself was a relic from another time. Stained-glass windows filtered the sunlight into eerie patterns on mahogany floors. The walls were lined with portraits of brothers past-men with hollow eyes and stories that had been scrubbed from official records. A grand staircase, rumored to creak only when someone lied in its presence, split the mansion in two. The basement was off-limits, except for the highest-ranking members. What happened down there was never spoken of, but the muffled echoes that sometimes rose through the vents kept the rumors alive.

Rituals were everything in Sigma Nu. Pledging wasn't just about endurance-it was a test of will, of loyalty, of how far you were willing to crawl for power. And once you were in, you were in. There was no leaving. Not really. Former brothers found themselves mysteriously blacklisted, their futures erased with quiet efficiency. No one crossed the Snake House without bleeding for it.

Yet every year, the line to rush snaked down the cobblestone path, filled with students desperate to touch even the hem of that forbidden tapestry. Power, after all, is seductive. And Mattheo Riddle’s Sigma Nu had power in spades.

But inside those ivy-covered walls, something was shifting. There were murmurs of a fracture in the hierarchy. An outsider watching too closely. A secret the founders had buried that might be clawing its way back to the surface.

And at the center of it all: Mattheo, with a hand on the throne and another on the throttle.

But between the echoes of old secrets and the weight of a legacy stitched in silence, she was the unexpected constant-soft in a world that was anything but. While Mattheo navigated the shifting loyalties and unspoken rules of the house, she remained untouched by the storm, yet always in its eye. She didn’t need a title to hold power; she had something rarer. Influence, without force. Presence, without demand. And though the throne was his to claim, she was the one they all moved around-the one they’d protect without question, even as the walls whispered of betrayal and the past threatened to rise. Because to the outside world, she was just the Diamond of Alpha Delta Pi. But to them… she was the heart of Sigma Nu.

The Snake House had never known softness before she arrived. But now, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafted through the halls before chapter meetings, and there were always cookies cooling on the kitchen counter beside the whiskey bottles. Her laugh echoed down the staircase, light and melodic, blending strangely well with the heavy bass of party nights and the creak of ancient floorboards.

She wasn't just a sweetheart by title-she was the heartbeat of the fraternity.

Every Friday, three pledges showed up at her off-campus cottage, armed with mops and laundry detergent, ready to clean top to bottom without question. It had become a tradition-Sigma Nu took care of her. Always. It was Theo’s rule. But it was Mattheo’s order.

The pledges were already working by the time the rest of the world stirred. One was sweeping under the island. Another was wiping down cabinets. A third was sorting her laundry into color-coded piles on the dining room table.

“Don’t forget the lavender dryer sheets,” she reminded one of them sweetly, not looking up from her dough.

“Yes, ma’am,” the pledge muttered, blushing.

“You didn’t have to come clean.” She looked over her shoulder at him, a smudge of flour on her cheek.

“I wanted to.” Mattheo walked in, groggy but sharp-eyed, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“You send pledges to clean my own house every week. My landlord thinks I have a personal cleaning service." She giggled.

“You basically do,” he said, flicking his lighter closed. “You bake banana bread and let Theo cry on your couch. You’ve earned it.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right,” he replied, and stepped forward, gently swiping the flour from her cheek with his thumb. “You spoil us. Let us return the favor.”

She looked at him for a long moment, eyes searching.

“You don’t have to keep proving things to me, Mattheo.”

He met her gaze, unwavering. “I’m not. I’m proving it to everyone else.”

At parties, she didn’t need to lift a finger. A pledge carried her drink. Another held her coat. If she looked even slightly tired, someone found her a seat. When she danced, people made room.

The party pulsed like a living thing-booming bass, laughter slurred into inside jokes, the thick haze of too much beer and too little inhibition. Lights blinked across the walls, casting silvers and greens on the sweaty crowd packed into the house’s main room.

Then she walked in.

The chatter didn’t stop-but it shifted. Heads turned. A few of the brothers straightened up. Pledges scrambled to make space near the drinks table. And at the edge of the chaos, Mattheo Riddle watched her with a smirk wrapped around the mouth of his beer bottle.

Diamond House perfection. The only sweetheart Sigma Nu would ever need.

She made her way toward the kitchen, exchanging soft smiles and cheek kisses, until one of the guys shouted, “Sweetheart’s here!”

Cheers erupted like a spell had been cast.

Mattheo didn’t move. Just leaned back against the doorway, letting his eyes follow her every step. When a freshman tried handing her a half-full drink, Mattheo’s voice cut sharp and smooth across the room.

“She only drinks vodka cran, dumbass.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

The pledge blinked, nodded quickly, and disappeared.

She found Mattheo seconds later, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. “You’re going to scare off all the new members.”

“Good.” He looked down at her. “They were getting too bold.”

“You’re acting like I’m made of glass.”

He tilted his head, that smirk deepening. “Nah. Diamonds are tougher than glass.”

She arched a brow. “So I’m tough?”

“You’re dangerous.” His voice dipped, low and dry. “I’ve seen more than a few guys fall stupid over you in five seconds flat.”

“And you?” she asked sweetly. “Still standing?”

Mattheo took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. “Barely.”

When she walked into a tailgate wrapped in an oversized Sigma Nu hoodie-Draco’s once, Blaise’s the next, Enzo’s after that-everyone knew it was only borrowed until Mattheo noticed she was cold and quietly handed her his.

He always did.

The wind whipped around the tailgate like it had something to prove. She stood on her tiptoes, scanning the crowd, the hem of her Sigma Nu hoodie fluttering. Not hers, technically-Mattheo’s. Still smelled like smoke and spice and something she couldn’t name.

He appeared behind her like a shadow.

“Cold again?”

“You have a sixth sense for it.”

“No.” He leaned close, lips brushing her ear. “I just know you.”

She turned with a grin, poking his chest. “So, what’s the plan, President? Going to assign a pledge to hold my hand all day too?”

“Don’t tempt me.” His eyes flickered over her, playful. “I’d make it a rotating shift.”

She laughed, full and bright.

“I could carry my own books, you know.”

“And ruin our entire pledging system?” he asked, mock serious. “What would the freshmen do without you assigning them smoothie runs and study session alarms?”

“You love it.”

Mattheo didn’t deny it.

Instead, he stepped back and tossed her his scarf. “Put that on.”

“Possessive much?”

“Practical,” he said with a wink. “And if anyone asks-tell them it’s house policy.”

Mattheo Riddle didn’t smile easily. But he watched her like she hung the stars. Protective wasn’t the right word-it was something fiercer, deeper. He knew the sound of her footsteps before she even knocked. He knew how she took her tea, what time her classes ended, what books were stacked in her bag on any given day.

And when he wasn’t sitting at the head of the chapter table, you could find him leaning against the counter while she stirred brownie batter, sleeves pushed up, hoodie half-swallowed by her frame. She was always cooking for them-baking too-and she stayed through every meeting, sitting on the arm of Mattheo’s chair like she belonged there.

Because she did.

Theo might’ve been vice president, but she was Mattheo’s right hand. She helped organize formals, charity auctions, service hours, and pledge retreats. The boys listened when she spoke-not because they were told to, but because they wanted to.

She had that kind of presence. Gentle, golden. The kind of energy that softened even the sharpest of them.

Draco, for all his cold poise, once spent an hour carving roses out of apples because she needed garnishes for a spring brunch. Enzo stopped calling other girls “gorgeous” in her presence out of some misplaced loyalty. Blaise-usually detached and unreadable-offered up his rare, real smiles only when she sat beside him, asking how his day had been like she meant it.

She wasn’t just a name on the sweetheart paddle or a girl in the stands. She was the heartbeat of the house-the reason the boys cleaned up before chapter meetings, the reason pledges learned to bake banana bread from scratch, the reason the Snake House didn’t feel like just a frat, but like something closer to home.

She made it feel like something worth protecting.

The brothers would say it, loud and proud, beers raised and sloshing at tailgates- “She’s ours.”

She showed up early to help decorate before parties. She stayed late to clean. She knew all their birthdays, their favorite meals, their secret fears. When Enzo got sick, she made him soup from scratch and handwrote the recipe card so he could brag about it. When Theo failed a midterm, she sat up with him until 3 a.m., mapping out a study plan like his future depended on it.

Draco, who rarely showed softness, once told her, “If I ever get married, it’s because you raised the bar so high I finally found someone who reminded me of you.”

Blaise swore she brought peace into every room she walked into. Lorenzo called her their “lucky charm.” The pledges called her ma’am-but with awe, not obligation.

She wasn’t perfect. But she was real. She laughed too hard. She danced barefoot in the house like she didn’t care who saw. She left behind hair ties, lip balm, and the scent of vanilla in every room. And when the world got too loud, she leaned into chaos with a smile like she’d tamed fire.

And Mattheo?

Mattheo watched it all from the edge. Quiet. Unshakable. Unclaimed but not untouched.

She wore his hoodies, and he never asked for them back. He let her take the best seat at every party, made the boys swap their plans if she needed help, silenced a room with just a glance if anyone dared say her name wrong.

He never said it-not out loud. Never told her that she made the world easier to stand in. Never admitted that he memorized her favorite flowers or that he checked if her porch light was on after every party.

She might’ve worn Diamond blue, but she was etched into Sigma Nu like a secret kept under lock and key.

And Mattheo Riddle didn’t share secrets.

[kirlicues]

Townhomes for Large Families | Sims 2 Apartment Lot Download

500 followers! Wow! Thank you to all of you who have given this page a follow. I'm glad that you are enjoying the homes and hope they are making your neighborhoods prettier and happier places. 😊

As a little gift I've put together my first official apartment lots: Mapleview Terrace built on a 5x3 lot, and Hydrangea Court built on a 4x3 lot. These lots are free of CC that is not Maxis made. The Season Pre-Order bonus swingset is included in the larger lot, but if you use the Sims2Pack Clean Installer you can opt not to install it if you don't want it.

These townhomes were built especially for your larger sim families. Each home comes with 3 bedrooms--the larger lot even has one with a 4th bedroom!

The down side is that this means they are on the more expensive end of things and they aren't even that fancy looking in my opinion! The Mapleview Terrace apartments come furnished and will cost $3590-$3822. The Hydrangea Court Apartments are unfurnished except for the kitchen and bathrooms and will cost $3874-$3884.

But, let's take a short tour and you can decide if they are worth it for you.

These apartment lots were meant to be a set. They are fairly simple and non-descript on the outside, and you can line multiple lots up for a whole community of cookie-cutter apartments. 🤣 Feel free to paint them different colors though if you wish.

I originally built the shell on the larger townhome lot shortly before Apartment life came out. The goal was to have a place to stick the Maxis families that came in the sim bin so that they would have access to a telephone and not be unreachable except for as "walk-bys".

Here's what they look like at the back. These apartments are nearly identical in floorplan layout, one has 3 units and the other only has 2.

Mapleview Terrace:

Hydrangea Court: Putting solar panels on the roofs can help off-set the cost of rent I discovered, thanks to the helpful members of a Sims 2 Facebook group. 😊 The other lot has them too, but they just didn't make it into the picture.

Let's take a look at the floorplans!

Mapleview Terrace - 1st Floor:

Mapleview Terrace - 2nd Floor:

You might notice a slight theme to each home. But feel free to remove the furniture and redecorate if you want.

Here's what Hydrangea Court looks like. The layout is pretty much identical to Mapleview Terrace, but I did put nicer appliances in downstairs:

One more thing, The neighborhood view for the larger lot has the maple trees seeming to do a little "wave". It's just because I rotated them when placing them, but they should all be in a perfect row on the lot. :)

If you notice anything "off" about these apartments please let me know and I will try to fix the issue. If it's something that can only be accessed in build mode and the option is greyed out you can use this cheat and fix the thing: 'boolprop AptBaseLotSpecificToolsDisabled false' ...Just don't forget to turn it off by typing 'true' in place of 'false' when you're done!

A huge thank you to the folks in one for the Sims 2 groups on Facebook for letting me know what apartments needed or didn't need. 🎉

500 Followers Gift - Townhome Apartments Set: MF | SFS

All EPs and SPs are required.

*I highly recommend that you have the PerfectPlants mod from TwoJeffs*

I’ve run this home through the Lot Compressor so any random references to sims that aren’t there should be removed. I have also run it through the Lot Cleaner to remove any bits of buggy code. This lot comes with a shiny custom thumbnail so it has even more curb appeal in your Lots and Houses bin! 😄

This home uses 1 piece of CC, which is a Maxis pre-order bonus item from Seasons that you may already have in your game. It can easily be replaced or omitted if you don’t want it though.

CC List (Included): -Seasons Pre-Order Bonus “Garden Swing of Bliss and Harmony”

Default Replacements Shown: -More realistically colored Hydrangea shrub from @peppermint-ginger If you don’t have these in your game your Hydrangea shrub’s flowers will look neon blue. Purple Lupin shrub from Peppermint-ginger If you don’t have these in your game your Lupin will be blue. -White Wall Top Texture Replacement by Maranatah at Mod the Sims -Neon panels removed on the Forbidden Fruit bar/island default by Shastakiss. Pay attention to the special instructions. If you only want the Maxis counters adjusted with no additional new recolors you'll only need to pop "shasta_CEP_nl_nightclub_island_bar.package" in your downloads folder. -FreeTime bedding defaults by CuriousB

I ALWAYS recommend using the Sims 2 Pack Clean installer to install lot files.

Want to improve the look of your game, or grab some “Lost & Found” Maxis objects? Check out this post.

[frownyalfred]

Re: de-aged fics, I've always been enamored by the idea of a de-aged Bruce to about 13-17 ish. A few years have passed since his parents died, enough time for the trauma to settle down and meld weird with who he was before.

Still a child, still pre training... but also only a few years away from being the person who is going to do all that crazy shit. The will and ability is there, but the opportunity and training hasn't come yet.

Idk i just love rotating the shape of the idea in my mind. Like hes a child, he has none of the Batman training... except he was raised by Alfred Pennyworth, former MI6 Agent? Who was doing his best? So like, there's plenty of room for him to know way more than expected? (Especially if you hc Martha and Thomas as eccentric and slightly odd.) The trajectory has been set, this boy has already decided to become Batman, even if he doesn't realize it yet. If you throw a Batman problem at him he IS going to try to face it. So how does Batman respond without his training?

And what is it like to watch Batman make the dumb mistakes he taught you to avoid, suddenly realizing he had to learn much of it himself?

Whats it like to realize that Bruce's resourcefulness/parinoia/interest in fighting/sneaking skills/*insert other traits here* are inherent, not taught by the League as previously assumed?

Whats it like to see the origins of who he will become so clearly, like a prophecy being fulfilled? And what's it like for that origin to be a weird little shit who doesn't give a fuck about you and is richer than God?

The batkids realizing in real time that Bruce Wayne really is just LIKE that is absolutely hilarious and deliciously angsty at the same time. You couldn’t pull some random kid off the street and make him Batman, any more than Bruce could pull some random kid off the street and make them Robin (Jason and Dick need to sit down when they realize this)

[kumkaniudaku]

Hot

Summary: Patrice thinks Terry looks...different when he returns from a Summer in New Orleans.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC (Patrice Ellis)

Word Count: 3.2K

Warnings: None

The summer before senior year was a scorcher. Every inch of Fayetteville felt blanketed in stifling, burning heat and humidity so thick that walking through six feet of pool water was easier than going outside to the mailbox.

For four weeks, Patrice spent the dog days lounging beneath her ceiling fan rotating at full speed, enjoying a good book and spirited hours-long phone conversations with her best friend to beat the heat. Not out of necessity, despite the breath-stealing grip of sweltering heat greeting her each time she got too close to the front door, but because her right-hand man had gone further south for the season. 

No amount of late-evening phone calls taken in his grandmother's upstairs guest bedroom or Facebook pokes sent back and forth could make up for Terry's absence. Typically, he'd board a short flight to New Orleans, live like a local for ten days, then hustle back up the southeast to return in enough time for pre-season conditioning. Maman and a host of cousins looking to brighten the matriarch's day were convincing enough to pull Terry away from the comforts of homes one and two for longer than he wanted. Sure, Granny was happy, but the young lady eagerly awaiting the loud trill of her cell phone every night after 6:00 pm local time was difficult not to miss. 

Patrice might say the same if she weren't still denying her feelings to anyone bold enough to ask prying questions. Everyone except Napheesa Garland. She got the brunt of all Patrice's pining, whether she wanted to hear love-sick sentiments or not. 

On the other end of a phone call already running well past an hour, Napheesa chuckled at her friend's third deep sigh of the evening. "Girl, you have got to get it together. He's literally just Terry. You know how long I've known Terry? His head was big in middle school, and he looked like he was two grades younger than us. That's how long I've known Terry." 

"I bet he was so cute," Patrice sighed, the smile in her voice evident through the receiver. She turned on her back to look up at the ceiling and admire her fresh bubblegum pink pedicure. "I can just imagine a smaller Terry and that cute little smile." 

"The more you talk, the less I'm convinced you don't like him," Napheesa accused.

"I don't," Patrice corrected, her voice climbing guiltily. "I just wanna see what he was like!"

Napheesa kissed her teeth. "Well, today's your lucky day. Check your phone." 

A soft vibration against Patrice's face sent her into a tizzy. Her fingers rushed to transfer Napheesa to speaker so she could view her friend's message and keep the conversation going simultaneously. Her thumb eagerly tapped at the unread message before a cheery smile morphed into a confused front. 

"Yeesh," she vocalized as she turned the phone upside down, searching for any angle to turn the unsightly yearbook photo into something worth seeing.

Against a blue background, Terry of yore posed, almost grimacing at the camera. He looked caught between a wince and a frown, his brows knitted in the same muted anger often etched into his facial expressions when he didn't feel entirely comfortable in his surroundings. Small, raised red bumps peppered his cheeks and forehead. A long stripe of hair in desperate need of loving hands and hot argan oil curled amid sides cut to highlight his curled mohawk. She'd seen Terry with crust in his eyes and ashy from whipping winds after a late fall football game. This Terry, young and awkwardly grimacing at the camera, was as much a stranger as random patrons in a grocery store. 

Patrice zoomed closer. "Wow. A mohawk, huh?" 

"That he barely kept cut," Phee laughed. "All the boys had one. And all the boys looked dumb as hell." 

"I think it's kind of cute. Look at that attempt at a smile." Clear and present flaws slowly transformed into a host of adorable, unique features she would search for on his face the next time she saw him. 

Those bushy brows and hazel-green eyes hadn't changed a bit. Patrice chalked the rest up to puberty working overtime to match the internal with the external. 

"You're sick, P. Like really out of your mind." Phee's accusation came with a deep sigh as if she was disappointed in her friend's inability to say a bad word about her half-best friend/half-boyfriend.

Patrice giggled. "I'm a hopeless romantic! Is it not my job to see the best in my man." 

"Today, he's your man, but as soon as he's standing directly in your face, you act like you can't speak up. A lie don't care who tell it," Napheesa rebutted. 

It didn't matter how close the words crept to the tip of her tongue when they spent the end of their nights together talking about nothing and everything at the same time or how many times she'd started a text message spilling her guts only to delete every word to share some meaningless tidbit for his prompt response. Patrice couldn't say how she felt yet. One day. Just not now. 

As she prepared to explain herself for the thousandth time, stilted beeps on her line alerted her to an incoming call. The contact name, TJ :), lit the screen beneath a digital clock reading just after 6:00 pm. "Oh, hold on, Terry's calling. Don't hang up." 

Ruckus receded into a low hum after a shutting door sealed Terry into his shared room for the summer. "What's up, Treece," he greeted, his speech carrying more drawl than Patrice remembered at the end of the school year. A bed creaked under his weight in the background. "My bad for not texting back earlier. I was fishin' and guess I lost track of time." 

"It's alright. Hey, hold on. Phee's on the other line." Deft maneuvers patched Terry and Napheesa into a joint call bound to start and end with an argument. "Phee, Terry's on. Y'all should be nice to each other." 

Napheesa groaned. "I'm always nice to Terry when he's not startin' shit." 

"Yeah, she nice to me but be playing my boy Kendall like he not trynna see what's up. Why you actin' like that, PheePhee?" 

"It's Napheesa to you since you wanna play, Terrence. And don't be worrying about me and Kendall. Worry about you and your girl," Napheesa countered. 

Terry chuckled. "And who is my girl, hm?" He paused for an answer, a toothy grin spreading across his face as he got comfortable on one of two twin beds in the room. 

Patrice silently prayed to the Lord above, hoping her friend wouldn't pick a moment like this to open a can of worms she couldn't close once the slithering creatures were out and about. They both listened to Napheesa grunt in defeat. 

"Forget it," she huffed. Patrice took a deep breath, silently thankful for Phee's loyalty. "I gotta go. Call me when you want to go to the mall on Saturday, P. I'll pick you up. Bye, Knucklehead." 

"Bye, PheePhee. Tell Kendall I said hey!" Terry teased.

"Shut up!" 

As quickly as they'd gone back and forth over trivial matters, Napheesa was gone with a quick click, leaving Terry and Patrice alone as they usually were when golden hour light filled the evening sky. They sat silently for a moment, both listening to the other breathe in the happiness they thought they could only find in person. 

A soft laugh broke through the stillness. "You still there," Terry questioned. He listened to Patrice giggle back with his eyes closed, allowing the sound to wrap him in a warm embrace. "How was your day? Do anything fun?" 

"Not really. It's so hot outside I thought I saw the devil climbing into the bird bath out back." They laughed at another one of Patrice's patented grandma-isms, which Terry deemed silly but endearing. She continued. "What about you? How was fishing? Catch anything?" 

Terry sighed, the nonchalant shrug evident in his tone. "Just some catfish. Nothin' crazy. Couldn't get Mike to shut up long enough for anything to bite." 

"I don't blame him. Fishing is so boring. I don't know how you do it." 

"I like the quiet on the water. It's good for my brain with all the…stuff goin' on at home," he answered.

Patrice fiddled with the fringe on her throw pillow, searching for words of comfort. "She'll get better. You'll see when you get back." 

"Maybe." The heaviness in his response temporarily paused their discussion, leaving room for the quiet whoost of Patrice's ceiling fan in the background. Terry scratched at his stubble-covered chin and tried to add an extra lilt to his voice to preserve Patrice's happiness. "I got something to tell you." A small excited squeal preceded Patrice's urging for more. He laughed and shook his head. "I'll be home tomorrow night. Probably not in time to stop by or anything, but I could come to the mall with you and Phee on Saturday. If it's cool and all." 

A glossed bottom lip found itself trapped beneath Patrice's top row of teeth, struggling against the confines to break into a smile. "I'll ask her. We could do a movie or something, too." 

"Yeah. Me and you. We got a lot to catch up on." 

A million things came to mind: drama between classmates erupting on MySpace and late-night ooVoo video chats, new storylines in their favorite show, tales of haunted houses and alleged voodoo ladies, and Patrice's brand new haircut. She hoped he'd like the drastic change from her shoulder-length press and curl to the sleek bob she'd begged her mother to sign off on. 

Miles apart, they allowed thoughts of the other to consume their every waking moment. Some were in their slumber until two nights passed, and Saturday morning placed them only a neighborhood away. 

Most of Patrice's energy had gone into picking the right top to show a sliver of midriff when a text message caused her phone to buzz against her dresser. She paused the music blaring from her radio to peek at the phone screen.

Phee: scratch wat I said about Terry the other day. he at the prk looking GOOD! u ready 2 go yet? 

Flutters carrying nervousness and excitement in a revolving cycle filled Patrice's chest and belly. For Napheesa, the proud president and founding member of the 'Terry is Just Alright Club,' to compliment Terry meant she'd seen beauty not yet known to man. She'd finally seen the light at the end of a crush tunnel only meant to carry one to the promised land. 

Patrice couldn't think beyond a quick misspelled confirmation that she was ready to go despite having not yet laid eyes on her shoes, purse, or the earrings her mother required she wear any time she stepped out of the house. She spent the better part of a 10-minute drive to the park adjusting and readjusting the feathered bang in her bob and the right amount of hair to tuck behind her ear while Napheesa rattled off all the info she knew about Terry's whereabouts. 

He was at the big, empty field at the far end of Elton Hayes Memorial Park playing touch football with a group of boys, both of them only kind of knew from surrounding high schools. A rumor from a mutual friend alleged a tattoo on his right shoulder – a rose or a bulldog or something to that effect. Patrice started hearing every other word as the bright red Kia, acting as her chariot for the afternoon, pulled into the parking lot and slowed to a stop. 

Sure enough, Terry was in the area. His green Ford Explorer, full of dents and scratches as a hand me down from his paternal uncle, sat across the way as a sign that he was not just a beautiful mirage in the heat wave but an actual walking, talking person back in her world again. 

Fear quietly gripped Patrice, closing her throat and sending her lungs into overdrive to pull in vital oxygen. She frantically searched her face for imperfections in the mirror. "Phee, do I look okay," she croaked while slathering more lip gloss on her lips. "I don't look weird, right? You think he'll recognize me." 

"Girl, you look fine." Napheesa's eyes slowly pulled away from the group of boys running to and fro across patches of dry grass and light-colored sand to focus on her friend in need of reassurance. She tucked hair behind Patrice's ear and smiled. "I wasn't gonna say anything because he told me not to, but Terry asked me to bring you here. He wants to see you. So don't go gettin' all shy on me. Go talk to him!" 

Most of Patrice believed Napheesa. The rational side with a brain capable of processing coherent thoughts knew Terry well enough to discern when he was sincere and when he was bating her into a silly tale for his own amusement. She'd heard about an alleged crush from Corey and felt sparks of what might be when they shared the same space in comfortable silence. There was something there. Be it the first flashes of burgeoning romance, scary and tingly on her skin like a curious caterpillar finding respite on her arm in Spring, or some internal hoping requited love, Patrice didn't know. 

All she could discern was the quiet pop from the door handle, giving the heat access to the inside of Napheesa's air-conditioned, bright red Kia before she stuck one moisturized leg and the other outside. 

Any fear of intruding on Terry's ambition to turn a desolate patch of grass into Lambeau Field during the playoffs slowly melted away once he caught wind of her presence. Had Patrice been paying attention to her surroundings and not the hunk of new muscle and peanut butter skin basking in early afternoon sun rays, she may have noticed how he eyed her simple cut-off skirt and white graphic tee ensemble. But she couldn't take her eyes off Terry long enough to tell up from down or left from white. 

When he left four weeks prior, she remembered him as more lean, more pale, more boyish than the version of Terry standing a few yards away. He'd gained muscle on his arms and back that rippled beneath slick skin like Usher's muscles in the U Don't Have To Call video. Terry hadn't reached those heights, but he was damn close. And were those abs? The question pinged around Patrice's nearly empty brain as she eyed his naked torso. Those were abs. She whipped her head back around to look at Napheesa in the front seat but found her shock unreciprocated when she noticed Phee laughing at something on her phone. Patrice was in this one alone. 

A second look had her zeroing in on the fabled black and white ink covering the upper portion of his strong right shoulder. She couldn't make out the figure taking up fresh real estate, but she knew she wanted to get her hand on it – squeeze for dear life while he wrapped her body in an embrace so firm and intentional it made her head spin. 

Patrice watched him jog in her direction with teeth gleaming in a dashing smile, fresh-shaven facial hair leaving the ghost of a shadow on his young face, and a fresh haircut glistening from a mix of wave pomade and sweat. His quad muscles define his long legs flexed with each heel stroke against dry earth. Her breath caught in her throat as he drew closer, calling her name like a child excited to see their parents after a long day in school. 

Terry's deepening voice spoke her name once more. "Treece! What's up!?" Wet, sticky skin collided with Patrice's front, wrapping her into a tight embrace that nearly lifted her off the ground as he spoke into the top of her head. He inhaled the scent of strawberries and cream on her skin, then exhaled in goofy bliss before speaking again. "Damn, girl. You don't talk no more? Couldn't get you to quiet down the other day." 

Sweet symphonies made of words coated in a fleeting, down-home New Orleans drawl tried to lull Patrice into an unshakeable haze. The only thing keeping her mind, body, and soul planted to her side of Heaven was the harsh mix of musk and cologne wafting from Terry's body. Recollection of all the time she'd spent layering Victoria's Secret body mist and lotion for her signature scent shocked her back into reality. 

"Gross, TJ! You stink," she complained, only half-serious as she extended her arms to create some separation. He chuckled at her insult while he backed away to give his friend some space. They eyed each other shamelessly, neither bold enough to say the potentially inappropriate thoughts running through their minds. "Welcome back," Patrice finally coughed up when a front room view of large hands scratching at his bare chest became too much to handle. "I thought we were goin' to the mall. You can't go anywhere with me lookin' like that."

Terry shook his head and adjusted the waistband of his shorts, just missing Patrice's eyes following his hand's motions. "My fault. Mike and Rob needed somebody to fill out the team, and I could use the run. You and Phee wanna meet me there? I can leave and get dressed right now."

"If you want to." The meek, sweet voice emanating from her vocal cords startled Patrice into a fight to recover. She stammered through an overcorrection. "B-but, like, hurry up. We still wanna see a movie too." 

"Wait, can we see Transformers? I had to leave before I could go with my cousins." 

His childlike pleading came with green eyes rounded into saucers for extra appeal. Patrice rolled her eyes, purporting annoyance when a swell of abnormal flutters overtook her chest. "Alright," she relented. "But you're getting the popcorn." 

Terry pinched her cheek and smiled. "I'll do popcorn and the tickets. Maman sent me back with a little bit of cash." 

"TJ," Patrice started to protest, only to be met with opposition. 

"Stop it, Treece," Terry warned. "It's fine. Tell me what times they have, and I'll get there before then." 

It was settled. A little playful back and forth and plans to call as soon as new information became available turned an unofficial hangout into more concrete plans to reacquaint with Corey added to round out the foursome. 

Patrice practically floated back to Napheesa's small Spectra, the biting chill of her air conditioning on full blast finally cueing her brain to the stinging, painful skin covering her sweating body.

Phee watched her fuss with hair swelling at the roots in the mirror, anxiously awaiting an update. When none came, she forced the issue. 

She started in a slow, calm voice that resembled one her mother used when she and her two brothers had really messed up. "Patrice Nicole, you better tell me what just happened, and you better tell me quick." A slow smile spread across her best friend's face, further exacerbating the situation. "P! Come on! I'm dying!" 

After allowing the overhead mirror to slam shut against worn interior upholstery, Patrice turned in the passenger seat to face Napheese. A flash of genuine concern flashed across her eyes as reality crashed into her at full speed. She took a deep breath and then allowed a small smile to tug at the corner of her lips. 

"Remember what you said the other day," Patrice questioned, waiting for a nod to continue. "You were right. I think…I know that I like Terry now. As more than a friend."

-------

Sincere apologies for any errors! I'll do a sweep tomorrow but really wanted to get this out.

Reply if you'd like to be tagged in future work!

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[tritoch]

i know a lot of people (very understandably) dislike the paladin job quests in ffxiv, particularly HW, but i do think it's fun that, now that the pre-ShB MSQ revamp is complete, paladins now have a very cool and thematic in-game storyline that happens without a word being spoken: the development of passage of arms.

none of the below is directly stated in the script, but imo it's a fairly obvious gloss on what the game presents, if you assume a paladin warrior of light. spoilers for all expansions through the end of 6.X.

in the new version of steps of faith, as vishap breaks through each ward protecting ishgard from attack, lucia mounts a final desperate effort to hold him back, with a very familiar looking animation:

but even lucia can't hold back vishap's flame alone, so the temple knights surge forward to assist her. their efforts make the shield visually more powerful and larger. the temple knights here band together in defense of ishgard, and their knightly resolve to protect their home is the difference between victory and defeat.

lucia and the knights do ultimately succeed in defending the last ward, as you have to defeat vishap before their shield falls or you lose.

later in heavensward, obviously, we will get ffxiv's most famous (failed) attempt at blocking something with a shield.

this moment can be read as fairly impactful on the warrior of light's development; as i've noted elsewhere, after the trauma of watching haurchefant bleed out in their arms at level 57, at level 58 paladins learn to channel their magic into healing (and it's called "clemency," or mercy. mercy for whom? who was guilty?), and as someone pointed out on that post, at level 58 dark knights used to get "sole survivor", letting them heal in response to a marked target's death.

for a time, you literally carry haurchefant's shield with you, and 3.3 very much literalizes in genre fashion the idea that even when you are standing alone, your fallen friends stand with you. you don't need to call any allies to stand at your side and raise their shields with you because they are already there, in spirit.

stormblood marks a pretty important turning point in the warrior of light as a combatant, in my opinion, and the text makes this clear in several ways. first, in pretty much all your jobs, you've now far exceeded your trainers and are pioneering new techniques. this is no less true of paladin, which for 60-70 abandons any trainers at all for you to show off your peerless skills in a tournament.

second, stormblood is straight up a story about you getting stronger. at level 61, zenos kicks your ass. at level 70, you kick his ass. why? because you fought and got stronger and developed incredible new techniques and became a one-man army.

for a lot of classes, this story lines up nicely with the big rotation changes or flashy new finishers on the way from 60 to 70. SMN is now busting out bahamut and casting akh morn; RDM gets verflare and verholy; DRG starts harnessing nidhogg's power directly through dragon sight and nastrond.

the tanks are divided in two: warriors and gunbreakers get huge damaging upgrades at 70 in the form of inner release and continuation, each of which lets them hit the same button many times for lots of damage and satisfying animations. paladin and dark knight get more protective abilities; dark knight gets the blackest night, and there's been plenty said about that already by pretty much everyone.

paladins get passage of arms. instead of a relentless new attack (and you get requiescat at 68, which is a way bigger deal for your dps rotation), your big reveal at 70 for zenos in your fight in ala mhigo is a superior way to protect your party, a shield that lets you stand for your allies so they never have to fall for you again. it's lucia's same shield, except you need no allies' shields to reinforce you, proof of your martial prowess and your ability to transcend limits, and perhaps in truth a reminder that you never really stand alone.

in many respects passage of arms should really feel like a paladin signature move to you now if you are playing it at this point, because you should be popping it in pretty much every fight (you are using your mits, right...?). basically every FFXIV fight has at least one big AOE with downtime that warrants passage of arms usage, usually after the mid-fight add phase with slowly filling bar. since that AOE usually drops during downtime, there's no reason not to pop passage of arms (which otherwise restricts your movement and actions), and even on normal, sometimes every little bit counts on a damage check even if it means dropping DPS (thinking here of harrowing hell P10N on release, which was...less consistent for a lot of roulette parties than you might hope).

so from 70 onward, passage of arms is in a sense a paladin warrior of light's signature move, and certainly the one a player gets to most actually enjoy (since if you're using it, you're by necessity not doing anything besides moving your camera and admiring your sick animation). it doesn't have any competition in terms of spectacle until confiteor, and those you're usually throwing out in the middle of movement.

it's such a signature, in fact, that the only other person shown using your one-person version of passage of arms is your greatest admirer, who studied your legend for over a century.

and it's when he fails (should've popped arm's length, bud) that the warrior of light decides they can't let their friends fall for them, and sends them away with the transporter beacon. this is all wrong: you were meant to die for them, not the other way around. yours is the shield that stands between your allies and defeat. it is you who will win this passage of arms and break your opponents lance. and you do.

and then later, when they need to quickly establish zero's domain as a place of fallen grandeur, the home of someone who once believed in heroes but is now a cool and cynical vampire hunter d, what do they use? a decayed statue of someone in the paladin endwalker gear doing the passage of arms animation, of course.

from a visible instantiation of knighthood as a joint effort to defend what is sacred, to a tribute to the fallen friends whose memories stand by you and animate you, to a symbol of the wol's power as emulated by their allies or darkly mirrored in other shards.

not bad for a mit button you hit once per fight and otherwise never think about!

[inspired-lesson-plans]

So I do have a job lined up using my brand new Commercial Driver's License, but it doesn't have a start date yet. And since I've used up All of my unemployment money, that means I am back to substitute teaching in order to pay the bills, at least for a little while.

Today has me as a one-to-one paraprofessional in a preschool special ed class. I have subbed Pre-K before, and I have subbed middle school special ed, but this is a whole new experience. Let me just share a few notes that I wrote down on a piece of construction paper while watching a little girl play with putty:

Almost everybody in this class seems to be autistic. I can't say that as a fact, but out of the eight students here, at least half of them are showing at least a few behaviors that I associate with autism. And having just read Neurotribes (highly recommended), I have got to say that I am ecstatic and overjoyed about this. There's no way that autism rates are increasing, but if this many kids between the ages of 3 and 5 are being put in a special ed program, then that means awareness and even diagnosis are skyrocketing.

Special ed programs in 2025 are amazing. These kids are actually allowed to be fully themselves. There's no behavioral redirection away from hand flaps or walking back and forth while rotating a plastic dinosaur and mumbling to yourself. Most of these kids are almost totally non-vocal, but they are allowed to vocal stim so long as it isn't bothering anyone. And this entire morning has been nothing but free play, except for breakfast and a quick centering activity to kick things off. In fact, the only redirections that I have seen were about kids spilling sand on the floor or being at risk of hurting each other. Everything else is just them expressing themselves. But social activities are encouraged, every kind of social normalization is rewarded, and nothing has been punished. Of course, we are very far into the school year, so I'm sure there has been a lot of work prior to this point, but the fact is it's working.

This district was able to get these kids in almost one-to-one faculty to student ratio. Other districts in my county are pretty good, but I don't think they have quite this good of resources. New Jersey is split up into so many school districts it's unbelievable. There was a kid here whose lunch was totino's pizza rolls, and one of the staff cut those already-bite-size bits into quarters. That's what it's like in this state. I have worked at two separate schools where the entire school district was just that one K-8 school, and for high school they go to a different district. I am entirely positive that this is because of redlining, especially in the town where I live. There are three different school districts in my zip code. One is well-integrated and wealthy, one is poorly integrated and struggling, and one is almost exclusively black and can barely pay its teachers.

Watching tiny little kids eat lunch is very interesting because of how they choose to eat their lunch. They don't just eat, they graze. But with this many adults around them, most of them immigrant mothers, the kids aren't allowed to just graze. They are told over and over again to keep eating. I do not think it's healthy, and I do not do that. Kid does not want to eat, I do not think they should eat.

One child was eating an uncrustable but she tore it in half, ate the insides, and threw away the uncrust of the uncrustable.

[cynfuldelights]

A Doll on the Wall

The dollposting got to me. Here's roughly 8000 words about becoming, transforming, and forgetting with the help of some magic and porcelain. Enjoy! Content Warnings For: Car Accidents, Blood, Broken, Bones, Implied Dismemberment AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65056150

-- Tumblr Version Below Collapse!

When I was little I used to dream of being a doll.

I’d lie in bed and stare at them all lined up in a row, sitting on a shelf mounted on the eggshell white walls of my room.

Just the thought of it was so relieving; imagining a reality where I could just… exist, and be appreciated. No asking about my future or my life or my lack of either despite a degree and years of school.

Despite breaking my back and mind to survive I still had so little to call my own. Even my house wasn’t mine; it was my grandmother’s. Still full of her things, full of her memories.

It’s no wonder that I would stare and admire them. Perfect, yet fragile things, much more perfect than me, more whole than I was at this point. Gracile arms and legs adorned in skirts and sleeves stitched full of care and details. Much more pleasing than the room they and I dwelled.

Even before she passed I’d stare up at my grandmother’s doll collection for hours. Sort through each one as I walked through her one-story brick house in the suburrbs, looking up at the shelves they were sitting on, getting a better look as I got older and taller. As a kid they were kept immaculately clean, a far cry from my own room, which my grandma refused to pick up after even before she had trouble walking. Must’ve been why she was so surprised when I started asking if I could help clean her dolls. For once she even bothered to show me how to do something instead of handing me a rag, pointing at something, and saying “Clean”.

I’d take down each one tender and careful like they were made of eggshells and gossamer instead of porcelain and hand-sewn cloth. A gentle blow and shake followed to free it of loose dust and then I’d wipe the shelf with a damp cloth, careful not to bother the others. There were dozens of them, adorning nearly every wall of every room of her home.

“Let’s clean you up little one,” I’d say to each one as I picked them off their shelves, voice as gentle as my touch, “I didn’t forget you.” My grandma taught me to say it to each one so none of them would feel left out. Ironic, given how many times she left me at home to go spend time with my cousins. Ironic, given how many times she’d talk about me in front of relatives like I wasn’t even there.

Like I was another doll on her wall. If only.

The winter after she passed, when the work days were long and the nights alone even longer, cleaning and rearranging them became a kind of ritual.

I’d drive home all the while bitching about the transmission that I still needed to get fixed, take off my suffocating work suit, put on one of my long dresses, put some frozen pre-made something or other in the oven for dinner, before then gathering my notes and cleaning supplies.

Aside from keeping track of names for all of them, I’d also rotate which dolls sat beside which and in which rooms so none of them would get bored or lonely. Demi liked the living room and sitting besides Ophelia. Candice couldn’t stand Katrina but could if Emily was nearby.

It was painstaking work, but I’d usually be done before I had to go to bed. Sometimes I wasn’t. Sometimes I’d forget to eat or forget to take my food out of the oven.

That’s how I broke my favorite, Wendy; by way of my smoke alarm scaring the shit out of me and causing me to drop and step on her with bare-feet as I rushed to stop my kitchen from burning. Being made almost entirely of porcelain except for her chestnut-colored hair, the largest pieces of her that survived were her head and torso. Even those were broken in the back like a caved in egg. A beautiful girl smashed to bloody pieces.

The others watched as I gathered her remains, cleaned the blood off, and limped her over to my dessk to try and piece her back together with superglue. It took all of an hour for me to realize there was no hope. If I wanted to fix her I’d need a professional.

I was guilt-ridden for days. Crying in the quiet moments and desperately trying not to at all other points. My coworkers became convinced I had another death in the family. I knew how to respond to these awkward condolences even less than the ones for my grandmother.

Even my supervisor told me he’d give me another week of bereavement leave if I wanted it. But only after the rumor reached him and after it became obvious my work was suffering again. Surprising, given how often I was late because of my car.

I took it. Gladly. It meant I had an opportunity to get Wendy fixed. I was more than willing to use the savings that were supposed to be for a new car for her.

But even as relieved as I was, I could see how frustrated my supervisor was. I knew then this would probably be the last bit of sympathy I got out of him before I had to start looking for another job.

The day after I called place after place until I found one that was close enough in distance and in price range with what I could afford. Unfortunately most were booked up or too busy to take something so short notice.

Except for one place I found on an odd forum I’d never heard of before. The post simply read:

<<If u’ve ever got a doll fixation that u need fixed check out this place, vera walked me through everything, fast service, discreet, still feel like the luckiest girl in the world>>

The rest of the thread was hard to comprehend. Lots of questions about the experience and how it felt, for some reason.

The linked website was… odd, they seemed to be into some New Age mysticism stuff given the lace-patterned pentagrams that served as the dot for each of the “I’s” in the business’ title. Their services were… vague as was the pricing. It was on the other side of the state but that was still better than shipping Wendy somewhere.

“Inanimate Interests, this is Vera speaking,” A woman on the other end of the phone said after the line rang twice, “How can I help you?” Her voice was smooth and deeper-pitched, something I was more used to hearing from a radio host.

“Um. Hi, *cough* hello, Vera.” I began, my throat hoarse. I couldn’t remember the last time I spoke to someone outside of work, “I-I’m calling because I have an all-bisque 19th century porcelain doll that got damaged pretty badly after I was trying to clean one day and I was wanting to see if I could get it fixed.”

“All-bisque?” Vera responded, clearly confused, “Is she… a doll, doll? The old-school kind, or...?”

It took me a few long moments to realize she wasn’t calling me ‘doll’. In that time I paced around the living room twice from embarrassment, “Uh… yeah? She’s over a century old, been sitting on my grandma’s shelf for a long while. It um… meant a lot to her and she’s not… around anymore, so fixing Wendy would really mean a lot to me-to her, I mean.”

“...Ah. I see.” Vera said, followed by an appraising silence. “I’m sorry, but that’s not the kind of work I normally accept we’re… kind of a specialty business.”

“Oh.” The embarrassment left me as fast as my confidence, as I looked down at my list of possible places jotted down on a sticky note. This was the last one within the state. “O...kay, thanks for listening then and sorry for bothering you, by-”

“Hang on, hang on, wait-!”

I stopped before my thumb could hit disconnect, put the phone back up to my ear.

“Yes?” I asked, wondering if I did something wrong.

“Just because it’s not what I normally do, doesn’t mean I can’t do it. Rent’s rent, after all.” Vera clarified with a reassuring laugh, “Tell me about Wendy and what happened and I’ll see what I can do.”

I blinked in astonishment before smiling and sitting down. The smile faded fast as I recounted what happened to damage her so bad.

“And how often do you handle Wendy?” Vera asked, the sound of a chair creaking through the tinny speaker of my phone, “Monthly, weekly?”

“...Daily?” I admitted, shame and guilt running down my neck like my attempts at growing out my brown hair, uneven and prickling, “I usually clean and rearrange my col-my grandma’s collection every day.” I half-expected to get chewed out for messing with fragile things so much.

Instead there was another moment of silence from Vera, before she asked, “Do you do it daily because that’s how your grandmother makes you do it, or because you enjoy it?”

“...Does that matter?” I asked, shame snapping down like a bear trap on the real answer, “You’re just gonna fix her aren’t you?”

“Let’s just say the answer matters for my… process. Things usually turn out better if there’s some positive emotions like love in the mix instead of just guilt and obligation. It’s kinda like... cooking!”

I couldn’t help but chuckle, even as I picked at my nails nervously, “Well, I don’t really cook for myself but if it’ll help then… yeah. I do it because I like it. When I have a rough day at work which is… most days, I come home and clean and rearrange the dolls. My grandma used to just leave them up on the same shelves but I never liked to.”

“They get lonely otherwise, don’t they?” Vera asked, which earned a nod and “Mmhmm” from me, “Forgive me if this is overstepping, but, you seem to care more about them than even the person you inherited them from.”

“Yeah, you can say that.” I said, as I relaxed back on the old dusky pink sofa, “My grandma kinda got bored of collecting them after awhile, but she had so many by then that she couldn’t really just get rid of all of them without redecorating the entire place. It was dust bunnies and moth holes galore when I started caring for them. Tandy’s dress was all but eaten away by moths and Mathilda’s bonnet was in shambles… I had to learn how to sew to fix them all up.”

“You learned how to sew?” Vera asked, a little astonished, “How many pieces have you resewn?”

Before I knew it, we’d spent the better part of an hour talking. Vera would ask me about a specific doll or how I cared for them and then I’d eagerly reply. It was so rare I had anyone to talk to about it that the responses all but gushed out of me once I realized she wasn’t hanging up or losing interest. If anything she sounded more intrigued with every answer.

“A-Anyways…” I eventually stammered, after we mutually complained about how hard it was to find good craft stores nowadays that weren’t Hobby Lobby, “Sorry for oversharing, did you have anything else you wanted to ask me about Wendy?”

“Oh, don’t worry, this is all part of the process for new clients,” Vera reassured, “I have one other burning question for you though.”

“Well, shoot, I don’t wanna distract you anymore than I have. I’m sorry I just started rambling...” I said, sheepish as I glanced at a clock, “We’ve been talking for… holy shit it’s been that long, don’t you have to close?

“I have helpers don’t worry.” Vera said, a mischievous edge gleaming like sun on rippling water, “Which brings us back to my question-and again, stop me if this is overstepping… but,”

Probably just something about my grandma again… I thought to myself, Probably a “my condolences” discount.

“Have you ever wanted to be a doll?”

My phone clattered to the floor, I was so surprised. I scrambled to pick it back up just as fast as it fell.

“Um! Sorry, haha!” I hastily replied, a laugh forcing its way out that would’ve sounded more believable from a hostage being held at gunpoint, “I don’t think I heard you right, could you say that again?”

“Oh, I asked if you ever wanted to be a doll.” Vera said again. Somehow it didn’t lose any of its impact since the first time. My eyes darted around like I was searching for an escape from my own house.

“W-what kind of question is that? That’s not-” I shook my head despite Vera not being there to see it, “That’s absurd, you can’t just become a…” It was so insane I couldn’t even deign to say it. To let the whole idea sit in my mind anymore than it already clearly had.

“But you clearly admire them don’t you?” Vera asked, driving me to silent incredulous denial as she continued, “Almost everyday you care for them; you learn new skills to care for them before you. You sounded like you killed someone when you were telling me about what happened to Wendy...”

“That’s…” I shook my head again, as if this time it’d do something to banish these thoughts, these feelings, “I just feel guilty for breaking one of my grandmother’s-”

“There’s feeling guilty, then there’s paying money, likely a lot of money, to fix a broken doll that you yourself said your grandmother stopped caring for a long time ago.” Vera interrupted to say, sounding oddly resolute.

“You don’t know anything about me!” I declared, the denial boiling over into anger, “What is this, some kind of scam or a ploy, are you just fucking with me?!”

“You’re right on the first account, none of the others,” Vera answered, a ruffling of papers following, “You named… two, six-twelve different dolls throughout this entire conversation, not counting Wendy. And yet… I don’t know your name. Haven’t even mentioned it once.”

“Why the hell do you need that?!” I spat back into my phone’s microphone.

“Well, how else am I going to fix Wendy if I don’t know whose name to put down on the appointment?”

“...Wait,” My eyes widened, “So you’ll do it? When’s the earliest I can bring her?? How much-???”

“I’ll do it for free whenever you want.” Vera answered, driving me to silence, “If you answer the question, truthfully.”

I stared at the phone in my hands for a few minutes. Seeing if she’d hang up. Maybe it was a scam, some part of me said. Like someone just trying to find my security questions to the bank or my credit card. Maybe someone guessed I made them all doll-related.

“Take your time.” Vera eventually said, “But if you hang up, deal’s off, even if you call me back tomorrow.”

“...What if I just lie?” I asked pathetically, teeth and eyes grinding closed, “What if I just give you the answer you want?”

“What answer do you think I want?” Vera responded, her tone neutral.

“Yes!? You want me to say yes because you’re some fucking weirdo mystic witch or fucking nuts or…” I trailed off, unable to think of any reasons that didn’t descend into fucked up things to say to anyone. The kinds of vile garbage my grandmother said behind my cousin’s back when she wanted to go by Marcus instead of Mary.

“Then say no right now.” Vera replied, quick as a whip, “If you have no doubts, no qualms, if you’re perfectly happy and content with being the person you are right now when you wake up tomorrow and you just want to fix your grandmother’s doll; say no. I’ll still do it for free.”

My mouth opened on shameful reflex, denial chambered in my throat, my tongue cocked back.

But then, I looked around my grandmother’s house. Not my house. Her house.

It’d been almost a year since she died. I still hadn’t changed it anymore than replacing things as they needed to be replaced. She hated change, especially change she couldn’t have a direct hand in. It was why I was the one who rearranged the dolls for her for a long time.

It was why my mom hated her. It was why she left.

It was why my grandma put up with me. It was why I stayed. I thought maybe I’d be good enough for her one day.

Instead, she died. The lawyer who bequeathed this house and everything else to me said it must be because she cared about me. I never believed that. I believed it was because she thought I wouldn’t change anything. It was why it went to me and not my mom.

Sometimes I felt trapped. Like I was being suffocated by a dead woman.

The dolls were my only solace. They were in my room because they were in every room. They were acceptable because they were the norm. Me cleaning them was acceptable because helping your grandma is the norm. Maintaining them after she passed was acceptable because that’s the norm when someone dies. Telling anyone else about them felt nearly impossible. Bringing anyone here even more so.

I never admired them when she was around. I’d ignore them, instead. Pretend I wasn’t interested. Like scoffing at a life raft in the middle of a stormy ocean that reached from horizon to horizon.

Hot tears streamed down my face as I huffed, trying not to audibly sob. So much ran through me so fast that I almost forgot what I was doing, who I was talking to. The timer for the length of the call was still ticking up on my smartphone. Vera hadn’t hung up.

“Okay,” I began, the words climbing out of my throat like it was a dark pit, “Let’s… pretend, just pretend, that… I said yes.”

I could almost hear Vera smiling, this woman I hadn’t even met who I’d had the most honest conversation with that I’d likely ever had, “Already at the ‘let’s pretend’ stage, huh?”

Vera agreed to meet the next day, capping off our conversation with, “This time tomorrow you’ll realize it doesn’t have to be pretend.”

--

It felt like a dream when I woke up the next morning.

Too surreal, even though it should be simple and everyday. The sun was gleaming, clouds wafting through the air like the fall leaves. Normally I hated the colder months. But today didn’t feel so bad.

But the nightmare began fast as I fret about what to wear. Picking something for myself was a lot harder than for the dolls. Then it was breakfast, which was a bowl of near stale cereal.

Then I noticed as I was leaving the car had leaked a puddle of transmission fluid again, so I had to refill it, thus dirtying my clothes, thus making me have to change again.

I was thirty minutes late by the time I was on the road, hoping I could at least sneak out of my block before the lunch rush got bad enough the 2-lane streets clogged. It was still the middle of the work week and people were busy. Construction was blooming and booming and causing complaints from everyone who lived around there.

I rushed more than I should’ve. But I drank a coffee to stay sharp. Even had my seat belt on.

...

None of it mattered.

I didn’t even make it out of town before the transmission to my grandma’s Lincoln tore itself to shreds in a deafening cacophony of shrieks and screams.

Right as I pressed hard on the gas to snipe a left turn on a soft green.

A part of me wishes I’d picked something better than a sweater and jeans for the clothes I’d nearly die in.

Another part of me wished I’d died when that semi-truck T-boned me just so I didn’t have to have that stuck in my brain as the last thing I’d remember. That moment a beast of steel and velocity tore me from my car and into a terrible hell of TOO MUCH: TOO MUCH PAIN TOO MUCH MOVEMENT TOO MUCH CRUSHING TOO MUCH SCREAMING TOO MUCH OF ONE MOMENT REPEATING AND REPEATING AND-it ends.

Nothing made sense. The memories were more of a mess of broken pieces than I was.

Blood. Blood pooling around me like I was lying in a storm drain. The box shoebox I laid Wendy in was somehow lying beside me, soaking up the red like a sponge. Scattered pieces of porcelain laid around me like snowflakes.

My arm. I willed it to move, despite it looking more akin to a crushed ice cream cone than a limb. I couldn’t feel my legs. I couldn’t feel why my lungs struggled to breathe, just that they were struggling.

The scream. The scream of sirens, of commuters, of me.

Silence. Oblivion in a held breath. Terrible peace permeating everything like darkness when all the lights go out in a cave.

…

That voice.

--

When I opened my eyes I was laying in a bed.

None of my dolls were along the walls. But the shelves were there.

I bolted up to a sit when I realized I wasn’t laying in a sterile white hospital bed, but instead my bed. My grandmother’s house.

I’m dead. I immediately thought, I’m dead and this is Hell.

I thought right after, No. If that were the case my grandma would be here too.

There also wouldn’t be all this medical equipment. I looked around at a heart monitor, an IV pole, and other medical stuff on carts and surfaces. It looked like enough stuff to run an ER had been keeping me alive.

“...H-Hello-?”

“!” I cut myself off as I realized someone else was calling for me. Was it a nurse or…?

“Hello?-” I began to call, before stopping near immediately again. My hands darted to my neck.

That. That’s not.

“...Hello?” I said quietly to myself, despite sounding nothing like myself. I sounded… cute? I was sure I’d met a few girls who sounded like I did that I thought were cute anyways.

“...Did the crash mess up my throat along with my…” I raised my arm up.

I didn’t recognize it either. Instead of hairy skin wrapped around an arm, I stared at glazed porcelain spun and shaped to resemble the length of a human arm. However it was much more spindly, more the suggestion of a human arm than a replica of one. Where it terminated into an elbow was a rounded joint complete with smoothed corners that exposed as I bent my arm. The same ball-joint was present at my wrist. My fingers were individual pieces that overlapped like the vertebrae of a spine or armor on a glove.

I touched my fingertips together and felt the reassuring firmness of porcelain instead of the soft mushy give of skin.

As I shifted my focus from just my arms to the rest of me. To the fact that every piece of me was different. I was naked atop the sheets, which made it obvious, if just swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and onto the floor wasn’t obvious enough. They were wider at the thigh, tapering down to a ball-joint where my knees would be. Past that, my calf was thinner than any human’s could be. My “feet” more resembled the dome-top and flat bottom of a shoe than the complex bone work of a foot.

I rapped a knuckle against the surface of my chest and it sounded like a shell of porcelain. There was no suggestion of ribs, or nipples as a distinguishing feature. A smooth porcelain body, with four sockets for the ball-joints where shoulders and legs would go. And… an odd hole between my legs like something was missing. Which something was.

All in all I just felt… lighter. Like all of my flesh and organs had been soaked in the weight of my memories, and now I’d shed it all.

“...Hah.” The laugh was forced out from at first, disbelief.

I felt cleaner. Like someone had emptied out a grease trap, like I didn’t have neverending anxiety polluting my brain like a chemical plant.

“Ahaha…” The laugh rang happier with every realization.

I felt…

“Good.” I said as I stood. A little shaky at first, but it shifted fast as I got used to how it felt to not have skin covering the bottom of your feet. A little easier to slip, it turned out, as I nearly ate it just taking one or two steps on carpet.

Definitely don’t wanna be clumsy now. Otherwise I’ll break into pieces again, I thought, ...Why am I not in pieces though. Why am I…?

“...Hello?” I called into the house, plodding along step-by-step as I realized my sense of balance was off too. “Is anyone there?”

Silence. It was slow going, but I made it to the hall with the help of every wall and door frame I could hold onto along the way.

I headed for the bathroom first, so at least I could see the rest of what had changed. The only mirrors in the house were in the bathrooms, after all. I nudged the door open-

But stopped when I saw the blood on the ground. As the door crept open further I realized it was centered around the tub which looked like someone had bled a pig in it.

I whiffed the door knob twice in the process of slamming the door. I hurried towards the living room.

Unnervingly, all of my dolls were arranged on the couch, along with my notes. There was an empty section in the middle as if someone had been sitting among them. A cold, near-empty teacup was sat bside my notes on the coffee table.

I tried picking it up. Like walking it was hard getting used to my new fingers. The sensation was entirely different.

I raised the teacup to my face and sniffed. Dandelion? I definitely didn’t drink-

The jingle of keys in my front door surprised me enough that I dropped the cup. *TCHEIEEEEK* It shattered as I scrambled to get around the corner to the hall.

I heard the door open with the squeak as I faced the other side of the hall.

There was a pregnant pause as whoever was coming in likely saw the broken teacup on the floor if they hadn’t just heard me drop it.

“...Come on out, sweet thing. I didn’t forget you.” An extremely familiar voice called, her words sending a shock through my heart. Did I even have a-?, “But I will make you clean up if you make a mess.”

One hand on the wall to steady myself, I stepped out into the living room and into view, “V-Vera??”

Vera was a plump and bright woman, clad in clay-stained overalls that had one strap loose revealing the many curves of her body and the purple of the tank top she wore underneath. Dangly earrings hung from her ears; golden hoops with black pentagrams hanging from them which matched the dark color of her hair. Plastic bags were hanging from both arms like she’d been doing some shopping.

“Hope me being here isn’t overstepping,” She said as she shut the door behind her, “But I feel like letting me crash at your place is the least you could do after all the time I spent taking you apart and putting you back together.”

“P-Putting me back together?” I stammered out, glancing back towards the bathroom, “W-Why’s my bathroom look like a murder scene then???”

“Mm, I did say taking you apart, remember?” Vera asked, locking the door to punctuate the end of the question. “What kind of porcelain do you think you’re made of? Hard paste, soft paste, or…?”

“...Bone china.” I said licking my lips. I realized then, I still had lips. I had a tongue. My hands darted up to my face, my neck. There was a clear seam about two thirds of the way up my throat. A border where porcelain met skin.

“You… You-” I shook my head, staring at a smiling Vera.

“Aren’t done yet,” Vera said, setting her bags on the floor. I could see handsaw blades sticking out from a plastic bag from a local hardware store. “Honestly I’m surprised you even came to. Guess I should’ve asked Elise for a re-up on the anesthetics...”

“S-Stay away from me!” I cried, backing up as she got closer, “Stay away and I’ll just wake up because this is a dream, it’s a dream it has to be! I never met you, you wouldn’t know how to find me, you wouldn’t be here!”

“Mmm, it’s a dream and not a nightmare?” Vera asked, her playful smile coloring her words.

“It is a nightmare! You chopped me into pieces! You chopped me up and burned my bones into ash and-and…” I looked down at my body as tears gathered in my eyes. “What did you do to me?! Did you plan this!? Did you make that truck hit me?!”

Vera sighed. Stopped getting closer, which made me stop backing down the hall. “Always the same with the ones in denial…”

She raised a hand, crooked a finger. The next words she spoke were inflected in a way that made them echo through the hallway, reverberate through my body, “Come closer, sweet thing.”

“N-No way!” I spat as I started walking towards her.

“What the f-!” I began to scream as my body disobeyed me

“Silence, sweet thing.” Vera intoned, which carved the rest of the curse out of my mouth. “Don’t wanna make the neighbors think anything’s amiss.”

My jaw opened and closed, trying to speak, but all I could manage was the gross wet sounds of a mouth and tongue and lips mashing together. No sound left. All the while I got closer to her.

“Stop.”

My feet stopped when I was all but face-to-face with her standing in the living room again. My head twisted away from her, but nothing else could. I was trapped. Trapped in my own body.

Vera in the meantime circled me, appraising me up and down, occasionally running a hand or a finger along the smooth, hard material I was now made of. I just squeezed my eyes shut and tried to ignore how good it felt to be touched after years without it.

“I know you have all kinds of questions...” Vera eventually said, turning from me and wandering towards the dining room to retrieve two chairs considering the couch was occupied. She faced them towards each other in an empty section of the living room and sat in one. “And I’m happy to answer all of them. But if you start screaming, I’ll have to make you listen, understand? Blink thrice if you understand.”

Blink. Blink. Blink.

“Good. Your will is your own.”

Like a light switch flicking off, her control over me vanished.

Carefully, slowly, I sat in the chair opposite of her. It was strange. Sitting when you don’t have cushioning felt more like trying to settle a craggy rock into a seat than a person sitting. But I found what was comfortable quickly, with my “back” straight and my “feet” flat. I was glad I didn’t have to worry about the teacup shards anymore. Vera had to keep her shoes on by comparison.

A long silence sprouted between us.

Eventually, I asked, “What… did you do to me?”

“What you wanted.” Vera said with a shrug, “We talked about this, I hope you remember that much.”

“...I said hypothetically.” I said, my eyes shifting off to the side. “I never said I actually wanted to… to…”

“If you had made it to our appointment, I would’ve shown you it didn’t have to be hypothetical.” Vera explained, which drew my gaze back to her, “This is what I do. Unhappy people come to me and ask to be something else. I make them into something else. Simple as that. By trade I’d describe myself as a witch, but that’s so vague nowadays. Describes everyone from your average PENTA-GRAM user to the ones who make a life from it like me.”

“...I’d say you’re crazy if I wasn’t…” I looked down at my hands again. “...How long has it been since we talked that day?”

“About three months.” Vera said, looking up at the ceiling as she recounted, “When you didn’t make the appointment I knew something was up. Most people don’t miss this kind of appointment, and even if you had known you seemed serious about fixing Wendy at least. After that it was a matter of just looking up your area code and searching online to see if there were any accidents that happened the day of our appointment.”

“W-Where’s Wendy?” I asked as soon as I was reminded. “Is she here, is she okay, is she-?”

Vera cut me off by leaning forwards and tapping a finger to my chest, “That crash basically killed you. The only reason it didn’t is because enough of your blood, enough of you, had seeped into Wendy over the years you cared for her and from your blood after the crash. After I found you at the hospital, or… what was left of you, finding Wendy was a simple bit of thaumaturgy. Like pulling on a thread once you find one end. Took quite a bit of dumpster diving though.” She made a face, “Honestly, I feel lucky I got the smell out of these overalls.”

“After that thought, it was just a matter of tricking the right person into thinking that I was a close family member and getting your meat moved here once you were stable enough.” Vera said, eyes wandering around the place, “I’ve got a nurse friend, so I hired her to help me take care of you and help me…” She spun a hand in the air.

“...distill you.” Vera eventually said with a cheeky smile.

“…” I blinked. My hands came up to where she’d tapped.

Then again, I blinked. This time, surprised by the tears that were speckled across my new hands. By the vast cavernous churning of so, so much just rippling through me despite there being nothing inside of me. But that wasn’t true was it? Wendy was with me.

Somehow it felt like I was with me more than before.

Long hard sobs smashed into me as fast as that teacup had hit the floor.

“Aw, damn, don’t cry.” Vera said, a slight panic cracking her smooth demeanor as she sat forwards. “Damn it, Vera, no more weird jokes away from the girls…” She muttered to herself as she stood to fetch some tissue.

When she returned, I was still sniffling and wiping at my face with my hands, getting yellow-ish snot all across the porcelain. When Vera returned again with a wet towel I was calmed down, enough that she didn’t have to clean me up like she did with the tissues.

“Um sorry…” I mumbled out, before repeating myself more forcefully, “I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay, sweet thing,” Vera said, looking sheepish, “I’m sorry you woke up before I finished with you. Makes crying your heart out a lot easier when you don’t dribble snot out your nose and tears from your eyes.”

“...No, I’m…” I squeezed my eyes shut in shame, “I’m sorry… for making you do all of this. You saved my life, Vera. Without me paying you, or getting anything out of it, you… you went out of your way to save me.”

“...Haha...” Vera laughed. Remarkably more sheepish. “Well… I guess now is as good a time as any to discuss payment...”

“...Oh.” I said, surprised but also not surprised. “I mean… What do you want? If it’s money, I’ll just sell this house, honestly. Hell, you can have the house if you want.”

“Honestly, money isn’t… really an issue for me.” Vera’s smile was tight and apologetic, “Monetarily, you’ve compensated me more than enough. Luckily, Elise is as good with a scalpel as I am with a potter’s wheel, because biology was never my strong suit.”

My eyes felt like they widened to the size of silver dollars.

Vera shrugged, “Hope it wasn’t overstepping, but organs pay the bills, sweet thing. Especially young ones like yours.”

“...Okay.” I said, either feeling bizarrely okay with this or feeling way too shocked, “I guess I’m not using them anymore… so. Okay. But-wait.” A hand came up to the seam in my neck. “...If it’s not about money, or this house...”

Vera let her chin rest on the knuckles of her left hand as she nodded towards the couch.

I followed her gaze to the empty person-sized spot in the middle of all my dolls.

“Quite a collection.” Vera murmured, her tone neutral, “I didn’t mention it before, but… I have one too. Nowhere near as large, not enough room back where I live… My dolls are rather… large.”

As I tore my gaze from the couch, I realized Vera was leaning forwards, looking up at me with shining eyes. Like a kid seeing a new toy at the store. “But... I think I have room for one more.”

Another long silence bloomed between us.

Then, I asked, “...Hypothetically.” I began, hands trembling with a litany of small *clinks* as I rested them on what served as my knees. “...Could you make me forget everything from before? Not just the accident, I mean… I mean, all of it.” I swallowed. “Is… is that possible?”

A knowing smile eased its way across Vera’s face, before she stood and offered me a hand.

“Already at the hypothetical stage, huh?”

--

Sometimes, I have dreams about what it’s like being human.

What it must feel like to have to do all these rote things just to live.

Eating, drinking, shaving, bathrooms.

The sweat, the pain, the sickness.

The blood that gushed out at the nudge of a knife. The guts that were in someone’s belly. When helping with a client was in my duties I always tried to just focus on the bones that I needed to burn.

My Master says it’s certainly not for everyone, despite the fact she was human. My sisters who were once human more than heartily agree too, every time the conversation wanders there during dinner. While only our Master needed to eat, the rest of us enjoyed the company especially after a busy day. There was usually plenty to do between the shop downstairs and our home upstairs in the city we lived in.

Sometimes, there wasn’t.

Sometimes we had days when all the chores were settled and no clients needed to be taken care of that day. Days when we just got to laugh and play and nap or sing and dance and laugh as our Master watches with a cup of tea that we’d pick the dandelions for that same day. Any extra went with her when she went on a trip for work.

“Master?” I asked her on one of those lazy days after I awoke from my nap. I was sitting on Master’s lap, with my head on her left shoulder and my hand running up to hold onto her right. Our sofa was big enough for all of us, but my sisters had decided to go run some errands. Cars scared me, so I never went with.

“Mm? Yes, Wendy?” My Master opened her eyes from her light dozing, “What is it, sweetie?”

“I had another nightmare…” I whined, nuzzling into my Master’s neck.

“Aww, another one?” She sighed, “I should really tell Selice to stop watching those racing movies in the living room…”

“No, Master, about being human.” I said, a frown drawing across the carefully painted porcelain that comprised my lips. “It felt so real. I remember having a mom and a grandma, and my grandma was mean, and she made me clean and do so many things and I kept doing them wrong and I kept running and trying to rip these awful clothes off of me and-”

“Hush, hush, I’m sorry sweet thing…” My Master said, a heavier sigh following as she pet my head to calm me down. “It’s just a dream, I promise.” She paused to sit up. So she could put a finger under my chin to meet my lavender-blue eyes, “You’ve been a doll, a good doll no less, ever since the day I found you.”

I fret with the edge of my dress for a few seconds, scrunching and stretching the black fabric edged with white lace, a giddy smile on my face. The insecurity drown it out fast though.

“I… I don’t do as much as the other sisters though…” I said, looking down in shame, “It feels like I’m just always learning stuff everyone else already knows. Selice knows how to drive. Yvonne can sew and cook. Indigo is good with the client stuff and talking to people. Mai can write well and reach the top shelf…”

“We’ll get you a step-stool.” My Master pointed out with a gentle smile.

“Maa-steeer,” I whined, poking her in the cheek with a finger, “Don’t tease me… you know what I mean. It feels like everyone’s just taking care of me all day…”

“Is it wrong to be taken care of?” She asked, reaching up to flatten my poking hand and let it rest against her cheek, “You take care of me when I need it. You help the others when they need it. I don’t expect anything more from a doll of mine. Plus you’re learning faster than you think. Most people can’t learn how to sew in only a few months, Wendy, much less a toy like you.”

“Still…” I trailed off, withdrawing my hand from her cheek and folding it into my lap with the other. Instead, I kept shifting and fidgeting. Nerves and anxiety and fear and so much, just swarmed my head. It felt like I was back in that nightmare again.

“Master?” I asked.

“Yes?”

“...My head feels full.” I whined. “Can I have wall time?”

“Of course, sweetie. Let’s go.” Master said, shifting me in her lap so she could lift me like a princess as she stood. The feeling from that alone made all the bad stuff flutter and shift like leaves on a breeze.

Our home was a fairly large place. A three-floor slice of brick and glass in the heart of a city. The first floor was for Master’s store, the second the place where the kitchen and the bathrooms and the living room and Master’s bedroom was.

The third floor was for me and my sisters. Master always told me it had been an attic space before she and Indigo converted it into a what it was now. A massive playroom that spanned one wall to the other. Carpet covered the floors so none of us could slip and break. A big bookshelf of board games and a large table to play them on stretched across the largest area. A TV with a computer hooked up to it sat on an entertainment stand, with a variety of makeshift floor cushions in the form of pillows and pet beds in a loose arc in front of it.

Most importantly though, were the places for me and my sisters. Everyone got their own space to call their own along the perimeter of the third floor. Everyone put different things in them. Selice had lots of car posters and a computer with a steering wheel and pedals she can play racing games with. Yvonne kept her sewing machine and craft supplies in hers’ along with a wardrobe dedicated to stuff she was working on. Mai had a standing desk, piled high with partially written stories and books she’d read for inspiration.

Indigo and I’s were the most sparse. Indigo at least had a few mementos from her past: a guitar covered in stickers from shows she liked, a few framed photos she arranged on a shelf alongside old school books, and a few microphones she used to record songs with.

Mine by comparison, just had my shelf and my dolls. Everyone had a shelf. Including my dolls, which weren’t dolls like us, but still dolls so they deserved a shelf. Master taught me how to take care of them and which liked which. Even gave me notes to help me do it.

I didn’t recognize the handwriting though, it certainly wasn’t as bad as Master’s scrawled to-do lists.

“Hi, everyone…” I said with a weak wave as Master carried me up the stairs and into view of them, “Sorry I haven’t cleaned you today…”

“It’s okay, Wendy,” Master intoned as she approached my spot on the wall among all the others, “They understand.”

“I kno-ooow, but-”

“No buts. Dolls deserve wall time after having a nightmare.” Master said, glancing down at me with a stern look that softened to a smile in an instant.

I kicked my feet as she lifted me up and set me on my padded, painted shelf that hung from the wall. It was placed a few feet off the ground, so even now my shoes wouldn’t touch the floor. I thought it was a little scary only at first.

“Ready, sweetie?” Master asked, running her fingers through my hair to comb it out. I loved the feeling. Leaned into it and shut my eyes every chance I got. “Want a doll to hold?”

“Mmhmm…!” I said absent-mindedly as she continued running her hands through my hair, “I wanna hold Wendy…”

“…” Master stopped combing my hair and looked at me odd for a moment, before lightly poking the crest of my nose, “You’re Wendy, silly goose.”

“I’m not a goose…” I whined doubly pathetically now that I was getting teased and deprived of hair touches, “I’m a doll, and dolls don’t have names at first. You said I was named after Wendy didn’t you, Master? I wanna hold her.”

“I told you, baby,” Master said softly, taking my hand and in one of hers’, “You and Wendy were broken pretty bad when I found you and her and all the rest of your dolls. So I put you two together to make one whole doll and named you after her.”

“I know, but…” I sniffed, something strange worming its way through my torso, out through my joints, “I… I miss her? I never met her, but… I think I miss her. She was in my dream too and she was so pretty and so nice and she took care of me and...”

“Hush, my sweet doll, calm.” My Master intoned. Her words silenced mine. Made my mind slow and relax instead of race forwards. The lilt of them was so hard to ignore. Listening and obeying felt as natural as a human’s need to breathe.

“Let all that stiff stuff out of you. Out of your fingers, your feet… your arms, your legs… your joints, your eyes…”

Piece-by-piece I felt the worry wick away. The tension tying up my movements, my thoughts, leaked out of me as my Master resumed stroking my hair, straightening my skirts, adjusting my limp hands to fold in my lap. Warm hollowness replaced it. A peace that clung to me like a blanket or a fuzzy sweater.

“There you are. You’re just another doll on the wall, Wendy. And dolls don’t worry, don’t fret. They just… are.” Master said as my head finally slackened, only kept upright by the wall against the back of my head.

I felt small and far-away. Safe and warm. Like I was cuddling with Master at the beach again. Like the first day Master brought me home and my new sisters sat me on the couch to cuddle with me and dote on me. Like I didn’t have to be anything else but Master’s, her precious thing. A doll, no more, no less.

“Rest, little one.” The witch said, picking a carefully sculpted hand from her doll’s lap, and placing a kiss on the back of it. Wendy didn’t react. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. She was a doll, right now. Probably happier than she’d ever been.

It was still so young. So new to its’ new life. But bright as a blossom. Every night the witch thanked the gods of the earth for blessing her with such a wonderful thing as Wendy. It’d only been three months. But it felt like the new addition to their family had been there for years.

“I promise, I’ll never forget you...”” Vera said, replacing the doll’s hand into its lap, as she looked up into those soulful eyes.

Even now, they were full of more life than the person who’d come before.

[voidcrystalline]

Red Velvet Profiles

Please excuse me as I continue trying to find a formatting style that really suits these profiles. Someday I'll just have to go back through and update all the old ones once I perfect it.

Whole Group Notes: SM approached the Workshop while attempting to sunset several projects to allow more market share for upcoming projects. Red Velvet's profitability was markedly waning with occasional spikes in demand, but these spikes did not meet requirements for consistent revenue growth.

Subject Name: Joy

Acquisition: Subject was apprehended outside the set of a talk show she was making an appearance on. After initial resistance which seemed to stem from being startled, subject complied with all orders.

Containment: No special containment procedures necessary.

Features: Uncommonly large thighs, seductive demeanor.

Modifications: Standard preservative modifications made post-acquisition, very mild breast and glute augmentation (subject's requests for further breast and glute augmentation denied). Subject received elasticity, plasticity, and natural lubrication increase modifications pre-acquisition, which all seem to be reasonably effective.

Specialties: Conversation on sexual topics, comfort.

Designer Comments: Subject has, since acquisition, been deeply interested in sexual encounters of all sorts. She has not yet hinted at any form of sexual exhaustion, and regularly requests sexual activity from Workshop personnel and other slaves. Unlike her former group-mate, she insists on receiving consent before taking action, and seems to be quite inquisitive and experimental, inviting sexual partners to perform acts that they have been afraid to or ashamed of themselves for. She's become rather popular for this, and her cohort of slaves have mostly become quite sexually liberated in comparison to other groups. This presents some complications for potential buyers however. Subject has a tendency to get bored. When this occurs, she will refuse commands and become verbally abusive, which has been detrimental to personnel and other slaves. Punishments are only brief remedies for this behavior. It seems the best solution is to provide the subject with an exceptionally large, rotating pool of options for sexual encounters, whether that is a large number of additional slaves or something else, it is likely to be costly.

☆☆☆

Subject Name: Yeri

Acquisition: Subject was apprehended in an SM office with no complications or resistance albeit with some unkind words directed at her former manager.

Containment: Subject is to be considered dangerous at all times and should be kept in a room with advanced locks and minimal human contact except with owner. Highly recommended to not contain with other slaves.

Features: Uncommonly large breasts, uncommonly large lips, uncaring demeanor, futanari treatment.

Modifications: Standard preservative modifications made post-acquisition, mild bulking, very mild glute augmentation, no designer modifications (subject received futanari treatment surgery pre-acquisition, but has refused to divulge information on where surgery was performed or by whom).

Specialties: Titjobs, blowjobs.

Designer Comments: As mentioned in Containment, subject is to be considered dangerous at all times. However, this danger seems to be exclusive to those the subject does not recognize as authority figures, which can be a complicated distinction. Early post-acquisition, subject violently raped several other slaves in the same facility—causing injuries which, while not life-threatening, did require some hospitalization—before she was discovered. Psych evaluations did indicate this might happen in advance, but the subject's lack of aggressive behavior toward the psychiatrist and myself caused us to expect these tendencies to be fully latent. In interviews after containment procedures had been adjusted, subject expressed mildly reluctant submission toward me (which I believe will be applicable for her future owner as well), but no regrets for her violent actions. In her words, per the audio transcript, “We're beyond food chains, [Dsgn. Void]. Humanity has evolved past that, and you can't look at me and not realize I've evolved past humanity. You have too. We're all something more, made of minds, and the way we sustain ourselves and grow now is with more minds. If they're too weak to survive the will of the powerful, that just means the circle of life is still going strong.”

☆☆☆

Subject Name: Irene

Acquisition: Subject attempted to physically resist acquisition in her penthouse, and verbally threatened personnel with gunfire, but subject was incapable of escape and no firearms were found amongst her former belongings.

Containment: Though subject makes frequent attempts at escape, these attempts have been consistently inept. Simple locks should suffice for containment.

Features: Highly desired, quiet demeanor, uncommonly round glutes.

Modifications: Subject had preservative modifications of unknown origin pre-acquisition which interfered with our standard procedures. These modifications appear to be at least as effective as our own, but subject may be returned to Workshop facilities for adjustments as needed. Our research and development team is in the process of reverse-engineering her modifications now. Designer modification for genital numbing (temporarily reversible) is the only modification made by the Workshop.

Specialties: Anal, irrumatio.

Designer Comments: Subject was extremely resistant to training of any sort. At first it seemed this was due to initial training staff being primarily male—subject is very clearly gynephilic and androphobic—but resistant behavior continued even when all personnel assigned to her were female. The only time this changed was when she received oral-genital pleasure from another female-presenting individual (this persisted after the following training adjustments). Standard training was impossible, so her training was adjusted to be entirely conducted by male-presenting personnel who were instructed to only sexually utilize her orally and anally, and her genitalia modified to be entirely numb (though this can be remotely reversed). This proved to be successful, as the subject eventually conceded to standard labor tasks, ceased resistance to sexual activity though she still refuses to actively participate, and now generally submits to commands. Rewarding her once with a sexual encounter with a woman and briefly reversing her numbness did not ruin this progress, but the subject did not express gratitude so it is likely not worth repeating.

☆☆☆

Subject Name: Wendy

Acquisition: Subject was discovered in her home by personnel after not appearing for a recording session. Subject's lack of response confused personnel, but acquisition was otherwise uncomplicated.

Containment: Subject may be kept in a room with simple locks, but any containment for the subject should include, at minimum, a visible source of food and water. Standard preservative modifications reduce these needs but depending on her status, the subject may be incapable of meeting these needs normally.

Features: Multilingual, limited memory, fully docile demeanor.

Modifications: Standard preservative modifications made post-acquisition, instinct sharpening (causes subject to attempt to seek out sustenance and meet her own basic needs when not actively being manipulated), mild bulking, no designer modifications, subject seems to have been modified pre-acquisition but the method and exact nature is currently unknown and causes the subject to frequently enter trance-like states (Workshop research teams are investigating and buyer will be informed immediately if more details are discovered).

Specialties: Mindless sex, somnophilia.

Designer Comments: Potential buyers need to know above all else that the subject is a high-maintenance slave, and accommodations will need to be made to keep her alive. Containment, above, merely covers the minimum. Subject’s default state of being appears to be similar to sleep-walking or hypnosis. Subject is nearly vegetative (though we were able to modify her instincts so she is automatically compelled to meet her own basic survival needs if the means to do so is within visual range), but is capable of movement and somewhat slurred speech. Subject doesn’t react to any but the most extreme physical stimuli, but will react immediately when spoken to and will follow any softly voiced instruction given to her. No matter the instruction (including commands to “wake up,” “regain self-control,” etc), however, subject will slowly return to the trance-like state over the course of five to twelve minutes depending on the intensity of the commanded action, and her ability to follow the command will diminish at the same rate. Repeated commands can extend this time frame with diminishing returns, but at most seems to be able to lengthen the time by five more minutes, and causes a time frame of random length in which subject does not react to further instruction. As we suspect this could be an incredibly useful modification, Workshop researchers are still attempting to recreate this effect to impose it on slaves in the future, lessen the severity of the effect, and to reverse it. If commanded to wake up, the subject becomes distinctly lucid and then mildly to severely distressed depending on the situation, ie. being in her bedroom to being engaged in a multi-penetrative sexual act respectively. Subject has proven totally incapable of mentally processing her situation in a timely enough fashion to explain it to personnel, and loses the memory of these lucid moments during her trance states. Curiously, she does seem to retain some memory of events during the trance states, but implies that she experiences them much as one would experience a dream.

☆☆☆

Subject Name: Seulgi

Acquisition: Acquisition was complicated by subject's unknown modification. but a second wave of personnel in hazmat gear succeeded with little difficulty. First wave has been medically observed since, and no lasting negative effects have been noted besides mild confusion about the events in the half of the team not debriefed on subject's modification.

Containment: Subject should be kept in a room with advanced electronic locks that can only be controlled remotely. Heating and air conditioning must be heavily filtered both in and out of enclosure.

Features: Fully natural besides modifications noted below, exceptional physical dexterity and agility, quiet demeanor.

Modifications: Standard preservative modifications made post-acquisition, nipples pierced, clitoris pierced, belly button pierced, bones reinforced via medication, permanent (removable) birth control, unknown modification made pre-acquisition which seems to cause heightened aggression and arousal in others via olfactory senses.

Specialties: Gangbang, rough.

Designer Comments: During and shortly after acquisition, it was discovered that subject had been forcibly subjected to a modification which has so far proven impossible to reverse. The scent of subject's sweat seems to dull the inhibitions of, and increase both aggression and arousal, in anybody who smells it. This has placed the subject in many scenarios ranging from uncomfortable and dangerous. Since we reasoned it out, we have been able to avoid further unintentional incidents. Unfortunately, we have been unable to find exactly what this modification did or how to reverse it. In the meantime, we will be selling this subject as a specialty sex toy, rather than a standard slave. The individuals who find themselves near the subject at the wrong times report that the effect is somewhat like a soft drug-induced high, and they do not recall their own aggression; just an extremely enjoyable and vaguely dreamlike sexual encounter. Subject, on the other hand, experiences the event in objective reality, as a rather violent rape. Some modifications have been made to the subject to avoid permanent damage and unwanted pregnancies, and some cosmetic modifications appear to have been made accidentally post-acquisition, presumably at some point before research had concluded on subject’s pre-acquisition modification, though records from that period appear rather unreliable.

[faerghusfucker]

i emptied and then rebranded this blog entirely just so i could have somewhere to yap abt 3H without bothering my (uninterested) friends so HERE WE ARE

guys i think dimitri cut his own hair pre-ts???? bc like have you ever rotated his model and seen how fuckass his short haircut actually is???

like. there’s pieces sticking out everywhere, the ends are blunt, and like the super long pieces are reminiscent to me of the fuckass bob he had as a child.

i feel like in faerghus men don’t rlly cut their hair super often, like lambert, rodrigue, and felix all have pretty long hair. i’m thinking the exception to this is if they’re doing combat frequently, so that’s why sylvain and matthias wear their hair pretty short bc they’re almost always dealing with sreng and bandits n shit bc gautier is a mess.

and i can see dimitri like. getting ready to leave for garreg mach and having his fuckass bob getting all in his face and being like “hrmm this will not do” and taking matters into his own hands.

BUT LIKE OBVIOUSLY THIS BOY IS CLUMSY ASF so he’s just haphazardly snipping away until. whatever that thing is happens 💀 i’m convinced he broke the scissors and then gave up

and then he never does it again and either grows his hair out or asks felix to help him out with it since i feel like felix would care a lot abt taking care of his hair and stuff (have you SEEN him in hopes????)

that’s enough out of me lol i could go on all day just yapping abt character design stuff like that

[lowpolynpixelated]

Call of Duty and the beast that must die

Written by: Clair Beckett

Upon booting up Call of Duty: Black Ops 6 for the first time I was assaulted with a modern "Marvel" type banner, proudly declaring the expansive media franchise that is CALL OF DUTY. I was then given three different screens filled with the names of game studios swallowed by the machine in the series' long and crumbling history of game after game after game. Call of Duty claims itself a pillar of the industry. One of the many posts that hold up the very sky of the video game landscape. It stands now before me, million dollar propaganda for the US military starring Spawn and Nicki Minaj for a limited time only, but only if you can pay the price of admission.

The next thing I was told, of course, was to make an Activision account. The game then prompted me to add my phone number and restart the game twice to make sure that all the personal data it wanted from me was set to go. Modern video games have gone so far beyond what they began as and yet they still ride the corpses of the culture the executives strangled to death loudly and proudly. Remember COD4? Remember Modern Warfare 2? Well we do! And we're happy to announce that we've rewritten and re-released them for $70 with extra US warcrimes written to look like the russians did it! Buy now and get a new golden skin for the gun that will only be in the cash shop rotation for the next two weeks!

Loading into the launchers that games like Halo and Call of Duty have become is insulting. But at least Halo has the dignity to somewhat look like a game instead of a collection of repackaged and hastily made content so that you can push its cosmetics exchange and season passes safely underneath some menus so they don't bother while you try to do the thing you paid for without logging in to your Microsoft account first. No, Call of Duty loads you into a fantastic screen filled with games you COULD own and cosmetics it wants you to spend the money on first. But how did this happen? I thought we were going to vote with our wallets? Show those big companies that we're not gonna take it anymore! Well, astute video gameist, we did. Or, folks like you did, and the resounding answer was "more forever so the money we're making off these pre-order bonuses and cosmetic mircotransations." Except it hasn't slowed down? Has it? So called "microtransactions" have ballooned up to upwards of $20 for single weapon skins or character packs, art that is made at the behest of artists who are cycled out of the offices like so many reams of paper wasted on stock reports.

Call of Duty wastes 0 time showing you all the ways you can spend money every way possible. If you select the game you "own" you'll first be prompted to upgrade to the ultimate edition, then when you select multiplayer you'll be prompted to purchase this month's battlepass, when you select what character you want to present as on each team you get bombarded with skins, pricetags displayed proudly larger than the actual name of the skin. Too, damn, far. Is what this nonsense is. Far be it from me to lay down my journalistic integrity for the absolute slog that fucking Call of Duty has become, but is this really what we play now? Is this what the multi-million dollar companies have to offer? Do you think that anyone working on these games had their passion cared for? Their intent respected? The answer, dear reader, is no.

No, no this isn't about video games anymore. But your average "gamer", as it were, hasn't cared about this in about 10 years. The "gamer culture" that has been fostered within the triple A sphere of the landscape is one of complacency and non questioning attitudes of "the next big thing must be the best because it's the next and the biggest!" when in actuality it's just the biggest number of people laid off without notice and the biggest return for five people in thousand dollar suits. Modern Call of Duty props itself up on the idea of legacy. The idea that the name itself is enough to warrant the money you pay for the content it will legally take away from you in a matter of a few short years so they can save on server costs. But what IS the legacy of Call of Duty? The original titles helped shape the first person shooter landscape, and the fourth title revolutionized multiplayer action games alongside the likes of Halo, but what came after? Almost immediately after COD4's smashing success it traded any sort of message and want for things like gameplay innovation or narrative cohesiveness for an iterative cycle at the behest of a publisher in some of the early days of the triple A landscape becoming a barren sprawl of corporate greed. Mind you I said some of the early days, corporate greed has always been intrinsically tied to the video game landscape but I digress. Call of Duty became one of the first annual franchises. Swapping developer each year back and forth to make games that were baseline iterative on the last promising "bigger and better but also the same, we promise" ad nauseam until something had to give. Modern Warfare 2 is heralded as a gold standard for the series, but it mostly has to do with the most memorable levels letting you gun down civilians in an airport. Otherwise it was the same jarheaded OO-RA gun em' down action that the first game had, minus some rather potent anti-war sentiments.

Call of Duty's legacy then is one of "gamer culture", fiercely embroiled in charging the most for the least at the promise of it being the very bleeding edge of what your new several hundred dollar machine can do. The idea of the annual franchise sold more than consoles it sold promises to people, and executives loved that. The culture I speak of you can see everwhere in the mid to late 2000s and early to mid 2010s before the absurdity of it all really started to take root. From Mountain Dew cans boasting cool spec ops dudes in tactical gear and offering double XP should you buy the sugary sludge, to commercials starring then YouTube celebrities famous for blowing things up with military grade firearms on empty land. Gamer culture was and still is top priority in ensuring people don't question the quality or practices of the things they're being sold now. As long as a company can tug on the heartstrings of millions by saying things like "We grew up playing (insert late 90s/early 2000s video game title here) so we get what makes games fun." They have carte blanche to repackage, resell, and further monetize things that should not cost that much if anything at all. The idea that the name "Call of Duty" should stand as the base pricepoint to sell you a launcher to host all the games you could own while barely showing you the ones you do is that corporate greed taken to such a far extreme it's maddening to think about why people aren't more fucking angry about this.

The great Stephanie Sterling has long spoken on points like this about companies like Activision/Blizzard, Nintendo, and EA. Titans of the industry now only famous for how many people they layoff every few months and how much they charge for games that shouldn't cost that much. In a 2019 article on how Apex Legends ended up saving Electronic Arts from major stock crashes, she said the following:

"Last generation saw the rise of the “fee to pay” game. The PlayStation 3 and Xbox 360 made online connectivity obligatory for modern consoles, and it was only a matter of time because videogame publishers smelled an opportunity to make money from constant access to their customers. Full premium expansions for videogames gave way to downloadable content, which in turn gave way to microtransactions appropriated from free-to-play games. Only, they never made the games containing them free.

New “AAA” titles saw their entire in-game economies overhauled for the worse in order to support microtransactions. Dead Space 3, notoriously, had to reduce all its horror elements and become a traditional action game to support a desperate weapon crafting economy. This was excused by pundits and spokespeople as offering players a “choice,” without addressing the fact that psychologically manipulative gameplay elements were not things we could opt out of in the games we were paying sixty dollars for.

Having gotten away with it, however, publishers only grew worse. With traditional DLC, season passes, and multiple special editions, many companies have more than quadrupled down on their monetization, and modern games are slowly - subtly - starting to resemble starter packs more than finished products."

-Stephanie Sterling, "How Apex Legends Saved EA's Ass... In Spite of EA", Feb. 12, 2019

In microcosm I think this perfectly encapsulates what the new legacy of things like Call of Duty is. Full and even fuller priced games being stocked with more and more transactions to pull the most out of the consumer without giving anything meaningful in return. Virtual rewards for real world currency that can be taken away at a moment's notice. Fortnite is most famous for popularizing the "battlepass" style of monetization and rotating cash shop storefronts. By having you purchase funny in-game tokens to buy your skins it hoped to have you forget about the 30$ you just spent on said tokens. Call of Duty and its piers have no such interests. No, cold hard cash is the only way it presents its purchasable garbage and that's what you pay each time you give in to one of it's dozens of FOMO inducing splash screens and reminders. You are taken advantage of for your money. That's not even to touch on the genre destroying concept of "crossover content" which only serves to further drive the idea of sales over substance, with more of your favourite characters and celebrities being added to these games in the form of poorly animated and uncanny models for 20$ a pop.

This new form of selling a legacy can only end in more of the same. More skilled artists, developers, and writers being laid off into an industry that cannot afford to hire them back. Infinite growth has already reached it's glass ceiling and is pretending that it simply cannot see it due to it's see-through nature. These giants of the industry, these beasts, must die to see meaningful creative growth return to such spheres as the triple A landscape. The old must give way to the new, the nostalgia has been wrung out like so many drops from an already dry sponge. Name's are not worth paying for, and neither are concepts. We must think and act critically of these systems if we are to escape them. Voting with your wallet is a false initiative. Participating in the market they have a stranglehold on cannot lead to their downfall. This is all to say the following: Stop buying this nonsense. Look more into the independent scene. Find your new favourite games through channels like itch.io or the "indie" spaces on the other major storefronts. Pay for the games that care about what they are. And for the love of everything stop purchasing US Army propaganda. I'd like to recommend the likes of Stephanie Sterling, as previously mentioned, who's journalistic integrity and strength has persevered through some of the worst of gaming's tumultuous history. Jacob Geller, who's introspective analysis of video games as pieces of living breathing art tell so much about the passion and craft that goes into something as commonplace as "a video game". And finally Noah Caldwell-Gervais, a man who I can only describe as one of the most earnest, honest, and just plain down-to-earth guys to ever grace the gaming landscape. These three along with countless others are avenues into further understanding the type of landscape video games exist in in the modern day. I hope you come away from either this article or their work with something new, be it a game or a thought on all this mess. Thanks for reading.

Sources and links:

"How Apex Legends Saved EA's Ass... In Spite of EA"

Stephanie Sterling's work

Analyzing Every Torture Scene in Call of Duty — All 46 of Them (Jacob Geller)

How Many Clicks Does It Take To Get to the Center of Diablo? [A Franchise Retrospective] (Noah Gervais)

[shadowsndaisies]

dogfighting 101: 03 - clear mind, clear skies

wc: 2.2k

synopsis: tempers are rising

main masterlist

athena-verse master post

By the time you made it back to the Aviator lounge, your arms were sore, and you knew your shoulders would soon become so as well. Harvard and Yale were on your tail as you walked in, and you were greeted by applause and a few whistles and cheers from your fellow aviators.

You roll your eyes as the boys slump onto the sofa. You drop your gear beside them and start stretching. You had time until the first rotations were done, and figured you might’ve gotten lucky with your dad this go around, but were sure it wouldn’t happen again in the next round.

You rolled your shoulders and stretched your arms and back, doing your best to loosen up the muscles and tendons that were sure to be screaming violently at you tomorrow.

When the first round concluded, Hondo radioed in the second-round match-ups.

You smiled at Phoenix and Bob as your names were called together, and she nodded at you, clearly happy with the outcome as well. Round two would consist of Omaha and Halo with Rooster, Hangman with Coyote, Harvard and Yale with Shadow and Lucky, and Fritz with Payback and Fanboy.

Round two did not bring the same success, for you, or for anyone but your dad.

You’d always known your father was an exceptional flier, he started teaching you as soon it was legal (a little before that if we’re honest), but you’d never seen him fly like this. You’d been through cat and mouse drills, even dogfighting drills, but nothing like the way your dad was on everyone’s tail. Not the way he continued to get tone on a almost perfect success rate. This was something else entirely, and if he was doing this to make a point, you weren’t sure you wanted to know why.

Round two was not a success, but flying with Nat was as good as ever. She had your back and you had hers, and when you got shot down, protecting her and Bob, she sat on the tarmac until your push ups were done. Grabbing your gear and hauling it back inside for you.

Round three brought problems, everyone was starting to get tired, arms were sore, and lots of glares were being thrown at Payback and Fanboy for their big mouths. And then the pairings came tumbling from Hondo’s lips; Phoenix and Bob with Coyote, Omaha and Halo with Harvard and Yale, Hangman with Payback and Fanboy, Shadow and Lucky with Fritz, and you… with Rooster.

You saw Harvard and Yale turn to you, and then glare at Rooster, caught the side glance Hangman sent your way, and the unabashed and completely curious look in Phoenix’s eye that was starting to annoy you.

You of course didn’t say anything, you didn’t even look at him. Instead, you pushed some flyaways out of your face, tightened your laces, and put your vest back on. Waiting to be summoned down to the Tarmac.

When you got down you did a quick pre-check, knowing your jet was already primed after the last two rounds.

“Athena!” It was Rooster, but the tarmac was loud, and if you were lucky, maybe he’d drop it.

When had you ever been that lucky?

“Athena, c’mon!” he shouts again, and your shoulders tense. “Lieutenant Mitchell!” he shouts and this time you stop. Hangman, Payback, and Fanboy were the next group, starting to get in their jets while you and Rooster were supposed to be doing pre-flight prep.

Bradley was loud enough on the last shout that he also caught their attention. Payback looked up and his eyes danced between you and Bradley before shaking his head and looking back at his plane, pushing at Fanboy to do the same. Jake, on the other hand, stood up from where he had been crouched, and was staring unabashed directly at you. You sigh, placing your stuff down, and then turn to look at Bradley.

He looked just as tense as you felt.

“We can’t-” he starts and sighs, pushing the aviators off his eyes to stare straight at you. “We can’t fly like this.”

“I don’t have a problem,” you say flippantly.

“Oh, thank god for that,” he scoffs sarcastically, and you roll your eyes. “Then say something, (Y/n), talk to me, do something! It’s not like you ever email me back!”

“Keep your god damn voice down, Bradley. We are not teenagers, you do not get to shout at me when you get mad, not anymore. And you do not get to air out our shit for everyone else to see. So you better get that temper in check, and then leave it on the ground, because if you fly with that shit, you’ll get us all killed.”

Rooster pauses, his face scrunches up and then he sighs.

“We don’t have a problem, because that implies there had to be something to fuck up, and by my count, there hasn’t been, not in over a decade,” you tack on, and his lips tug down. “It’s going to be a shit show when we get up there, so how about we do our best to lessen that, my arms are starting to get tired,” you say, bending to grab your stuff and then continue your pre-checks.

When you turn you see Jake looking like he’s about to march over, and you shake your head, and watch as he sighs but goes back to his jet.

…

Normally when you’re in the air, there’s a sense of comfort, but being up in the air with Bradley and your dad, sets your spidey-senses on edge. Jake, Payback, and Fanboy hadn’t been successful and now here you were.

“Well Aviators, it’s time for this fight to begin,” your dad announces, but his voice is tense and you all know why.

“Let’s turn and burn, Rooster,” you call out, trying to keep yourself in check.

“Breaking left,” he announces and you do the opposite.

“Eyes?” you ask.

“Negative.”

Suddenly there’s a jet wash, as Maverick shoots up on your right.

“Shit, fuck,” you cuss as your hurry to steady your jet. “Red card,” you hiss out.

“I thought we switched to penalty minutes?” Maverick asks and your breath hitches at your faux pas.

In the before, before Bradley stormed out, before bridges were burned, but after Carole’s death. After Bradley moved in, there was a time that you privately consider some of the best in your childhood. Your dad used to take you and Bradley up in planes with Ice. Legally, you have to be 14 to start flying planes but with a licensed adult, and 16 to fly solo. Bradley was 17 and you were just a few months short of turning 14. Ice and your dad decided it was close enough. They’d put you in jets, the beginner kind (as if that existed), deciding that you’d been in small planes enough, to know the basics. Bradley flying solo was getting a taste for it, Ice loved the cat and mouse or dogfighting drills you’d run. He’d barely break a sweat but they were fun. You had called out “Red card!” after Bradley fucked around a little too close to you during one of those flights. Ice and your dad had laughed, but you’d been adamant, still getting used to the feel of the jets. And slowly you all started using the language, Maverick and Ice often calling out “Yellow” when you and Brad got a little too competitive. In the end, it was Ice’s idea to switch to penalty minutes like in a Hockey game. Penalties like time outs to be served when you all had your feet back on the ground. Anything from a 2-minute minor, 5-minutes, 10-minute major, and even an ejection from the game (being grounded for an undefined set of time).

“That was a long time ago,” is all you manage to offer, but it pulls you back to the moment, and you work to shove it all down.

You had rules for a reason. Yale and Harvard, they seemed to understand better than anyone else, maybe because they’d seen you distracted and dissociative on the ground, and they could imagine just how detrimental it would be in the sky. You left this shit on the ground for a reason, a clear mind meant clear skies.

“He’s on your 2 o’clock high,” Bradley offers.

You turn, and then you see your dad, he sticks to you. He stays close, following each and every move you make like a shadow.

You turn quickly going up, “Where the hell are you, Rooster?” you ask, risking a glance out the canopy as you start pulling evasive maneuvers, looking at both your dad and then again for Rooster.

“I’m coming,” he huffs, but your dad seems to get closer

“Pick up the god damn pace, Bradshaw, he’s closing in!” you shout again.

“I said, I’m coming! Just take a fucking breath, Mitchell!” he shouts back, there’s the temper.

If your comms had been connected to the radio in the lounge you would be able to hear the “oh shits” let out by more than a few of the aviators waiting on deck. If you were there you would be able to see the looks Harvard and Yale shared, the furrowed brow on Phoenix, and the way Hangman’s fist clenched as his eyes flicked to the radar monitor showcasing the movements of each plane, he had just gotten back after completing his push-ups.

You want to bite back with something, anything, harsh words bubble in your mouth but you keep it shut and breath heavily instead. You dive into a barrel roll when your dad gets closer. You look out and you see Bradley coming up on his six.

“Take the shot, Rooster!” you shout, knowing you couldn't sustain this.

Unfortunately and predictably, Rooster hesitates.

Maverick seems like he was expecting that as well, because the second you’re forced to straighten out, your dad shoots forward and hits you with tone.

“Fuck!” you shout, hitting the side of your jet.

“Go see Hondo,” Maverick sighs, and you turn to the ground, silently fuming the entire time.

...

You were already doing your push-ups by the time Bradley gets out of his jet. Your flight-suit's pulled down, and your tank-top's on display as the asphalt dug angrily into your palms. Phoenix, Bob, and Coyote had just taken off for their turn and Harvard and Yale were walking up to start their pre-flight checks with Omaha and Halo. They pause by you, as if waiting, but Hondo waves them along. Then Bradley comes walking toward you and both Harvard and Yale shoulder past him, causing Rooster to pause and glare at their backs.

“Girl, you gotta get this shit in check,” Hondo’s voice is low. “you know the stakes,” he reminds you and you turn to glare at him.

“Keep counting, Hondo,” you say simply.

He shakes his head but continues to do as requested.

You know he's right, you don’t like it, but whatever’s coming, you know it’d be better if everyone was on a good note. Bradley could stew in this vindictive mess that he created for all you cared. What you didn't care for though was the connotation that it was your responsibility to fix it. After all, he was the one who broke it.

Bradley waits, though. He waits until your push-ups are done and when there's nowhere else for you to be distracted or to avoid, he stares hard at you. To your credit, you stare back.

You last all of a minute before you finally cave, "You need to get your shit together, Bradshaw!”

He stares at you for a minute longer, hesitating with what to say. You know he’s thinking too hard, you can see it in his expression, somehow still able to read him like you did when you were teenagers, despite the time and distance that has separated you since.

You hate him a little bit more in that moment, for being as readable as he used to be.

You hate him for all the things he said, the insecurities he took advantage of.

But you hate him the most because for a very long time, there was no one you trusted more than him.

And for a very long time after, he made it hard to trust others.

In the end, he waits too long hesitating too much with what he wanted to say, and you give up. The fire that was burning in you was like a star that died, burning too bright and then burning itself out.

"I can't do this with you, I can't go through it again with you. Our lives are on the line, and it’s not just about you and me, everyone’s lives are on the line and I can't, I won’t go through this again,” you finally manage to spit at him.

Your skin is blistering under his gaze, but he still doesn't say anything. You scoff, pushing your hair back, before you turn and start walking back into the hanger.

Hondo expected you to be the bigger person, and maybe if it had been anyone else you could be.

But not with Bradley.

Not after everything.

...

everything: @butterfly-skinnylegend

athena’s tags: @omgbrianab @smoothdogsgirl @bazellawriz @sbrewer21 @inky-sun @djs8891 @rory-cakes @geeksareunique @je6291 @fanreader75 @whoismurphyslaw @kee-0-kee

[marquisguyun]

LGIEF Ep 31-32

So I finished watching Love Game in Eastern Fantasy... definitely still trying to process the last two episodes.

I feel like all that had a potential to be very interesting? I'm just not sure it hit right for me.

The time travel thing? They were like "let's go back to the beginning together" and then they were just right before he died and magically knew how to make things actually work this time? It happened so fast it kinda gave me whiplash. Honestly a good bit of the last two episodes felt kinda contrived to me in a way that maybe was explained better in the novel? Idk how close this adaptation is since I haven't read it

The author thing? I love some good meta involving the author, but it felt like both Miaomiao and Zi Qi just kinda suddenly knew things? Like Miaomiao being like "oh only the author can change the ending and also this was his debut novel he wrote when he was young and sad." I don't mind the show not telling us things right away (I loved the revelation that she knew what she was giving up when she accepted the power) or skipping the actual conversations with the System or what not, it just felt like it came out of no where, honestly.

And Zi Qi feels like a separate character in a way that Lin Yu doesn't, so him suddenly having been Fu Zhou the whole time (without knowing it?) kinda feels like it undermines Zi Qi's emotional arc? I do like the way both young Zi Qi and young Fu Zhou had to live restrained lives, it feels thematically resonant

It felt kinda odd too that Mu Yao and Liu Fuyi didn't have any presence at the ending when Cui Cui and his grandfather do? And I hope Miaomiao fully remembers her "dream" now that she has met her author

Idk, I really like most of the show, but I'm going to have to rotate the ending around in my brain for a while, I think. I don't hate it, but I'm just still stuck on ?????? so I'm reserving my final opinion. Maybe it will grow on me! Or maybe I'll just hang out pre-Catastrophe of the Heavens when they've defeated the Resentful Woman and everything is fine and everyone (except Cui Cui's grandfather) is together