#Forbes Tech

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The Brave Little Toaster

Picks and Shovels is a new, standalone technothriller starring Marty Hench, my two-fisted, hard-fighting, tech-scam-busting forensic accountant. You can pre-order it on my latest Kickstarter, which features a brilliant audiobook read by Wil Wheaton.

The AI bubble is the new crypto bubble: you can tell because the same people are behind it, and they're doing the same thing with AI as they did with crypto – trying desperately to find a use case to cram it into, despite the yawning indifference and outright hostility of the users:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/09/autocomplete-worshippers/#the-real-ai-was-the-corporations-that-we-fought-along-the-way

This week on the excellent Trashfuture podcast, the regulars – joined by 404 Media's Jason Koebler – have a hilarious – as in, I was wheezing with laughter! – riff on this year's CES, where companies are demoing home appliances with LLMs built in:

https://www.podbean.com/media/share/pb-hgi6c-179b908

Why would you need a chatbot in your dishwasher? As it turns out, there's a credulous, Poe's-law-grade Forbes article that lays out the (incredibly stupid) case for this (incredibly stupid) idea:

https://www.forbes.com/sites/bernardmarr/2024/03/29/generative-ai-is-coming-to-your-home-appliances/

As the Trashfuturians mapped out this new apex of the AI hype cycle, I found myself thinking of a short story I wrote 15 years ago, satirizing the "Internet of Things" hype we were mired in. It's called "The Brave Little Toaster", and it was published in MIT Tech Review's TRSF anthology in 2011:

http://bestsf.net/trsf-the-best-new-science-fiction-technology-review-2011/

The story was meant to poke fun at the preposterous IoT hype of the day, and I recall thinking that creating a world of talking appliance was the height of Philip K Dickist absurdism. Little did I dream that a decade and a half later, the story would be even more relevant, thanks to AI pump-and-dumpers who sweatily jammed chatbots into kitchen appliances.

So I figured I'd republish The Brave Little Toaster; it's been reprinted here and there since (there's a high school English textbook that included it, along with a bunch of pretty fun exercises for students), and I podcasted it back in the day:

https://ia803103.us.archive.org/35/items/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_212/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_212_Brave_Little_Toaster.mp3

A word about the title of this story. It should sound familiar – I nicked it from a brilliant story by Tom Disch that was made into a very weird cartoon:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I8C_JaT8Lvg

My story is one of several I wrote by stealing the titles of other stories and riffing on them; they were very successful, winning several awards, getting widely translated and reprinted, and so on:

https://locusmag.com/2012/05/cory-doctorow-a-prose-by-any-other-name/

All right, on to the story!

One day, Mister Toussaint came home to find an extra 300 euros' worth of groceries on his doorstep. So he called up Miz Rousseau, the grocer, and said, "Why have you sent me all this food? My fridge is already full of delicious things. I don't need this stuff and besides, I can't pay for it."

But Miz Rousseau told him that he had ordered the food. His refrigerator had sent in the list, and she had the signed order to prove it.

Furious, Mister Toussaint confronted his refrigerator. It was mysteriously empty, even though it had been full that morning. Or rather, it was almost empty: there was a single pouch of energy drink sitting on a shelf in the back. He'd gotten it from an enthusiastically smiling young woman on the metro platform the day before. She'd been giving them to everyone.

"Why did you throw away all my food?" he demanded. The refrigerator hummed smugly at him.

"It was spoiled," it said.

#

But the food hadn't been spoiled. Mister Toussaint pored over his refrigerator's diagnostics and logfiles, and soon enough, he had the answer. It was the energy beverage, of course.

"Row, row, row your boat," it sang. "Gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, I'm offgassing ethelyne." Mister Toussaint sniffed the pouch suspiciously.

"No you're not," he said. The label said that the drink was called LOONY GOONY and it promised ONE TRILLION TIMES MORE POWERFUL THAN ESPRESSO!!!!!ONE11! Mister Toussaint began to suspect that the pouch was some kind of stupid Internet of Things prank. He hated those.

He chucked the pouch in the rubbish can and put his new groceries away.

#

The next day, Mister Toussaint came home and discovered that the overflowing rubbish was still sitting in its little bag under the sink. The can had not cycled it through the trapdoor to the chute that ran to the big collection-point at ground level, 104 storeys below.

"Why haven't you emptied yourself?" he demanded. The trashcan told him that toxic substances had to be manually sorted. "What toxic substances?"

So he took out everything in the bin, one piece at a time. You've probably guessed what the trouble was.

"Excuse me if I'm chattery, I do not mean to nattery, but I'm a mercury battery!" LOONY GOONY's singing voice really got on Mister Toussaint's nerves.

"No you're not," Mister Toussaint said.

#

Mister Toussaint tried the microwave. Even the cleverest squeezy-pouch couldn't survive a good nuking. But the microwave wouldn't switch on. "I'm no drink and I'm no meal," LOONY GOONY sang. "I'm a ferrous lump of steel!"

The dishwasher wouldn't wash it ("I don't mean to annoy or chafe, but I'm simply not dishwasher safe!"). The toilet wouldn't flush it ("I don't belong in the bog, because down there I'm sure to clog!"). The windows wouldn't retract their safety screen to let it drop, but that wasn't much of a surprise.

"I hate you," Mister Toussaint said to LOONY GOONY, and he stuck it in his coat pocket. He'd throw it out in a trash-can on the way to work.

#

They arrested Mister Toussaint at the 678th Street station. They were waiting for him on the platform, and they cuffed him just as soon as he stepped off the train. The entire station had been evacuated and the police wore full biohazard containment gear. They'd even shrinkwrapped their machine-guns.

"You'd better wear a breather and you'd better wear a hat, I'm a vial of terrible deadly hazmat," LOONY GOONY sang.

When they released Mister Toussaint the next day, they made him take LOONY GOONY home with him. There were lots more people with LOONY GOONYs to process.

#

Mister Toussaint paid the rush-rush fee that the storage depot charged to send over his container. They forklifted it out of the giant warehouse under the desert and zipped it straight to the cargo-bay in Mister Toussaint's building. He put on old, stupid clothes and clipped some lights to his glasses and started sorting.

Most of the things in container were stupid. He'd been throwing away stupid stuff all his life, because the smart stuff was just so much easier. But then his grandpa had died and they'd cleaned out his little room at the pensioner's ward and he'd just shoved it all in the container and sent it out the desert.

From time to time, he'd thought of the eight cubic meters of stupidity he'd inherited and sighed a put-upon sigh. He'd loved Grandpa, but he wished the old man had used some of the ample spare time from the tail end of his life to replace his junk with stuff that could more gracefully reintegrate with the materials stream.

How inconsiderate!

#

The house chattered enthusiastically at the toaster when he plugged it in, but the toaster said nothing back. It couldn't. It was stupid. Its bread-slots were crusted over with carbon residue and it dribbled crumbs from the ill-fitting tray beneath it. It had been designed and built by cavemen who hadn't ever considered the advantages of networked environments.

It was stupid, but it was brave. It would do anything Mister Toussaint asked it to do.

"It's getting hot and sticky and I'm not playing any games, you'd better get me out before I burst into flames!" LOONY GOONY sang loudly, but the toaster ignored it.

"I don't mean to endanger your abode, but if you don't let me out, I'm going to explode!" The smart appliances chattered nervously at one another, but the brave little toaster said nothing as Mister Toussaint depressed its lever again.

"You'd better get out and save your ass, before I start leaking poison gas!" LOONY GOONY's voice was panicky. Mister Toussaint smiled and depressed the lever.

Just as he did, he thought to check in with the flat's diagnostics. Just in time, too! Its quorum-sensors were redlining as it listened in on the appliances' consternation. Mister Toussaint unplugged the fridge and the microwave and the dishwasher.

The cooker and trash-can were hard-wired, but they didn't represent a quorum.

#

The fire department took away the melted toaster and used their axes to knock huge, vindictive holes in Mister Toussaint's walls. "Just looking for embers," they claimed. But he knew that they were pissed off because there was simply no good excuse for sticking a pouch of independently powered computation and sensors and transmitters into an antique toaster and pushing down the lever until oily, toxic smoke filled the whole 104th floor.

Mister Toussaint's neighbors weren't happy about it either.

But Mister Toussaint didn't mind. It had all been worth it, just to hear LOONY GOONY beg and weep for its life as its edges curled up and blackened.

He argued mightily, but the firefighters refused to let him keep the toaster.

#

If you enjoyed that and would like to read more of my fiction, may I suggest that you pre-order my next novel as a print book, ebook or audiobook, via the Kickstarter I launched yesterday?

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/doctorow/picks-and-shovels-marty-hench-at-the-dawn-of-enshittification?ref=created_projects

Check out my Kickstarter to pre-order copies of my next novel, Picks and Shovels!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/08/sirius-cybernetics-corporation/#chatterbox

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[unbfacts]

All centibillionaires first reached $100 billion in 2017 or later, except Bill Gates, who briefly crossed the milestone in 1999 during the dot-com boom.

[nando161mando]

Heath care denied? Forbes says take it up with your boss

https://www.forbes.com/sites/brucejapsen/2024/12/08/if-you-want-unitedhealthcare-to-cover-everything-talk-to-trump-or-your-employer/

[vimbry-moved]

jesus christ matt mullenweg is 40 years old

[saywhat-politics]

The people in the top three spots on Forbes' billionaire list—Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, and Mark Zuckerberg—will have prime seats at President-elect Trump's inauguration next week. NBC News, citing "an official involved with the planning of the event," reports that the three tech billionaires will be sitting together on the platform with other high-profile guests, including Trump's Cabinet nominees. Bezos and Zuckerberg's companies, Amazon and Meta, have each donated $1 million to the inauguration, while Musk spent more than $250 million to help Trump win the election, reports Reuters.

[howtechon]

Amazon announces Nova, a new family of multimodal AI models

At its re:Invent conference on Tuesday, Amazon Web Services (AWS), Amazon’s cloud computing division, announced a new family of generative AI, multimodal models called Nova. There’s four text-focused models in total: Micro, Lite, Pro, and Premier. Micro, Lite, and Pro are available today for AWS customers, while Premiere will launch in early 2025, Amazon CEO Andy Jassy said onstage. In addition…

[ukjournal]

Meet Forbes Senior Contributor Billy Bambrough’s | Master of Tech Journalism

In the bustling landscape of journalism, where information is the currency and technology serves as its engine, one name stands out prominently: Billy Bambrough. Situated in Greater London, England, United Kingdom, Bambrough has carved a niche for himself as a journalist with a multifaceted interest spanning data, tech startups, and a plethora of other subjects. With a substantial following of 557 and connections numbering 252 on LinkedIn, Bambrough’s influence and reach in the realm of journalism are undeniable. Know more...

Source: UK Journal

[alpha-mag-media]

Cristiano Ronaldo best-paid footballer on the planet with £214MILLION wages as Saudi league dominates Forbes’ top ten | In Trend Today

Cristiano Ronaldo best-paid footballer on the planet with £214MILLION wages as Saudi league dominates Forbes’ top ten Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

[biglisbonnews]

The Hottest Summer Ever And The Water Crisis: Building A Sustainable Future By taking proactive measures to reduce water consumption and improve sustainability, the construction industry can contribute significantly to alleviating Europe's wat... https://www.forbes.com/sites/angelicakrystledonati/2023/09/01/the-hottest-summer-ever-and-the-water-crisis-building-a-sustainable-future/

[roseburning]

I feel like this fandom often forget how insanely WEALTHY this man:

Actually is. He's kinda rich, right? Wrong.

This cherry pie:

Is a MULTI-BILLIONAIRE. This would let him comfortably sit at Forbes 985th, ladies and gentlemen, that's the same net worth as Michael Jordan.

I know that he doesn't like to show off his money because his mother only cared about it and neglected him, and I know he's the one founding all the high tech gadgets for the X-Men + to the mansion and the planes.

However.

WHERE ARE ALL THE FICS ABOUT HIM SPOILING ROTTEN HIS BOYFRIEND?! not like Erik would accept it straight away, but I need them to talk about and Charles making sure Erik knows he's worthy it and that it's okay to accept love and gifts.

WHERE ARE THE FICS ABOUT HIM NOT HAVING A CLUE THAT MOST PEOPLE CONSIDER NORMAL ABOUT MONEY?! I'm sorry, as neglected you may be, there's no way you inherit 3,5 BILLIONS and has a realistic view on how most people handle money, let alone poor people. This man is the 1%, he's the rich that the liberals want to eat (erik, not like that-). He's self aware and he tries to police himself, but I need to see the reality checks every now and then. Besides, a lot of his students came from really shitty places and the class difference would be screaming sometimes.

ACTUALLY, NOT JUST ERIK, I NEED TO SEE HIM GIVING PEOPLE STUPIDLY EXPENSIVE GIFTS IN GENERAL. Sometimes just because he can and there's no reason why not, sometimes he doesn't realize it's that expensive, and then I digress to my previous point.

WHERE ARE THE SUGAR DADDY FANFICTIONS?!

There's also this website I found that claims he has 125 BILLION DOLLARS but I highly doubt that:

Ladies and gentlemen, that website was ranking characters from DC and Marvel, and they put him above Tony Stark (80 billion) and Bruce Wayne (100 billion). I have no idea where they took that information from, but that would make our adorable lab rat the 10TH MOST WEALTHY MAN on the planet as of 2024.

Omg, the subtitle got Erik's name wrong-

This was a Charles' bank account appreciation post, thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

UPTADE: Guys, I found the perfect fanfic for it and I cannot recommend this enough. Downtown (everything's waiting for you) by so_shhy

Synopsis: “Charles is a rich CEO, Erik is a hooker with a heart of gold...

(In other words, Pretty Woman AU)”

Fun fact: I found that marvelous fanfiction while looking for “Charles Xavier being an asshole” tag.

[half-of-a-gay]

Hello:) i hope its not too much of a bther to ask but could you do an modern au angst-comfort fic with Ambessa perchance? Maybe a scenario ambessa fucks up a little by kissing somebody while drunk and reader finds out, they go on an ambigious break and Ambessa is just doing all that she can to take reader back:( Pathetic ambessa is a spiritual need i fear

A/N: [Not a bother at all! In fact, this request is everything! I love a powerful woman on her knees!

If anyone has muscle mommy requests feel free, I'm very willing to write for any of them (Sevika, Ambessa, Vi, Grayson, Abby Anderson...)]

--------------

Ambessa Medarda was a name that opened every door. First Black woman on the cover of Forbes three years in a row. CEO of Medarda Holdings. Billionaire by 35. Voted "Most Intimidating Person in Tech & Finance" by Vanity Fair, twice. Her life was gold-dipped and diamond-cut. Every moment was a press statement, every movement was calculated.

Except you.

You weren’t calculated. You were a chaos she welcomed. Messy, mismatched socks left on her expensive rug. Your chipped mug next to her sleek, minimalist espresso machine. A toothbrush you "forgot" that had been sitting in her marble bathroom for months. You weren’t really together, you've never made it official. But you were something.

And Ambessa called you hers, in every way that didn’t involve saying it aloud.

Dating her was like trying to warm your hands on stone.

At first.

She didn’t flirt the way others did. She asked precise questions. Paid attention. Listened. And when she started showing up with coffee just the way you liked it, or rearranging meetings to catch an art show with you, it wasn’t flashy but it was intentional.

And intent with Ambessa meant more than flowers or poems ever could.

The first time she touched you - not sex, just touched you - was when she brushed your hair out of your face one night and said, almost like an afterthought, “You’re hard to stop thinking about.”

Your heart had leapt. Hers had clenched. Vulnerability was a battlefield she had no map for.

You kissed her that night. She kissed you back like she’d been starving.

That was the start.

She wasn’t good at being soft. But you never asked her to be anything she wasn’t. That was the thing. You just made space for her to be something else, if she wanted to be.

She wanted to be better. She just didn’t know how to ask for help doing it.

And when she kissed that stranger - stupid, meaningless - it was less about lust, more about cowardice. She had been afraid of how much she needed you. Of how much power you held over her simply by loving her.

And she broke it. Carelessly, like all things she touched. God, what a thing to throw away.

That night was supposed to be a boring gala. One of a dozen a year. Suits, speeches, too many cameras. She told you not to come: “It’ll be a room full of hedge fund parasites and social climbers. You’ll be bored.”

You didn’t argue. You trusted her. Trusted that she'd text when she got home, or maybe come back to your place tipsy and sleepy, mumbling into your neck about office gossip you only half-followed.

Before leaving she texted you a picture of herself in that deep green Armani suit you liked, with gold cufflinks. You sent back a “be good.”

She wasn’t.

She arrived at the gala alone. Perfect as always. The signature half-smile that never reached her eyes. Someone handed her a drink. Then another.

She didn’t mean to drink that much. She wasn’t even sure why she did. Something had been gnawing at her lately - a dull, aching edge of vulnerability she couldn’t name. The softness you’d brought into her life made her feel... fragile. And fragility scared her more than failure.

The woman who kissed her wasn’t special. She didn’t mean anything. Just someone laughing too loudly, standing too close. Saying all the wrong things that felt right for one drunk, stupid second. And Ambessa hadn’t pulled away fast enough. It all lasted three seconds. Maybe four. But someone took a photo.

And someone else sent it to you.

You didn’t scream or cry. You just texted her: “So that’s what we are, huh?”

Then: “I think I need space.” No “don’t call me.” No breakup, there had been no labels to begin with. Just space.

You expected her to reply with an excuse. You weren’t sure if you hoped for one. But it never came. All you saw were the three dots jumping up and down on your screen.

Typing. Deleting. Typing again. She sent nothing. It made you want to smash the device into the wall.

---

For the next few days you did anything to get your mind of the situation at hand. You deep-cleaned the whole house, answered emails and dodged your friend' questions. In fact you stopped checking your phone completely in hopes of saving yourself the disappointment over the vow of silence Ambessa decided on. It was easier to pretend her silence didn’t hurt more than the photo itself.

Then - as if the situation couldn't get more infuriating - a courier buzzed your door. He handed you a bouquet of white orchids- elegant, soulless. Arranged like a funeral display for a relationship that never got the dignity of a label. He also handed you a small pristine white bag, with a blue velvet box tucked inside. No note. Just the box itself.

Nestled inside the box was a blue sapphire, teardrop-cut. Framed by icy diamonds and impossibly delicate gold. The chain alone looked like it cost more than your rent.

You recognized it immediately. You’d admired it once, months ago, in the window of a boutique. You’d lingered in front of the glass and she remembered.

You slammed the box shut and tossed the bundle of wealth on the kitchen counter like it had burned you. Because accepting the necklace, even leaving it tucked away in a drawer, would’ve meant you were considering forgiveness. That you were even entertaining the idea of sweeping it all under the rug just because she threw something shiny at the problem. You were't letting this slide over this half assed non-apology.

You stared at the aesthetic perfection sitting before you and seethed.

Because she still didn’t get it. Still thought this was about damage control. Making up for betrayal like it had price tag.

You didn’t need diamonds. You needed her to bleed a little. To show up with her hands shaking and her voice uneven. To try - not with jewelry or the power of her last name, but with honesty.

Instead, she sent you something beautiful but safe. And it made you so angry. It wasn’t just the gesture - it was the message beneath it. The insult. That Ambessa Medarda thought she could kiss a stranger, buy an apology, and have crawling back without so much as a real conversation let alone a verbal apology.

Fine. If she wanted to play this game then so be it.

The next morning, you got dressed with intention. Clean lines without a trace of vulnerability.

You walked into Medarda Holdings with your jaw set and your head held high.

The receptionist glanced up, startled by the confidence in your stride. You placed the bouquet and the velvet box on the counter in front of her gently.

“These are for Ms. Medarda,” you said, calm and crisp.

“She’s not expecting anything,” the receptionist replied, blinking. “Do you want me to let her know you’re here?” the receptionist asked, reaching for the desk phone.

“No,” you said, sharper than necessary. Then: “I’ve already said everything I needed to... just make sure she gets them.”

You didn’t leave a note. Didn’t even glance tin the direction of her office. Just turned and walked out, heels echoing on marble, the kind of exit she might’ve made herself.

---

Ambessa was mid-email when her assistant knocked on her door. She stepped inside with a smirk, arms ful.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” she sang, placing them carefully on the desk. “These just came to reception. I put them in some water for you.”

Ambessa blinked, staring at the flowers like they might detonate.

Her pulse stuttered.

“I - what?” she asked, a beat too late.

The assistant placed them on her desk, clearly enjoying herself. “No card, but judging by the packaging? Someone’s trying real hard to impress you.”

The words hit like a slap.

The necklace in same box she’d sent you.The same goddamn flowers she’d ordered to make the gesture “softer” after googling which flowers represent regret.

Back. Returned. In front of her assistant, no less.

For a horrifying second, Ambessa said nothing. She stared at the items like they would tell her what to do now.

The assistant laughed, misreading the silence. “Okay, wow, you’re blushing. I’ll leave you to it.”

The moment the door clicked shut behind her assistant, Ambessa stood very still.

Ambessa opened the box slowly. The necklace glinted, untouched. Still flawless. She clenched her jaw, shut the necklace box - and hurled it across the office. It struck the wall with a thud, landing in the corner of the room.

She moved through her own office like a ghost. Her hands were shaking. She walked to her desk and gripped the edge, grounding herself in the cold marble.

She stared at the flowers for a moment, then tore them from the vase one stem at a time throwing them into the trash. Slowly. Almost methodically. Like she could dismantle the failure by undoing this arrangement.

Then she picked up the phone. Her voice cracked once when she spoke, and she had to swallow it back down before she could try again. “Cancel everything for the rest of the day,” she said. “All of it. Just - reschedule or... I don’t care.”

Her assistant paused. “Are you okay, Ms. Medarda?”

Ambessa said nothing. Just hung up. She sank into the chair behind her desk, back perfectly straight - shoulders drawn taut like wire.

Tears were building behind her eyes and she hated them for it. Hated how weak it felt. Hated how unfamiliar it all was. She had never cried over a mistake. Now she was crying because the one person who had seen her beneath the armor wanted nothing to do with her.

And she didn’t know how to get you back. Because the truth was this: She’d never known how to hold anything fragile. And you were the first fragile thing she ever wanted to keep safe.

Ambessa hadn’t been sleeping. Four nights in a row she'd laid in bed staring at the ceiling. Tried the pills her doctor prescribed once, years ago. Nothing worked. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the disappointed expression you might have made when you typed out that text: “So that’s what we are, huh?”

She had known how badly she fucked up. But not how thoroughly.

You weren’t even angry anymore. You were finished.

---

Ambessa Medarda stopped showing up to meetings.

At first, people thought she was traveling. Or closing some high-level deal no one was cleared to talk about. But then the excuses started sounding thinner. Her assistant began rescheduling things with vague apologies - “Something came up,” “She’ll circle back soon,” “Thanks for your patience.”

After a week, people started whispering.

“She looked like shit at the summit.” “Did you hear she walked out of her own board meeting?” “Hungover, probably.”

But she wasn’t drinking. Not anymore, not after that night.

The crystal decanter of scotch sat full and untouched on the cart by the window. She hadn’t poured a glass in days. The ice bucket hadn’t left the freezer. The sight of liquor made her stomach twist now from the memory of that one moment when she stopped thinking and let her fear dictate her actions.

The green Armani suit was still on the floor. Crumpled in a corner of her closet, a crumpled $10,000 ghost of a life she didn’t deserve. She didn’t have the heart to send it to dry cleaning. Couldn’t look at it without flinching. It was the last thing she wore when she still had you and it was one of your favorite on her.

She wandered blindly through her penthouse. The chipped mug you always used still sat in the sink. Dry coffee stains marking the last time you touched it. She couldn’t even bring herself to wash it. Couldn’t throw it out, either. It just sat there. Waiting.

Like she was.

The bed was untouched on one side. Her side. She slept curled on the left now, where you used to sleep, where your scent still clung to the sheets no matter how many times she told herself it didn’t.

She kissed someone to prove she wasn’t in love. And in doing so, proved exactly how deep she’d already fallen.

She hadn’t spoken to you in nearly two weeks, and the returned necklace had gutted her in ways she hadn’t even understood yet.

She hadn’t meant for it to come off the way it did. But she didn’t know how else to say I’m sorry without sounding like a boardroom talking point. So she picked a gesture. A beautiful thing. A quiet offering.

---

Ambessa sat on the floor of her penthouse, back against the cold tall glass window. She hadn’t moved in hours.

Her phone lay beside her, screen dark. There were fourteen unsent messages drafted in her notes. All of them seemed too crafted. Apologies written like press statements. Declarations of regret edited to death. None of them felt real. None of them sounded like her. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe she didn’t know who she was without the script.

She stared across the room. Her head dropped back against the glass. She closed her eyes.

This - this pathetic haze of regret and silence - wasn't her. She’d built empires. She’d been humiliated and underestimated and had clawed her way to the top of an industry that had never wanted her in the first place.

But this - losing you? This had wrecked her more thoroughly than anything else ever had.

Because for once in her life, she hadn’t been fighting for control. She’d just been trying to be held. And she’d ruined it.

She picked up her phone again and opened a blank message, before pausing.

Then closed it again and slowly stood up. Her joints ached from sitting too long, unmoving.

No more texts. No more gifts. No more hiding. If she was going to lose you, she was going to do it honestly. Scared, flawed but trying.

---

It was late. You weren’t doing anything important. Curled up on the couch, doom-scrolling through your phone, a show playing quietly in the background you hadn’t really followed for three episodes now.

You weren’t expecting anyone. But then you heard three soft knocks and your heart stopped. Your body already knew before your brain caught up. Knew who it would be.

You stood slowly and opened the door. And there she was.

Ambessa.

She looked… tired.

Hair pulled back sloppily, curls loosening at the edges. A faint shadows beneath her eyes, skin slightly pale under the soft yellow hallway light.

She was wearing a sweater that was too big, sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms and jeans that looked like they hadn’t been ironed, maybe not even washed, in a while. Nothing about her matched. Her expensive wool coat hung open.

But somehow? She still looked beautiful. Not in the way she looked on magazine covers. This was something else. Something wrecked and raw.

Her shoulders weren’t squared. Her spine wasn’t straight. She looked like someone who had been standing outside your door for twenty minutes working up the nerve to knock (she had).

Her eyes met yours. And she looked like she might break.

“I don’t want to fight,” she said, her voice low and rasped. “I didn’t come here to make a scene. Or make excuses. Or to convince you. I just…”

She exhaled, shaky. “I don’t know what else to do but be honest.”

You didn’t say anything. Not right away.

As her eyes bore into yours, she looked… afraid. Afraid of what she’d made you feel. Of what she might find in your face now.

“I don’t want to fight,” she said, quietly. “And I didn’t come here to ask for anything.”

You said nothing.

She swallowed. “I came because... I’ve tried space. Silence. Gifts. Control. I’ve rewritten a dozen messages and never sent any of them because I wanted to give you space... and because none of them felt good enough.”

Her voice wavered. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to ask you to forgive me in a way that doesn’t sound like I’m trying to win.”

You opened the door wider, just slightly. She didn’t move. Her breath hitched like she was forcing the words out before she lost the courage.

Her eyes were wet. Not crying yet. Not quite.

“I miss you. All of it. Your socks on the floor. You drinking out of that chipped mug in the morning... the way you say my name.”

Her voice cracked, finally. “And if you tell me you don’t want me anymore - if you shut the door in my face - I’ll try to respect that. I swear I will. But I’m standing here because I need you to know: I want to be better. For you. I just-”

Her hand lifted slightly, like it might reach for yours, then dropped.

“I just don’t know how to do it without you.”

You were silent as you stared at her. For once, she didn’t look powerful, or composed, or terrifying.

She looked like someone who hadn’t slept. Someone who used to have the world at her feet and now couldn’t even keep herself upright. She looked like someone who had learned how to beg without saying the word.

Finally you stepped back enough to leave the doorway open.

She blinked - half expecting for the door to be slammed in her face - then walked in carefully, like the floor might fall out beneath her.

She stood in the middle of your living room awkwardly, arms at her sides, not touching anything.

You sat on the couch and waited.

She just turned toward you and finally said, soft and unguarded: “I think about you constantly.”

You didn’t interrupt.

Her eyes were wide, glassy, rimmed with exhaustion.

“I kissed that woman because I was drunk... and I was stupid. And I’ve hated myself for it every single day since.”

She swallowed when she caught your glare. You shifted, arms crossed. “Then why did you do it?... Truly?” you asked, quiet but firm.

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. Her jaw worked, searching for something to give you - some answer that would make any of this make sense.

“I don’t know,” she said, finally. “I’ve asked myself that over and over.”

She sat down, but not next to you. Across. She shifted on the couch, wringing her hands - a gesture you’d never seen from her before. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t go looking for it. I just… let it happen. Like an idiot.”

She took a long breath. “I was stupid. And I couldn’t face what I had- what you were. It was like I looked at you, and it was too good. Too… undeserved. I felt myself needing you so deeply I didn’t know where I ended and you began. And instead of holding on, I ruined it.”

Her voice cracked there, just slightly. “And I wanted to need you less. But I didn’t. I still don’t... I didn’t know how to look at something that real and not break it.”

You looked at her. Really looked. All the cracks were showing now. The frayed threads. The sadness she didn’t know how to wear properly.

You let the silence stretch a little longer.

Then, finally: “I think... I needed to see if you cared.”

Her eyes flicked up to yours, startled.

“Not if you remembered my favorite flowers. Or sent me some luxury apology like a contract negotiation... I needed to know if you actually gave a damn. About me. Not about fixing your image. Or owning me like I’m some accessory to your success.”

Ambessa’s breath caught.

“I needed to see if you’d show up for me,” you said.

You paused. Watched the words hit her. “It took you a while but you did.”

She blinked fast. Her shoulders curled in slightly, “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know I acted like being affectionate was a problem. Like you were… replaceable. But that's not true. You never were. You never will be.”

You didn’t say anything. But your hand moved - just slightly - toward her. And that was all it took.

She slid from the couch to the floor in front of you, knees meeting the rug with a soft thud. Like her body had been waiting to collapse for days.

She looked up at you - eyes shining, lips pressed together like she didn’t trust them to stay steady. Her head bowed for a second.

Then, slowly, she leaned forward. Wrapped her arms around your waist. Pressed her face into your stomach, like she was trying to hide the tears beginning to fall.

And finally -

Ambessa Medarda let herself cry. Just a few trembling tears that slipped past her control, pressed into the fabric of your shirt.

You held her not saying a word. Not because everything was okay, but because she'd finally given you something real to hold.

And that had to mean something.

---------------------------------------

[jinjeriffic]

DCxDP Prophecy Universe Part 4

Part 3

Aaaah, Tim had missed undercover work! There was just something thrilling about becoming a whole new person by making a few small tweaks here and there. He had combed his hair in a side-part, carefully applied make-up to make his skin look paler and his eyes bigger and put on a pair of thick rimmed glasses. Worn sneakers, baggy jeans, a loose plaid flannel shirt with a hoodie tied around his waist hid his lean, muscular frame. A slight slouch and his old high-school backpack completed the look. Goodbye Tim Drake-Wayne, Gotham socialite. Hello Adam Taylor, college freshman.

Jason took one look at him and practically fell over laughing.

“Oh my God, you look like a total dork! Would you like some braces to go with that?” he heckled, catching himself against the side of the car.

“I’ll have you know that this is the height of broke college student chic,” Tim sniffed in mock offence, “It’s called ‘blending in’ Jason. Maybe you should try it!” He walked past his snickering brother to get in the passenger’s seat of the beat-up Ford they used for travelling incognito.

“No thanks, I’ll leave the theatre performance to you,” Jason drawled, tossing the keys in one hand before getting behind the wheel. “I’ll just hang back and keep an eye out in case things go tits up.”

“I don’t even know why you insisted on coming along. I’m just going to question a civilian!”

Jason gave him a Look before starting the engine. “A civilian raised by mad scientists. The way our lives work, we’ll find her building Kryptonite powered robots in the janitor’s closet or something.”

“And the fact that she’s a cute red-head has nothing to do with it?” Tim teased.

“Nope!”

“Liar.”

The drive to Metropolis passed in a mix of mutual ribbing, arguing over radio stations and discussion of recent cases. They carefully avoided the elephant in the room - the reason for their current investigation. The sullen anger of their youngest brother, the quiet grief in Bruce’s eyes whenever he thought no one was watching and the mounting tension within the family. Tim doubted that this excursion would be all that fruitful, but he needed to get out and do something for the sake of his own sanity. The last thing he wanted was to watch Bruce emotionally implode over what may or may not be another dead son.

Getting onto the university campus was no problem. Tim had a fake student ID on him just in case, but it looked like he needn’t have bothered. His hacking had revealed that Jasmine Fenton checked into the university library after her last class almost every day, so it was just a matter of biding his time. He sat at one of the carrel desks, idly flipping through the latest issue of Forbes. I wonder if Luthor’s new tech acquisition means he’s up to something? Hm…

“Heads up, target at your 10,” came Jason’s murmur through Tim’s earpiece. Tim turned another page then sat up and stretched, glancing around casually. He instantly recognized the red-head from his earlier research. Tall and light build, long hair held back by a head-band, wearing skinny jeans and a dark grey sweater. She made her way over to the row of desks, carrying a small stack of books and a pencil case. She walked past Tim, only sparing him a glance and eventually settled down at the table farthest from the entrance and away from the other students. Perfect.

Tim got up and returned his magazine to the periodicals section before meandering over to Jasmine’s desk. He put on his best impression of a nervous smile. Showtime.

“Hey, is this seat taken?”

She only glanced up from her work briefly then went right back to taking notes. “No, knock yourself out,” she said in a bored tone.

Tim pulled out the chair next to hers and turned it slightly to face her. He sat down and cleared his throat.

“Hi, sorry to bother you. I’m Adam. Adam Taylor,” he lied, offering his hand to her. She gave him a tight, polite smile and shook hands with him.

“Jazz Fenton,” Her tone was light, but her body language screamed ‘please go away’. Tim filed the nickname away for later, “Look, it’s really nice to meet you but I have this project I need to work on, so…”

Ah, she probably thinks I’m trying to hit on her, Tim thought.

“Oh, I understand completely! I don’t wanna take up too much of your time, I just… I was just wondering if you could tell me about… you know,” he whispered with affected hesitation, “...ghosts.”

The smile dropped from her face and her gaze sharpened. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry! It’s just… your parents run Fenton Works, right? The ecto-biologists?” Tim rushed out, “I just wanted to hear your opinion on their work…” he trailed off at the look of tightly controlled anger on her face. She turned and scanned the room around them.

“Alright. Where’s the camera?”

Tim was caught completely wrong footed. Was she onto them?

“Camera? What camera?” he hedged. She slammed her notebook shut and glared at him.

“I get it. Lets pretend to interview the girl with the crazy ghost hunter parents and have a good laugh at her on social media later. Very funny, har har,” Jazz stuffed her pen back in its case with sharp movements, “Well I have better things to do than make you TikTok famous, so if you’ll excuse me,” she gathered up her books and stood.

Tim winced. He really needed to salvage this situation and quickly. He held up his hands in a placating gesture.

“I’m not filming you, honest! I just read some of your parents’ papers and wanted a second opinion on their research! They, ah… they seem pretty biased,” he said apologetically.

Jazz narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “Why are you researching ghosts, then?”

The best lies are built on truth.

“Because…” Tim took a deep breath, “I think my brother might be one,” he forced out, then swallowed hard and looked away.

“Oh,” the anger had drained from her voice, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Tim glanced at her as she sat back down. “Thanks,” he croaked and blinked away fake tears. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Adam, what makes you think your brother might have come back as a ghost?” Jazz asked gently.

Tim collected himself for a moment, thinking about how to score the most sympathy points.

“It’s hard to explain. My younger brother… he saw something strange and now my whole family is freaking out. Dad is putting on a brave face but I can tell this is eating him up inside but he refuses to talk about it. I just… I need to know if there’s a scientific explanation to all this. I need to make sense of this whole mess!” he looked up at her through his lashes with his best puppy-dog expression, “Please, can you help me?”

Tim could practically hear her heart melting.

“And the Oscar goes to… Timbird!” Jason teased over the comms.

“Alright. But not here,” Jazz said, standing up again, “This is gonna take some time. And diagrams.”

Oh goodie.

Part 5

[usedpidemo]

Voguish (Itzy Ryujin)

(Thank you for the commission! I hope its to your liking.)

—————

If you had any other choice, you’d rather be stuck at where you were previously: earning a modest income, just enough to get by from job to job, performing straightforward work, and most importantly, friendly clientele to attend to. It wasn’t surprising; you knew this industry was built on the backs of some of the most snobbish, arrogant people you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting, but—

“You’re late. Again.”

Shin Ryujin was probably among the absolute worst.

If you’re going to make an honest assessment, Ryujin isn’t that bad. Serving as her head stylist for the better part of a year, she’s by far the client you’ve spent the most time with. She doesn’t talk a big deal about the money she’s making or prattle into a conversation intricately designed to inflate her ego to the moon, unlike some of the other A-listers you’ve had the ‘privilege’ of working under. 

However, her attitude is definitely up there.

It’s not even a little over a minute. In fact, you’ve been standing at her entrance door two minutes before the clock hits ten. Doesn’t matter if you’re in the right; her style, her rules. She doesn’t care that you're sweating buckets rushing her newly minted outfit from across the street up to the 27th floor. Any moment where she doesn’t look like a million dollars is a moment wasted.

“My apologies, Ryu—”

Ryujin’s glare puts the fear of God into your soul. “What did I say about using my name?” 

You pause. Gulp your throat. “My sincerest apologies, Miss Shin.” 

“Hmph.” Grimacing with disgust, she hastily snatches the dress from your possession, proceeds to slam the door on you, tone bordering on shouting, “Come inside. You’re late.”

Entering the door shortly after, you’re welcomed by a film crew in the process of recording her as she struts around the living room suite holding your dress in her hands. If there’s anything you’ve learned from attending to her, she’s as effortless of an actress as she is as a model. The moment her eyes face the camera, she instantly transforms into the picture perfect icon that has all of social media buzzing.

Moving out of the way has become muscle memory at this point. When she’s in front of the cameras, you’re merely an onlooker. 

“So this is my outfit for tonight,” she says enthusiastically into the camera, proudly flaunting the outfit—a convincing facade to the untrained eye. For the press, she’s this likable, larger than life figure living her best life, attending all these invitation-only parties and wearing the most stylish dresses. 

“It was a risque design, and I wanted to try something bold for once. It was love at first sight when I saw it,” she comments, and you know very well this wasn’t her first choice. They won’t know that this was the 12th option, handpicked just last night after weeks of trial and error, only to be thrown away right after. At her request, you had it ordered on incredibly short notice, and the plan almost fell through. It was hard to deny Ryujin’s wants, no matter how impractical or unfeasible they were. 

In a way, this was to be expected. Ryujin emanates this young, it girl energy. Like any aspiring icon, she usually wants to stand out from a usually safe crowd. Not that it hasn’t stopped you from interfering a handful of times, much to her annoyance. After all, you’d assume she was going to a casual party or some red carpet event, not a prestigious gala with some of the biggest people in the world in attendance. You name it: politicians, CEOs of tech giants, industry titans who make the cover of Forbes and Time every other month. There are high standards that must be kept, and she’s doing anything but uphold those standards.

The camera pans away from her, and she immediately tosses the clothing aside with zero regard whatsoever. You manage to save it before it becomes near valueless. No matter how bothersome she acts, you can’t bring yourself to call her out on her antics; not just because there are several careers at stake, including yours, but you know what she’s capable of doing when her patience exceeds breaking point. It’s a firsthand experience to catch Ryujin in a state that isn’t picture perfect.

“Where are you?” Ryujin shouts from the other room, irate. “Slow as ever, my goodness.”

When you approach her, she’s on her phone, seated in front of the mirror with her legs crossed, having commanded the camera crew to vacate the room, leaving you alone with her. It’s only when you are together that she’s her true self, and it’s not far from what you usually experience even with other people around. They understand it’s in their best interest not to interfere.

Turning her eyes, she catches you idling with her sharp stare. “Well? Are you just gonna stand there and look at me all day? You already do that on the regular.”

Her behavior’s something neither cameras nor testimonies will ever publicly reveal: that Ryujin’s practically a spoiled brat behind closed doors. Any attempts to expose her have been silenced by huge settlements, NDAs, and every legal bind in the book. And when those don’t work out, there’s the strangely coincidental disappearance of potential witnesses that read like every tin-foil hat post written by some gullible conspiracy theorist on the internet. 

In retrospect, perhaps there’s some merit to the rumor that her father is supposedly the head of some mafia organization, but you digress. She has never brought her personal history up in interviews, other than she’s been adopted by the founder of a relatively unknown investment firm. An elaborate lie.

She’s engrossed on her phone, unable to keep herself still while you struggle to apply makeup on her face. Time’s of the essence, she usually says, but she’s purposeful with how much time is wasted, with the primary objective of finding an excuse to lay on you. It was never going to be fair from the start. All the moments where you were late, in her eyes, were intentionally done to put you in the wrong. 

To be fair, the numerous stylists who’ve taken care of her warned you in advance. You couldn’t deny the opportunity for a huge paycheck.

“Miss Shin, please stay still,” you say, carefully stringing your words together, delivered in the least offensive tone possible.

To your surprise, she complies. It’s a miracle. She never obliges with your requests, let alone direct commands.

Applying the rest of her makeup takes only minutes. Usually, you’d be going back and forth, and you’d be in front of the mirror for hours. See how easier everyone’s job is when all parties cooperate and collaborate effectively? You’re doing your part like it’s second nature; you only wish Ryujin was this accommodating more often, and not whether her brain flips a coin to determine her attitude for the day.

“You look amazing, Miss Shin,” you comment, staring at the mirror, her face radiating with the glow of a million bucks.

Taking her attention off the phone, even if it’s only for a second, proves to be a chore, as proven by her particularly grumpy expression. She scans herself, peers through every little detail in the mirror—showing more interest in herself during this brief moment than her dozens of photoshoots over the last month—and gives the smallest of nods. You even see the tiniest of grins escaping her lips, too.

Her steely attitude unwavering, she commands you, sternly, “Bring me the dress. Now.”

A clap of hands and the door opens like magic. Your co-stylist briskly walks toward you, outfit in hand, promptly handing it over before immediately leaving the room. No words are necessary; she makes it clear who’s allowed to touch her, let alone dress her, and it’s only you. Handling Ryujin was as meticulous and methodical as preserving a historical treasure.

She finally gets off her chair, hands prepared to loosen her robe before something catches her attention. “Door.”

It’s common sense. You hurry over to the opened door, slam it shut. Then the magic happens.

Ryujin nonchalantly slips her bathrobe off her shoulders, letting it freely fall to the floor. She’s draped in nothing but the thinnest of underwear, her asscheeks openly poking through the fabric. It’s amazing how she’s allowing you to see her like this, her barest, when most of her shoots and red carpet dresses have been nothing but conservative. Sometimes seductive, but mostly safe. There’s nothing left for your imagination. On the other hand, you’re so used to this vivid sight, it’s almost part of your daily routine. You shouldn’t be fazed, but her perfect figure has you staring, shamelessly, like it’s your very first time seeing nudity.

At times, it leaves you vulnerable. Like now.

“You were doing quite well too,” she comments, snarkily, gazing at your blank expression through the reflection, snapping you from your daze.

Gulping your throat, you find yourself embarrassed, ears flushed red. Even while you go through the methodical process of measuring and dressing her, the shame lingers. You find yourself unable to glance at the mirror. The very few flashes and glints that meet you when you turn you face your reflection, you find her suppressing a tiny giggle. 

As you put on the finishing touches on her outfit, she brings the point home, “We’re already late by an hour.”

A quick look at your watch tells you it’s almost eleven. Ten minutes before the next hour. At first glance, it’s still early, but it can be deceiving. Parisian traffic is notoriously unforgiving, event or no event, showing no partiality. Getting from one place to another is a whole day’s work.

Then you remember the fans and paparazzi congregated at the hotel’s entrance. This crowd that you had to brute force through just to get her dress on time. The hotel security can barely hold them back, and you can hear several sirens screaming miles away, most likely police presence. Many persons of interest will be gathered in one setting, after all.

“How do you feel, Miss Shin?” you ask, taking a step back to let her soak in her meticulously curated appearance. 

She blinks rapidly. Then she takes a deep breath.

“Let’s just get this over with.”

—————

Everywhere you look lies nothing but chaos. Chaos and cameras.

Barricade is filled with an indistinguishable mix of both paparazzi and media from all over the world. Lights, whether from above or from cameras, flash in every direction that it’s almost blinding. Deafening shouts pierce through your ears that whispering is impossible. You’ve been to as many red carpet events as these journalists and photographers, but you’ve never attended an event of this magnitude until now.

Left and right, there’s a random celebrity being interviewed by a news junket. The women you spot are dressed to the nines, adorned in colorful and graceful garb, while the men are decked as if they're attending Sunday service. You can see it now: another round of fashion bloggers berating and cursing the men for their simplicity and lack of creativity, but that’s to be expected. 

Your phone vibrates from within your shirt pocket. It’s Ryujin, having disappeared somewhere in the crowd.

> Where u at? 😤

You immediately reply back. Your conversations have been practice for your future relationship:

> Can’t find you in this crowd 

> Taylor Swift is just across me XD

> Scarlett Johannson too

> And I think I saw Zendaya and Yuna talking with each other, can’t confirm though, they’re far away

To which she answers:

> Stop playing around.

> Get over here NOW

> Do you style any of them? 

> You don’t.

> Come here. NOW.

It’s a simple but strong warning. Aside from the fact that you’re there to attend to Ryujin’s needs and not larp as a celebrity, there's a change in her attitude during these events. She becomes strangely more attached. It’s become a byword for you to mention other women around her, yet she interacts with them in a friendly light for the cameras to see.

Ryujin’s preoccupied with what’s presumably the umpteenth interview of many when you finally reunite with her. She takes another moment to pose for the next wave of cameras, picture perfect as always, then after, she finally turns her gaze, meeting yours. It has been ten minutes since her last text, and you have many reasons to say why you’ve vanished.

None of which truly matters.

“There you are.” She says, glaring angrily at you, tone laced with contempt, sounding like you were gone for days.

“I can explain, Miss Shin,” you try to say, but it has no effect as she approaches you, careful as ever to keep a picturesque facade in front of the media. You can see her holding herself back from popping a vein. “Apparently President Biden and his wife are in attendance and we were told to make way for his entire security team—”

The way Ryujin pulls you by the ear while you both retreat from the chaotic crowd is comical. In a sea of cameras and eyewitnesses, some tabloid’s bound to catch you, take the unfolding scene out of context, and write a rushed article that spreads like wildfire, but no, it doesn’t draw an ounce of attention. She's a small fry in a pond of bigger fish, after all. Over your corner, you see a dozen Secret Service slowly guide the president along the carpet, parting everyone around old Joe. In a way, watching him brings you to a strange realization: that you can empathize with the poor geezer. You’re both in the same predicament, being strung along to places you have no zero interest in.

It’s an effective distraction. An air of tense, awkward silence falls upon you both as you stare at each other, your personal conflict hidden away from the public eye. You open your mouth, about to say a word, and—

Whack!

Ryujin hits you with the hardest of palms, all her pent-up frustration released with a single, powerful smack of your cheek. The force echoes throughout the enclosed space like thunder. Your lips draw a little blood. A quick rub of your face reinforces the consequence for your actions. Rough. Still, to say she looks unhappy after enforcing her will upon you is an understatement.

And just when you try to open your mouth (without the intention to complain; you’ve given up at this point), she follows it up with a second slap, with about half the impact of the first. This time, the other cheek. Her gaze is scathing, lethal, hypnotic—as if challenging you to try her already short patience. Say something, motherfucker, is subtly etched on her expressive lips without the need to verbalize them. 

Another tense moment of silence. She makes sure your eyes never leave her contact. When it finally breaks, her judgment echoes in your head like the toll of a death bell—a lingering reminder that you’ve truly fucked up.

“You’ll be seeing me after tonight,” she says, each word delivered like an arrow straight to your heart. Before facing the world again, she adds another devastating blow, “My hotel room. Midnight. Sharp.”

—————

For the most part, in the eyes of the public, you seem to have done a fantastic job styling Ryujin for tonight’s gala. Within hours of the event, numerous articles published of the event list her among the best dressed stars, praising the bold nature of her outfit, as she intended in that vlog-style video from earlier. It’s all smiles as you watch her from afar, casually mingling with every celebrity in attendance. In case she needs to remain fresh, have new makeup applied, or change into a new dress for afterparty purposes—sometimes all of the above—you’re closely on standby. Ultimately, she doesn’t; not a single time she has called or texted for assistance. In a way, it’s alarming.

Her reminder sticks firmly on the back of your mind. Every word she says, she means it—no matter how small or big they are. It lingers even as her personal driver and bodyguard messages you with the instruction to return to the car, where she’s mysteriously absent, having been commanded by Ryujin herself to send you and the rest of her personnel home. It’s uncharacteristically strange; either she’s changed her mind and is having a good time at the event, or she’s probably drunk out of her mind, and the latter is typically the norm.

When you retreat to your room, you nervously watch as the clock slowly ticks towards the inevitable. It’s like witnessing your death. You know you can’t stop it, and you can’t look away, either. With the understanding that you’ll likely see the sun rise when it’s all said and done, you don’t even bother to slip into your sleepwear. 

The clock turns midnight. Seconds later, you receive a text on your phone. The message. It immediately disproves any theory or hope of meeting her good graces:

> Meet me in my room. Don’t even think about hiding or running, cause I will know

Of course you comply; you really have no other choice.

Five minutes later, you’re at her door again, with nothing but your suit, ready to face her judgment. It swings open of its own accord. Without any formalities, you step inside the familiar living room, now tidied up and cloaked in near darkness—a stark contrast to the mess it looked earlier in the day. Not a sign of her presence can be seen or felt. If you’ve been feeling uneasy before, now you’re straight up anxious, and the terror leaves you pale.

The door slams shut. Now you’re completely in the dark, with nothing to latch or cling to but your own resolve, which is slowly fading too. You want to speak her name, but you know you’ll be trying fate again, and fate has dealt you a cruel hand already. You didn’t want to fall even further. 

Your slow breaths are the only sign of life.

And the faint voice in your ear.

Wait—

Before you know it, you feel your throat tense up and your body tremble frantically. Faint shadows coil around your waist and neck, and in that moment, your fate has been sealed. 

“At least you’re not late this time.” Ryujin whispers into your ear. Then your eyes snap wide open.

“Agh!” 

A powerful surge of pain overwhelms your entire body, renders you weak in the knees. You fall to the ground, barely keeping yourself from completely melting onto the carpet with your hands. Still, the pangs remain too much. You can barely hold up on all fours, let alone move your arms and legs. 

It’s not enough. A soft hand hovers across your arched back, brushes through your hair, before it’s immediately followed by a direct blow to your nape. Your shout of agony reverberates throughout the dark room while you’re forced further down on your knees. Nearly forced into a prostrate position, you’re barely holding on. Another hit of this force could knock you unconscious, maybe worse.

“You’re going to learn your lesson today,” says Ryujin, strutting from behind you, cloaked in what appears to be a white gown. She’s holding something that you can’t identify, but you can tell she’s not in the mood to play games. Sparks of electricity flash and fade close to her hand. It was a taser all along. You probably would have guessed that from the intense shocking pain you’re currently feeling.

“Bedroom, slowpoke,” she sternly commands you as she saunters toward the room first, leaving you alone to pick yourself up. You’re still reeling from the two shocks of electricity applied to your waist and neck; it stings. Your body struggles, aches, cries out in despair, but you ultimately muster up enough power to follow her minutes later.

What greets you in the bedroom is a dimly lit bed, with Ryujin as its centerpiece, and both ends of her figure bathed in a faint wave of orange lamp light. She’s draped in nothing but the same hotel-issued bathrobe from earlier, her legs crossed, gazing at you from behind designer shades, smirking with malicious intent. It’s regal, seductive, inviting, intimidating. You honestly could stare at this sight all day long.

Before you entertain the thought, she cuts it off. “Strip.”

Her gaze lingers as you quickly bare yourself in front of her. She grins, giggles, adjusts her glasses with each piece of clothing removed. It flashes at her widest when you’ve divested your shirt and your pants, revealing your chest and your evident bulge, unknowingly growing hard behind the elastic fabric. It seems to spark a new idea within her, even though she’s the type of woman who follows through with her plans after they’ve been organized and premeditated.

She hops off the bed, slowly saunters toward you with trained, modellike fashion, using you as a makeshift catwalk. Turning the corner, she retreats behind your back, gripping a hand on your neck, craning the other down your bare chest. Her tongue tickles the back of your ear, which morphs into the smallest of smooches while she drags you to the bed like a hostage. As she hauls you over the mattress, she continues to feel your skin and body, your ears titillated by the gentle moans and whimpers from her sultry lips.

Your bump knees with the bed before she sends you flying over the edge. Temptation comes knocking at the door of your suppressed lips; you’re itching to cry out in pain, pleading for a bit more consideration. You know it’s a futile effort. When it comes to sex, Ryujin was anything but gentle. 

“Don’t look. Stay still.” 

Following her command is second nature to you; even when your positions were interchanged, it was merely an illusion—you were never in control. Ryujin plants a palm around your throat, forcing your stare against the bedrest. The clanging sound of something resembling a belt or a buckle keeps you curious. Tense, breaths keep you calm. Deep down, you know what’s about to happen; there’s no stopping it, you can only brace for impact. 

In the gap between the point of no return, she tells you her mindstate, how her frustration and apparent jealousy never receded. “I hated every minute I spent there. You have no idea how difficult it was to keep a face in front of everyone, especially after seeing Yuna. Fucking. Yuna.”

Your reaction comes out, not through coherent words, but through a labored groan. You feel her finger circle rings around your ass, sticky and wet. Of course she was there, social media couldn’t stop buzzing about her appearance—and she rarely shows up to these galas. Now it’s all making sense. After all, you were Yuna’s stylist before Ryujin snatched you away. 

Ryujin continues to apply lube around your sensitive hole, occasionally fingering you. Holding in the groans from the discomfort proves to be impossible, but she prefers to hear you whine, especially when her name is spoken. It’s the perfect reprieve from the evening’s frustrations, keeping her from raising her voice to the ceiling. “She pisses me off so fucking much. First stealing my thunder at every fashion week, now this? I thought she hated art galas?”

It’s evident that she doesn’t like Yuna in any shape whatsoever. If not for the cameras and all the famous people in the building, she’d already be trading blows with her. If there was any one person she wanted dead, it would have to be Shin Yuna. Of course, knowing this, you never included your time with her on your job application, let alone mention the fact you briefly spoke at the event behind her back. She was in an already spiraling mood, and you didn’t need to make it even worse.

“I was thinking of using dildos for tonight, maybe just my fingers even, but I don’t think it’ll be enough. I really hope you understand.” That last sentence—she sounds apologetic, remorseful, but the warning is ultimately shallow; she’ll rough you up, wreck you, ruin you, and enjoy every moment of it. You’re merely a blank canvas to her twisted fantasies.

“Oh, oh–fuck!” She cries out, joining your deep scream in harmony as she plunges the dildo into your warm, wet hole. This isn’t your first experience on the receiving end of Ryujin’s strap, yet every plunge feels as destructive and spine breaking as the first. No pleasantries or formalities, just apply the lube then hit. The idea of teasing you goes against her very blunt, assertive nature.

“Shit—oh fucking shit, you’re so goddamn tight,” she says, snaking a hand around your waist as her plastic dick slowly penetrates your hole, little by little. She has you grasping at pillows, staring at the ceiling then down to the sheets, until you find the twisted image of her hips slowly pounding against your ass, letting the pleasure of pegging overwhelm her. It should be excruciatingly painful, an agonizing reminder to never get on her wrong side, but no, there’s something hot about getting dicked by a tough woman like her that arouses you.

Eventually, she comes to her senses, finds her footing, and remembers that she’s meant to punish you, not reward you. She knows how good you make her feel, even if your cock is meant to be inside hers, not the other way around. You can’t help speaking your mind, and it boosts Ryujin’s ego to the moon. “Please. Fucking use me, Miss Shin. Fucking ruin my hole like how I ruin yours, miss.”

Even upside down, you can see how visibly delighted she is to hear those words every single time. Can’t hide that wide smirk plastered on her lips, no matter how upset she is. It’s intoxicating. No matter how hard you’re huffing, the pleasure she derives from using you keeps you going. 

Slamming your eyes shut, Ryujin does what you both want. Fucks you with her dildo hard, clenches and quelches with each careful, intricate stroke. Sometimes you’re in that position, taking her ass and ravaging her body as your own. Now it’s her turn, and she’s been taking after you. Between thrusts, she slaps your cheek, pulls on your neck and hair. You’ve built this alarmingly toxic work relationship, but the sex has never felt this invigorating, so cathartic. The perfect use of frustration to be channeled into something pleasurable and rapturous. 

You’ve never seen Ryujin this focused, this committed to wrecking you. She’s using your hole with such ferocity you think she’ll make you bleed out. Behind those glazed, pleasure-filled eyes, she sees nothing but red. Difficult as it is, you follow a string of moans from her lips hidden beneath a continuous echo of groans from your end. It doesn’t help that these walls are thin and everyone on this floor can hear your escapades.

Neither of you care. There’s a good reason as to why she booked the whole floor to begin with.

The bed quakes, and quakes, and quakes—until it doesn’t. 

A puzzlingly calm fills the room after countless minutes pass. Ryujin’s frantic breaths close the silent gap, having pulled the dildo from your hole. It’s slick. You realize the change of pace. 

“Miss Shin, why did you stop?”

She doesn’t reply immediately. When she does, she’s still catching her breath between spoken words. “I told you—it wasn’t going to be enough. Lay down for me, will you?”

Without a second thought, you comply. This gives you an opportunity to truly see her in the flesh for the first time tonight. She’s wearing a combination of corset and lingerie, her juicy thighs layered with lace garter. Hopping off the bed, she unbuckles the strap around her waist, tossing it aside to the floor. You then focus on her plump ass, accentuated by her slim thong.

Damn, she looks better now than she does naked. You feel proud that she’s wearing your tailor-made lingerie.

Before you entertain the thought of undressing the very underclothes you’ve prepared for her, she slips the boxers off your ankles. She climbs onto the bed, stands atop you. Even with her short stature, in this position, she’s larger than life, a dominating presence that only desires complete control. 

“Hmm, I don’t know what I should do. I could let you fuck me, but that doesn’t sound right for a punishment,” she comments, playfully placing a finger on her chin, jokingly thinking. For a brief moment, it does appear that she’s stumped.

When the idea hits her, her eyes widen, and she has this self-conceited look, as if she’s got it all planned out. 

She reaches a hand down to her knee, slowly peels one of the stockings down to her ankles. Then she does the same for the other half. The way she positions both legwear on your cock is intentional; it’s to stir the idea of pounding into her cunt a real possibility. Your gaze remains fixated on Ryujin’s face, ever flawless in her scantily-clad figure, being her model self atop you. 

As she tugs on the lace of her panties, you start reacquainting your mind with the image of her tight cunt. She lowers it, barely down her thighs, enough space to tease, enough to make your heart race. Her attention is nowhere close to you; she has other priorities, and fingering herself is one of them. She rubs a digit around her heat, moans out in ecstasy with the same energy as getting fucked. The trembles of her body send aftershocks that reverberate all over the bed. 

It’s already hot enough to get fucked by Ryujin’s strap, but this—the sight of Ryujin pleasuring herself, mouth gaped wide open—is a hundred times better. This is the same reaction she has shown throughout the numerous times you’ve railed her, even though you’ve seen that face during sex. Against the mirror, against the water’s reflection, against the tinted windows of her cars—her face serves as motivation that keeps you hard whenever she demands it. Your hands begin to move on their own, reach down to the groin unknowingly, unsure of whether she’d want you to masturbate or not.

You feel your hard cock, already partially soaked with precum, dripping on her garter. As much as you want to keep them on, you can’t go against the deep seated urge to masturbate with her. Her foot begins to lean against your waist, right as you begin to stroke your shaft with your fingers. Moaning alongside her, you thrust your hips upward, passionately murmuring her name, with nothing but a singular thought: her pussy.

It’s etched on your needy lips. “You’re so sexy, Miss Shin. Please let me fuck you, God—”

She whines as though your hot breath is against her neck, growling a tone higher than normal. Her left foot is slowly clenching around your balls, the other at the bridge between your thigh and your crotch, gently nudging your free hand to move aside. She’s beginning to apply pressure on you, perhaps a subtle gesture to make you stop and give way for her feet to take over, but you’re engrossed in the moment to fully realize. Then again, subtlety isn’t her speciality.

It’s only when her foot presses down on your active hand that you slow to a complete halt. You gently rest her soles on your shaft, slowly wrap her soft toes around your tip. For the most part, their grip is shaky, but when they stick, they feel so slick, so warm, and significantly better than whatever effort your fingers can muster. She can’t wear heels without a few kisses placed on them, you recall; something about being Cinderella growing up, how she prefers to be treated, to receive nothing but showers of praise and attention, and you’re doing just that.

Her digits seemingly acknowledge what they’re stepping on, and soon enough it becomes the perfect makeshift ring to stimulate your cock. Her toes just feel the best, most direct spots around your sensitive shaft, gradually building momentum for when you eventually paint her pretty feet. At least, that’s the goal. You’re both drowning in pleasure, chasing separate highs, but using each other’s bodies as conduit for your own personal gain.

And it’s not that she doesn’t know; she knows. You’ve caught a glimpse of her half-lidded eye peeking down. She sees it, merely chuckles at the notion, and continues to finger herself atop your helpless body. Mutual trust brings you together; she won’t stop you as long as you won’t do the same to her.

“Yes, fuck, I’m gonna cum so hard,” you say, breaths hurried, and it isn’t a matter of if, but when. “Every part of you feels so good, Ryu.”

You’re past formalities at this point. She’s too far gone to care that you've called her by her casual name. Her fingers, both slick and warm at once, are catching fire from the frenzied pace she’s rubbing her clit, certain her dripping juices will find solace on your splayed figure. Racing with her orgasm, her underwear is halfway down her meaty legs, her very foundations shaking. Inadvertently pressing her foot tightly on your cock, she’s holding on for dear life, and it threatens to steal your soul before you reach that immaculate high.

With friction at an all-time high, one rough, slippery slip between her toes, all while your loins burn , moving as if you’re burying yourself deep in her cunt, eager to fill her with seed. The thin thread snaps. Sends you careening over the edge.

Your fall is accompanied by the endless scream of her name. To have your cock be graciously drained by her feet, it would be disrespectful not to. She’s still going, chasing that high even as your cum geysers all over her feet, spills over your knees, your belly, on the sheets, as if her own slick didn’t already make an utter mess of this five-star bed. You’re mentally cheering her on, distracting yourself from the endless cascade of seed gushing beneath you. 

This disastrous mess finds you again, this time in the form of Ryujin’s orgasm. She orgasms, cries her loudest cry, her features at their most corrupted. Her pussy gushes like a rushing waterfall, completely soiling her legs and panties with her slick juices. Your groin manages to salvage whatever her thighs haven’t absorbed, and it’s a sticky pool that latches onto her dainty feet. When she steps off your cock, the squelch of wet seed splatters on the sheets until she touches the ground.

You both take some time apart, let the aftermath of your orgasms fizzle out. Ryujin assesses the damage to her body; she’s still a model, after all. She hastily rids of the soiled underwear, treating it like some kind of contaminated object that can only be cleansed by fire. From the looks of it, she’s committed something dangerous, and you’ve done something scandalous. 

“Shit. We got carried away,” you say, lifting your head from the bed, panicked.

“No. You got carried away,” she replies, facing you with that familiar icy gaze. The honeymoon period is over. “Did I allow you to plant my feet on your cock? Huh?”

Swallowing your throat, you understand that she’s technically right, but also, she most certainly enjoyed the feeling of stepping on you—something you can use against her. Still, Ryujin’s word overrides all reasoning, no matter how logical they are.

You see her facade fall apart when she approaches you again. She climbs onto the bed like a cat, arches her back, and sends you back down to the mattress when she pounces on you. On her lips is the widest smirk you’ve ever seen on her. 

She wants more.

Rising to her feet, she plants her toes directly on your chin, oozing with the remains of your cum mixed with hers. “You did this, now you’ll clean it up.” 

As your tongue laps it up, she occasionally disrupts your rhythm by kicking you several times. Not that you’re hurting her (you couldn’t even if you tried) but for the delight of bringing you misfortune. It’s completely in line with the typical abuse and inhumane treatment you face from her during work hours. You won’t complain, but that was never in the cards, anyway. 

“I can’t believe my stylist is a complete freak. Fucking hell,” she comments, glaring you down as you give her toe the occasional kiss. She’s visibly disgusted by the realization sinking in, but deep down, she knows you’re the exact stylist she’s been looking for. 

—————

And as if that’s not enough, she’s found a punishment perfectly suited for you. 

“Just so you know, you’re not getting paid after the stunt you pulled on me today,” says Ryujin, in reference to your accidental disappearance during the red carpet. You’re laid out on the floor, prone, your groans stifled by the living room carpet. Meanwhile, her feet tread all over your bare back at a steady tempo, leaving what could have easily been hickeys red marks and footprints on your skin.

“How long do I have left, Miss Shin?” you ask, voice almost indiscernible.

“About ten minutes,” she replies, looking out the hotel room window, watching dawn slowly break over the Parisian sky. “Don’t ever disappoint me again, do you understand? Freak.”

——————

(A/N: First commissioned work complete! Definitely exploring elements out of my specialty, did you expect her to peg OC? Fun dynamic to write, thank you for reading!)

(P.S. If you want to have your own story/idol written, you can send me a commission :D)

[probablyasocialecologist]

The farmer in Bangladesh or the street vendor in Brazil doesn’t have nearly the impact of the venture capitalist in California or the petroleum oligarchs of Russia and the Middle East. The richest 1% of humanity is responsible for more carbon emissions than the poorest 66%. The rich are bad for the Earth, and the richer they are the bigger their adverse impact (including the impact of money invested in banks, and stocks financing fossil fuels and other forms of climate destruction). In other words, we are not all the same size. Billionaires loom large over our politics and environment in ways that are hard to understand without taking on the shocking scale of their wealth. That impact, both through their climate emissions and their manipulations of politics and public life means they are not at all like the rest of humanity. They are behemoths, and they mostly use their outsize power in ugly ways – both in how much they consume and how much they influence the world’s climate response. Let me put it this way: if you made $10,000 a week – a princely sum by the standards of most people – you would have to work every week from the year of Jesus’s birth until this week to earn over a billion dollars. To earn as much as Elon Musk’s net worth at that rate – currently $180bn, according to Forbes – you’d have to work every week for more than a third of a million years – that is, since before Homo sapiens first emerged in Africa.

[...]

Billionaires are a menace to the rest of us: their sheer political size warps our public life. Disproportionately older, white and male, they function as unelected powers, a sort of freelance global aristocracy who are too often trying to reign over the rest of us. Some critics think that the supergiant tech corporations that have spawned so many modern billionaires operate in ways that resemble feudalism more than capitalism, and, certainly, plenty of billionaires operate like the lords of the Earth while campaigning to protect the economic inequality that made them so rich and makes so many others so poor. They use their power in arbitrary, reckless and often environmentally destructive ways.

[fuck-customers]

This was a couple of decades ago when I worked in sales, let’s say for an electronics company or appliance company or something similar to that. We had an older gentleman come in and he wanted to buy some high end stuff and quite a bit of it, so we were more than willing to help him out. Things started getting out of hand with him pretty quickly though. He was starting to demand that during the delivery and installation we would do stuff above and beyond what we could do because what he was asking for was against corporate policy. When we started to explain some of this to him he was all “You don’t know who I am, do you?” and he started to tell us that he used to be the ceo of a global company that I’ll leave unnamed. Think something big like energy, tech, or media. A company that has products in almost every household. He was telling us how corporate policies are all about lawyers and accountants and he doesn’t give a damn about that kind of stuff. If anything went wrong he wouldn’t hold anyone accountable and we could take him for his word. He said he used to make multimillion dollar deals on the golf course or over dinner with nothing more than handshakes and promises of phone calls over the next week to further hash things out.

We all thought this man was full of shit but he was willing to spend a lot of money, so we just let him keep on talking while we figured out ways to talk him down from his unrealistic expectations. It felt like a hostage negotiation. From time to time he would go on tangents and give us his “insider knowledge” about this company or that. It was all far from insider knowledge. It was everyday stuff that could easily be learned by reading Forbes or The Wall Street Journal.

I was the main salesperson and his first point of contact so I talked to him the most. He talked foul and looked completely disheveled. Everything about him and the whole interaction was the exact opposite of the types of corporate businessmen I was used to dealing with. I was starting to think we were getting conned. After about two long and painful hours the sale was completed and payments went through, much to my surprise. While a lot of equipment needed to be delivered, I volunteered to load the stuff we had on hand into his car. When we got out to the parking lot I saw that his car was a busted up and rusted out relic from the mid ‘80s. I thought that there was no way an ex-ceo of a global company would be driving something so crappy. I was convinced that he was just taking us for a ride for God know’s what reason.

When I got home from work that night I googled his name. Lo and behold there he was with photographs and articles. Tons of them. Not only was he who he said he was, he actually downplayed his career. I printed out some of the articles to take into work the next day. My boss, my coworkers, and I went over them, just dumb struck. We just couldn’t believe it. This complete asshole was exactly who he said he was. We ended up calling the installers to give them a heads up and warn them that they were probably be going to deal with one of the most difficult customers they’d see that year.

We never saw him again. On the one hand we were happy because none of us wanted to deal with him again. On the other hand we were kind of disappointed. He spent money without even trying.

I believed he was who he said he was before you said you looked him up.

The really rich people (worth billions) will drive a thirty year old car, wear clothes decades out of date, and expect a lot of things "extra" on everything they do buy. That's how they stay rich. The CEO of our company is still using a flip phone and came to our meeting (when I was still in corporate) in jeans and a t-shirt. And that dude is worth billions.

The showoff's (flashy car, new phone/bag/shoes) either are millionaires that will not be rich their whole life. Or celebrities/influencer's that need to have that image of wealth.

At least that's my experience in retail corporate and working security for the mouse.

-Rodney

[justarandomreaderxoxo]

Shadows of the Heart: Drabble 3

Royalty, Apparently

Summary: After an unforgettable evening, Wanda returns home glowing with affection for someone who feels like a dream. So of course she needs to tell Pietro.

Word count: 747

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: 24

Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Warnings: None.

Wanda kicks the door shut behind her, dropping her purse on the little hook by the entrance with a practiced flick. The room is dim, quiet-only the soft hum of the fridge and the gentle creak of the floorboards beneath her socked feet.

She doesn't turn the lights on. The darkness wraps around her like a velvet cloak, warm and comforting. She leans against the door for a second, presses a hand to her chest, and lets the smile come back.

You.

She can still feel the press of your hand against her lower back, the way you’d opened the door for her like it was second nature. The easy cadence of your voice, the way you’d genuinely paused to listen when she talked about baking techniques and why certain espresso blends made her dizzy with joy. It was ridiculous.

It was wonderful.

She moves to the couch and curls up, hugging a pillow to her chest, phone already in her hand before she knows it.

She dials.

"Zdravey, sestra," Pietro answers after a groggy yawn. "You realize you're calling in the middle of the damn night, da?"

“Shut up and listen,” Wanda grins, kicking her feet up, voice already too bright to suppress. “I had the most amazing evening.”

There’s a pause. “Oof. Alright. Spill.”

She flips over onto her stomach, swinging her legs in the air like a teenager. “Her name’s Y/N. Y/N Fury.”

There’s a beat of silence. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

Another pause.

“No… tova ne mozhe da e istina.”

“Why are you reacting like I just said I went out with Beyoncé?” she teases, poking at a couch cushion.

“Because that’s Fury, Wanda. Like—like Fury Industries. She’s everywhere! The tech company, the clean energy summit, that civic fund for housing reform! And—and she co-runs that hotel chain with the ridiculous rooftop pools. Ti si izlqzla s aristokratiya!”

Wanda frowns, blinking. “I didn’t know all that.”

“She didn’t tell you?!”

“No!” Wanda laughs. “I just thought she was, you know, really well put together. Sharp. Witty. Focused. And that suit? God help me.”

Pietro groans. “You didn’t Google her?”

“I didn’t want to Google her,” Wanda says, burying her face in her pillow. “I just wanted to get to know her.”

“She’s literally in Forbes.”

“She didn’t act like it.”

“No bodyguards? No five-star name-dropping? No yacht talk?”

“She held the door for an elderly woman and complimented a teenager’s jacket while we waited for our food.”

Pietro whistles. “Like a printsesa from a folk tale.”

Wanda grins into her pillow. “She listened to me, P. Really listened. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so… still.”

“You mean calm?”

“No. Still. Like, she doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t talk over you. She just... watches and absorbs, like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.”

“Damn,” Pietro says, voice quieter now. “You’re gone already.”

“Maybe,” she whispers. “Is that crazy?”

“No,” he murmurs. “But it’s rare.”

She sighs. “You should’ve seen her smile.”

“She smiled?”

“She has one of those smirks. Like she knows things. But it’s not smug—it’s safe. Like you could say the dumbest thing and she’d still think you’re worth something.”

“You are,” Pietro says softly.

“I know,” Wanda replies, voice just as quiet. “But it felt different with her. Like I didn’t have to prove it.”

Another pause, then Pietro’s voice shifts again—playful now. “So… you like her.”

“Yes, I like her,” she groans, rolling over. “Isn’t that why I’m calling you at midnight?!”

“Fair enough. But tell me-are you going to see her again?”

Wanda hums. “She said she’d drop by the café sometime. Maybe. Hopefully. I didn’t want to push it.”

“Sounds like you should plan your next outfit.”

“Oh shut up.”

“You need to tell me everything if she kisses you again.”

“Bozhe, prestani! (God, stop it!) Go to bed!”

“I am in bed!”

She laughs so hard she has to cover her face with both hands. There’s warmth in her chest now-a familiar sibling safety net that even time zones and sleep deprivation can’t steal.

“Good night, brat mi.”

“Good night, malka zvezda.”

She ends the call, still smiling.

You’ll never know, but somewhere, across the city-while you're asleep and unaware-her heart is still humming with the warmth you left behind.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Ne… tova ne mozhe da e istina - No… that can’t be real

Ti si izlqzla s aristokratiya! - You went out with royalty!

Bozhe, prestani! - God, stop it!

malka zvezda. - Little star