#Milk Testing Machine

[poornasree]

Poornasree Equipments is manufacturing the Lactosure Eco, India’s fastest solar-powered ultrasonic milk analyzer. Operating with a total of ten specialized departments, each playing a crucial role in its success, we ensure industrial efficiency and precision.

[eraserbread]

there's something in the air around you... your husband, nanami, notices it immediately ✧

→ pregnant!reader, panty-sniffer nanami, fingering, mentions of oral, suggestive content

perhaps it's a new perfume, but you never switched from the one he picked out. you've used the same detergent since you were a teenager and match body wash with him.

there hasn't been a change in your lifestyle at all. kento swears he's not crazy...

then, he thinks he might actually be because he's standing in front of the washer with your black silk panties pressed to his nose. you just took them off this morning, so your smell is fresh—mouthwatering—yet different��a good difference.

"ken, i've been dreaming about milk bread from that bakery in-" you're stepping into the room, arms crossed around your traditional robe. you took off your clothes to shower, and now he's nose-deep. "...what are you doing?"

"oh." he replies haphazardly, pretending like he didn't just get caught sniffing your panties. he tosses them in with the rest of the clothes. "yes, dear. milk bread sounds lovely. you know, they do sandwiches too-

"why were you... wait, you're sniffing my panties? are you okay?"

"oh," he repeats, looking down to the contained mess of dark clothes in the drum. "I know... it's odd... i was just wondering why your pheromones have been dipping recently." he turns to you, shutting the washer and leaning against the waist-height appliance. "have you been taking any new medications? no, right? i would know?"

you swallow silence, knowing exactly what he was sensing... and silly you, you know your husband is mystic and observational. you should really tell him about that positive pregnancy test you have hiding in the wardrobe.

now is not that time. you shake your head. "no..."

so, he nods you over. "come here, now. i've been stewing over the matter for a few days."

kento sits you on top of the purring washing machine after he turns it on, giving you a passing kiss as you settle. You still get so flustered with him, and it's heightened right now—you just caught him with a noseful of your most private garments, taking it in like it was flora.

"well, firstly i thought it might've been a new bodywash... but we share."

"mhm." you nod, lips pressing together as he pushes your legs open. under the robe you're completely naked, but the shadow keeps you decent. "'s not the bodywash."

"yes. then, i figured... well, it's more likely to be an internal change. i can smell it waft when you walk by."

"are you saying i stink?"

his eyes get dark. he's staring right into your soul. "no."

you're purring - a steady engine coming to life within you that matches the tremors of the wash cycle. between your thighs, he reaches for your familiar cunt, knowing right where to reach, where he should bypass, and the entirety of your shape. instead of teasing your clit, getting you ready for further stimulation, he slides his thick middle finger inside of you, buried to the hilt.

you take a breath, he cocks an eyebrow. "me smelling you like that... it didn't make you uncomfortable, did it?"

you're shaking your head immediately, reaching a hand to plant on his big, homey shoulder. he's hunching pretty far to get as close as possible, nose trailing over yours when he whispers.

"i don't... i don't even know what that means—mhmf." you squeeze your eyes shut, body twisting as he slips his pointer finger ring-deep inside of you. the shiny metal shocks your soul, twisting at your entrance as his digits stretch you sensually.

then, he chuckles. actually—real, rare. "good. i love you. all of you." he twists his fingers and pulls them out, drinking up your flustered gasps as he brings the glistening pair to his nose, taking a long sniff.

you're reacting like a fish out of water, opening and closing your lips as you try to make sense of it all. before two thoughts can connect, he's dragging those damp fingers to his lips, staring at you hotly as he takes them in his mouth.

he settles on a deep, throaty. "mmm..." cheeks hollowing around them like your taste is his favorite meal. "you're sweeter, too."

[essaeterakoindia]

Milk Fat Testing Machine

Essae is a leading manufacturer of high-precision Milk Fat Testing Machines, ensuring accurate dairy analysis for quality control. Enhance your dairy operations with Essae’s reliable testing solutions!

[sharmajiya]

Automatic Milk Data Processor Unit For Dairy

Enhance your dairy operations with our Automatic Milk Data Processor Unit. Designed for efficiency and precision, this advanced unit streamlines data processing, ensuring accurate milk analysis and record-keeping. Ideal for dairy farms and processing facilities, it simplifies data management while boosting productivity.

[dinosus]

John Price is a domestic menace who is so in love with you it’s borderline ridiculous.

Price is up at the crack of dawn, even when he’s home. Military habits die hard. But instead of rushing off to train, he takes his time watching you sleep. He adores how peaceful you look, face buried in the pillow, hair messy.

“Too bloody gorgeous for your own good, love.”

He always makes coffee first thing in the morning. Your coffee is made with care, perfect sugar-to-milk ratio. His? Jet fuel. The man drinks pure black coffee like a lunatic.

If you wake up early, he pulls you into his lap, letting you sit between his legs as he rests his chin on your shoulder, sipping coffee together in comfortable silence. This man cannot cook for shit. You let him try once, and the kitchen almost caught fire. His ‘specialty’? Scrambled eggs that somehow taste like regret.

If you’re cooking, he’s always hovering. Arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder, murmuring- “What’s on the menu today, sweetheart?”

You have to swat him away because he steals food off the pan.

“John, I swear—STOP PICKING AT IT.”

“I’m just taste-testing, love.” (No, he’s eating half of it.) Price is a touch-starved bastard. He constantly has a hand on you—your thigh, your back, your waist. He hates sleeping alone. If he’s home, you are glued to him.

Post-mission cuddles? He holds onto you like you’re his lifeline.

Comes home, sighs deeply, collapses onto you. He buries his face into your neck, muttering “Missed you so damn much.”

He physically cannot sleep unless you’re in his arms. If he has nightmares? You always wake up to comfort him. He tries to brush it off, but you cup his face, run your fingers through his hair.

“You’re home, John. You’re safe.”

And just like that, the tension leaves his body. This man walks on the side of the road closest to traffic. Always. Hand on your lower back when walking through crowds. If anyone even looks at you wrong? That stern Captain Price glare™ is activated.

One time, some guy at the grocery store got too close to you— Price instantly went into overprotective husband mode.

“The fuck you lookin’ at, mate?”

You had to drag him away before he decked the poor man. Don't let this man near laundry. “John, you can’t just throw your combat gear in with our clothes.” “...They all get clean, don’t they?” Absolutely not. One time, you found a grenade pin in the washing machine.

“JOHN WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”

“…Souvenir?”

You ban him from doing laundry after that.

When he gets rare days off, he’s the laziest bastard alive. He’s in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, sprawled on the couch. If you try to get up? Nope. He pulls you back down.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’, sweetheart? You’re stayin’ right here.”

Movie nights? You lay on his chest, and he rubs lazy circles into your back. He snores. Loudly. But if you ever tease him about it, he denies it. “I don’t snore, love.” “John, I have video evidence.” “…Fabricated.” (i made part two, check it out :D !)

[kabr0ztrousers]

hey could you write about a pussy portal? with whatever monster you feel like! also could it be semi-public (public but hidden)? also knotting is appreciated!

Kabr0z Writes episode 53: Hornyposting

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: portal sex; knotting; public sex; cum in vagina; unknown male; freeuse; recieving cunnilingus; age gap; implied impregnation; interspecies; portal fucking

A/N: I do love writing portal fucking, though I'm not sure I understood the prompt properly on this one, so enjoy reading about fem!reader being fucked by a knotted cock while falling to avoid notice

Also, any requests etc, please drop an ask!

#######################################

When you bought something called a "telepresence glory hole" you weren't honestly expecting what you got. It arrived OK, and came with a phonebook of a disclaimer which you didn't bother reading. What was really interesting was, it actually seemed legit. In the box you got a pair of panties, and a handheld device that looked kinda like a fleshlight. Both had strange disks integrated to them made of some kind of metal. You spent the next hour going through the manual, registering them to a phone app and generating a friend code.

Testing went without a hitch, you plugged the friend code into the app, and the link established with a faint buzz. Next came the fun part. You broke the link, before taking to the internet. Would you believe there's a whole community centred around these things?

You got changed, a nice sundress to go out in, those panties underneath. A quick picture later and you posted your selfie and your code, out in the aether. You set off, walking to the cafe, locking the app as you left. For the next 4 hours, you're open for business.

The bell on the café door jingled as it opened. The local corporate chain, you weren't going to risk getting chucked out of a café you actually liked, but even if the coffee sucked here the wifi's free and there's plenty of people around. You joined the back of the line and inched towards the counter.

You felt a draft down below. A breath across your cunt. There were still a few people ahead of you. A shiver ran up your spine, it's starting already.

A wide tongue grazed your outer lips, starting slowly. You tensed your cunt a little to egg whoever this was on. You'd said in your post that you were up for any guy to give you a fuck, though maybe you hadn't mentioned what you'd be up to in the meantime... But that's very much what things like this were designed for, nobody's wearing these for a quiet night in.

The tongue came again, holding back a little less this time, coating the outside of your pussy in drool as it licked up and down your-

"Hi! What can I get for you?" The rictus grin of the cashier snapped you out of your thoughts

"C-cappuchino please. Large" you stammered out, speaking fast to try and avoid your voice giving you away.

You paid noiselessly, tapping your card on the machine which beeped compliantly before stepping over to the other counter with your receipt and the order number printed on it.

The tongue got more aggressive. Your knee buckled as it circled your clit. You squeezed your eyes shut a moment as it threatened to slip into your eager hole. You leaned on a low wall behind you, trying to look nonchalant as you checked your forum post.

WolfDaddy1969 had replied to you "Don't need to tell me twice" was this the person so diligently licking you out? He didn't have a profile picture. God, but whoever this was, they're good with their tongue. You rolled your head backwards in ecstasy, trying to disguise it by rubbing the back of your neck, but the quiet whimper you gave drew the eye of the suited woman beside you as she stepped forward to grab a tray of paper cups.

"Order 42, large cappuccino, regular milk"

Your legs threatened to betray you as you as you stepped up and took the almost litre cup of coffee with your order number stuck to it. You turned to try and find a table, almost stumbling as you did. The movement was shifting your pussy lips, moving them subtly against one another as the tongue pushed between them. You fell into a seat, legs spread. You could feel moisture leaking around the edges of the portal, the combination of drool and your pussy juice starting to slick your crotch.

The tongue had barely let up before you felt something else pressing against you. Hard and drooling, there was no mistaking it. You'd been with a lupine before, you knew how they start squirting precum almost as soon as you get them hard. You imagined it, if this wolf really was born in the late 60's then he'd have been in his thirties before you were even conceived... It turned you on knowing this cock was old enough to be your father.

He pushed in, or maybe down? Your pussy making up the business end of the toy he was fucking himself with. He slid in easily. Your toes curled in your shoes as you gripped the table in front of you, clenching your teeth as he started fucking you properly. He angled his toy, only slightly but enough that you could feel him thrust up into your g-spot before continuing into you. Despite your efforts, you could feel yourself making small, choked sounds with every thrust. His thumb hit your clit. You groaned as your legs started to shake, failing to hide your release as people started to take notice. A mix of worried and disgusted looks fixed upon you, some people clearly having an idea of what was happening.

The cock filled you up. The clenching of your aching cunt getting to the cock inside you. You felt the knit start to inflate. It was pulsing so deliciously, your mouth sagged open in a silent wail of delight and release.

The cashier from before was next to you "I think you should leave" his smile was gone, he just looked tired.

You nodded and got up, The movement of your legs rolling the swollen knot inside you, forcing you to walle away, your drink forgotten as you tried to ignore the mix of arousal and cum dripping down your legs.

The outside air was cold on your skin, the wetness covering your thighs stinging as it cooled in the brisk February air. At least you're within walking distance of home, though it's anyone's guess if you'd get back before the wolf was done with you.

He was still using you to jerk off, the knot thrusting up and down as you tried to walk, dictating the rhythm of your steps. You weren't hiding your noises any more either, there were fewer people on the suburban streets, but every one of them knew you had something going on down there. Some hurried on, some threw dirty looks, one or two gave wolf whistles and catcalls, only making you wetter.

You were halfway home when the knot started twisting in you, this way and that. You grabbed a lamppost as you moaned out, trying desperately to keep from falling as your knees gave way and your cunt gave another squirt of girlcum. He turned his cock again and again, feeling how you clenched and milked his knot, wringing every morsel of cum from him, before withdrawing with a pop.

That tongue came back. You slid down the pole, landing on your knees as the wolf licked deep inside you, tasting his cum as it mixed with your essence. You could swear it hit your cervix as you groaned and whined for all to see.

The tongue withdrew. The portal shut off and you were alone again, leaking onto the floor underneath you. You staggered to your feet, still clinging to the street furniture as you got your breath back. Legs still shaking, pussy still twitching, you got home.

The portal buzzed to life again. You checked your post. You'd been pinned to the front page, it looks like WolfDaddy left you a glowing review "10/10, tight pussy, would impregnate again"

You were going to have a lot of fun with this

#################################

There's a little narrative dissonance between where it started and where it went here, but I thought it shook out pretty well, and you're not here for tight editing.

As always, any requests, ideas, thoughts, questions or fanmail is appreciated! My DMs and asks remain open for use!

Also, see below for a surprise poll!

[perfectqueenfan]

Having the egg right at the opening at the start of your work shift, so you have to hold the egg in so you can finally deliver the egg back home.

*Sorry folks it's gonna be a long one. I got a good writing flow and idea for this.*

I knew that going into work today was probably not the smartest idea, but I needed the money and had signed on for a double shift. I started early, driving to the bakery I worked at around 7:45am. A few months ago I had signed on to help a friend out with a science project for one of their classes at our local college, which ended up being something a lot more out of the ordinary than I had initially thought.

"Human egg incubation. But not like a human egg, you have plenty of those. I found these alien eggs on the black market and need a test subject to see if these are even real. Can you help me please?" And me, being weak when it came to them, said yes. It has been 4 months since we inserted one of the eggs into my womb, at the time it was as small as a pea. They were a light green color, slightly glowing. To a normal eye, you wouldn't notice any difference with me. But I could see the beginning of a bump forming, the slight distended look of where my womb is, looking like I had just a little too much to eat. The bump was firm if I pressed against it, and I could often feel the egg shift when I moved around. It had definitely grown, I'm unsure by how much but enough for me to feel it's weight at all times.

When I pulled into the staff parking lot, I felt a sudden shift in my womb, more intense than the usual movement. Running a hand across the tiny bump, I felt to make sure that nothing was breaking before heading into work. Greeting my co-worker Annie, I moved to grab my apron when I felt a twinge deep in my belly. Placing my hand against the bump again, I felt the egg shift in a harsher way than normal. Weird, but it's not gonna stop me from getting my job done, I thought to myself as I tied on my apron and began to open up the bakery.

It wasn't even an hour into open when I had to excuse myself for a bio break, quickly rushing to the bathroom as another wave of pain washed over me. As soon as I was in a stall I unbuttoned my pants and pulled them down enough to expose me stomach and underwear. Looking at my bump, I noticed it was a bit more pronounced and I could feel the egg shift again uncomfortably, holding back a groan at the feeling. But the pain wouldn't let up, a near wiggling feeling from how much the egg was shifting again the walls of my womb. Then it all came to a crest when I felt a pop like feeling, a small rush of what seems to be blue slime coming from between my legs and soaking my underwear.

"Oh, fuck me." I cursed under my breath as I grabbed some toilet paper to quickly wipe away what would be best described as my waters, really it was a mucus sac the egg had developed around itself to keep it safe. Once I was cleaned enough, I pulled my pants back up and quickly rushed to the break room to grab my phone, texting my friend that the egg was on its way. That's when it dawned on me, I had signed up for a double shift today. Realizing that I had to stall the birth of this egg as much as possible, I put back on my apron and walked back to the counter with determination: make it thought this shift without having this egg.

Not even halfway though my first shift, I realized that was easier said than done. The egg, which turns out was massive, had managed to fully get into my birth canal and weighing heavily on my hips. I was saving my groans until I was in the pantry or couldn't be heard over the espresso machines. The worst part though, is that I was so turned on by it. The hiding, the weight and feeling of the egg shifting lower and lower, and nobody else knew that I was using all my mental strength not to give in and push the massive egg out of me. Moving throughout the motions of making yet another caramel macchiato, I bent down to grab another carton of milk when the egg shot forward, resting just behind my lips. I let out a startled yelp at the feeling, Annie giving me a weird look at my sudden outburst. "Hit my head." Was all I said and she gave a nod of understanding before returning to the customer.

By 3pm, I was sweating, constantly denying my bodies cry to push practically every minute as I moved around the bakery. My confident walk had turned into a slow, almost waddle. It felt like there was a bowling ball between my legs, and with every step the feeling of the egg shifting right at my entrance was torture. But I couldn't push, not here and definitely not right before the after-school rush of students. Standing behind the counter taking orders, a regular walked up and began chatting about her annoying professor. I felt myself relax a bit, swinging into our normal conversation. Biggest mistake. Not even realizing, my body began pushing, feeling the sudden stretch of my hole making me whimper out in shock and pain. Without apologizing, I rushed to the bathroom and quickly undid my pants again, pulling my underwear down too. I could see the tiniest bit of hard, glowing green shell peaking between my lips. Running my fingers against it, I moaned out as I pushed it back in, my body protesting as I did. Once I felt safe enough, I returned to work, only for all the progress I had just undone to return, feeling my opening begin to spread again just a bit as the egg slowly shifted downward.

Finally, after two hours of feeling the egg ever so slowly stretch me open, I left work for the day and as quickly as I could rushed to my car. The second I sat down, the angle from the seat and my jeans pushed the egg back into me a bit, causing me to groan at the feeling. I pressed a hand to my throbbing cunt, feeling the slight outline of the egg though my pants. It wasn't crowning, but it was getting close. Driving home was almost as bad as working, the constant burning and subconscious pushing but the egg not being able to move due to my underwear and jeans.

I managed to get into my home with only a slight waddle, not being able to fully close me legs with the giant egg weighing between them. I didn't even try to get to my room, heading to the couch in the living room and striping off every article of clothing on my body. I pressed one hand over my pussy again, feeling the egg against my palm. It felt like it was tearing me open, at least the size of an ostrich egg, and hand more of a bumpy texture. I whimpered for hours as I squatted and tried to push the egg out of my cunt, playing with my clit to try and ease the slide out with arousal. Around 11pm, I finally got the egg to crown, crying out as it felt like I was being split open and simultaneously orgasming, managing to have the egg pop and slip free of my poor, overstretched cunt.

[ecrivainsolitaire]

A summary of the Chinese AI situation, for the uninitiated.

These are scores on different tests that are designed to see how accurate a Large Language Model is in different areas of knowledge. As you know, OpenAI is partners with Microsoft, so these are the scores for ChatGPT and Copilot. DeepSeek is the Chinese model that got released a week ago. The rest are open source models, which means everyone is free to use them as they please, including the average Tumblr user. You can run them from the servers of the companies that made them for a subscription, or you can download them to install locally on your own computer. However, the computer requirements so far are so high that only a few people currently have the machines at home required to run it.

Yes, this is why AI uses so much electricity. As with any technology, the early models are highly inefficient. Think how a Ford T needed a long chimney to get rid of a ton of black smoke, which was unused petrol. Over the next hundred years combustion engines have become much more efficient, but they still waste a lot of energy, which is why we need to move towards renewable electricity and sustainable battery technology. But that's a topic for another day.

As you can see from the scores, are around the same accuracy. These tests are in constant evolution as well: as soon as they start becoming obsolete, new ones are released to adjust for a more complicated benchmark. The new models are trained using different machine learning techniques, and in theory, the goal is to make them faster and more efficient so they can operate with less power, much like modern cars use way less energy and produce far less pollution than the Ford T.

However, computing power requirements kept scaling up, so you're either tied to the subscription or forced to pay for a latest gen PC, which is why NVIDIA, AMD, Intel and all the other chip companies were investing hard on much more powerful GPUs and NPUs. For now all we need to know about those is that they're expensive, use a lot of electricity, and are required to operate the bots at superhuman speed (literally, all those clickbait posts about how AI was secretly 150 Indian men in a trenchcoat were nonsense).

Because the chip companies have been working hard on making big, bulky, powerful chips with massive fans that are up to the task, their stock value was skyrocketing, and because of that, everyone started to use AI as a marketing trend. See, marketing people are not smart, and they don't understand computers. Furthermore, marketing people think you're stupid, and because of their biased frame of reference, they think you're two snores short of brain-dead. The entire point of their existence is to turn tall tales into capital. So they don't know or care about what AI is or what it's useful for. They just saw Number Go Up for the AI companies and decided "AI is a magic cow we can milk forever". Sometimes it's not even AI, they just use old software and rebrand it, much like convection ovens became air fryers.

Well, now we're up to date. So what did DepSeek release that did a 9/11 on NVIDIA stock prices and popped the AI bubble?

Oh, I would not want to be an OpenAI investor right now either. A token is basically one Unicode character (it's more complicated than that but you can google that on your own time). That cost means you could input the entire works of Stephen King for under a dollar. Yes, including electricity costs. DeepSeek has jumped from a Ford T to a Subaru in terms of pollution and water use.

The issue here is not only input cost, though; all that data needs to be available live, in the RAM; this is why you need powerful, expensive chips in order to-

Holy shit.

I'm not going to detail all the numbers but I'm going to focus on the chip required: an RTX 3090. This is a gaming GPU that came out as the top of the line, the stuff South Korean LoL players buy…

Or they did, in September 2020. We're currently two generations ahead, on the RTX 5090.

What this is telling all those people who just sold their high-end gaming rig to be able to afford a machine that can run the latest ChatGPT locally, is that the person who bought it from them can run something basically just as powerful on their old one.

Which means that all those GPUs and NPUs that are being made, and all those deals Microsoft signed to have control of the AI market, have just lost a lot of their pulling power.

Well, I mean, the ChatGPT subscription is 20 bucks a month, surely the Chinese are charging a fortune for-

Oh. So it's free for everyone and you can use it or modify it however you want, no subscription, no unpayable electric bill, no handing Microsoft all of your private data, you can just run it on a relatively inexpensive PC. You could probably even run it on a phone in a couple years.

Oh, if only China had massive phone manufacturers that have a foot in the market everywhere except the US because the president had a tantrum eight years ago.

So… yeah, China just destabilised the global economy with a torrent file.

[ducksido]

I keep asking things but i love your writings so..

How would the boys react to a reader/yuu who got exposed to magic that much (much like radiation) so they can do magic, they just don't realize, or just don't care enough.

Like, thanks to the overblots they got exposed to raw magic so they have a minor, kinda unusefull, ability (or a UM); like how Sophie from Howl's Moving Castle can make objects do something by asking them to do it

(a Yuu who’s been marinating in overblot juice, i only did the first 3 dorms)

Riddle: Absolutely cannot cope. “This is irresponsible.” He thinks it’s blot poisoning. You’re behaving like a wild fae creature! You can’t just ask a teacup to stay warm and it obeys you! That’s rule-breaking! He desperately wants you to submit to magical testing. He’s convinced you’ll combust. When you assure him, “I only do it when it feels right,” he panics more.

Trey: He doesn’t really get it, but he believes you. When you ask the oven “please don’t burn the crust” and it doesn’t, he gives you this blank stare and says, “...Did it work because you said it… or because you meant it?” He starts speaking to his kitchen tools just to test it. “Yuu’s magic is like kitchen luck,” he mutters. He never burns pie after you compliment his apron.

Cater: “Okay, sooo… we’re not gonna talk about the fact that your bag literally zipped itself when you said thank you?” He’s obsessed. Posts cryptic Magicam pics like “Yuu’s magic is ✨aesthetic✨”. Tries to trick you into doing cool things on camera. When you refuse, he pouts. He also worries. Quietly asks if it hurts when you use your “gift.” It doesn’t. He’s relieved—but still watches you closely.

Ace: “THAT’S MAGIC! YOU’RE DOING MAGIC!” You insist you’re not. He’s shouting. He’s flustered because he’s working so hard in class and here you are getting vending machines to spit out free snacks. At some point he starts trying to mimic you. He whispers sweet nothings to his textbooks. He begs the dorm fridge to make his milk cold. It never works. He’s miserable. “Stupid ghost magic…”

Deuce: Completely convinced you’re some kind of ancient spirit in disguise. He becomes so respectful. Like, he calls you “Yuu-senpai” even when you’re the same age. He asks you to bless his pen before exams. You say, “Pen, do your best,” and hand it over. He’s nearly in tears. He’s also the most worried you’re going to get hurt. Keeps telling Crowley to investigate it properly. Nobody listens.

Leona: At first, he scoffs. “Tch. That’s not real magic. That’s just you sweet-talking junk.” But the third time he sees a broken piece of chalk start writing because you said, “Can you help me with this, please?”, he stops mocking you. Quietly, he starts observing. Deep down, it unsettles him—a powerless human who got infected with blot and now reality bends when you whisper to it. There’s something ancient about it. He’ll never admit it, but he once tried whispering to his pen. Nothing happened. He was furious. “...I ain’t jealous. Just sayin’ it’s weird, that’s all.”

Ruggie: “HUH?? Wait, wait, wait—you told a mop to clean and it did??” He’s both amazed and mildly horrified. You’ve got this uncanny ability and don’t care?! He thinks you’re lowkey a cryptid. He’d love to exploit it (in the name of efficiency), but the magic is temperamental. You told the vending machine, “I wish I had a soda,” and it spit one out. But when he tried it? It jammed. “Yuu... are you cursed or blessed? I can’t tell.”

Jack: Jack is stunned. A bit spooked. “You can’t just… ask the broom to sweep and it does it.” You say, “Well, it’s nice to the broom. It deserves help.” He’s silently terrified you’re going to overheat and overblot from it. He tries to subtly monitor your blot levels. It doesn’t rise. You’re just... like that. You make him nervous in the way people fear forest spirits—kind of awed, kind of reverent, kind of unnerved.

Azul: “...You’re not casting spells?” He doesn’t understand how you’re doing this. Is it residual blot? Contract-based? Unlicensed magic? He’s both interested in profiting off this and deeply nervous about it. He tries to ask you to teach him. You say “I don’t know how, I just ask nicely.” It both infuriates and fascinates him. Eventually he adds a clause in your Lounge employee contract: “If an object obeys your voice, you must log the incident.” You doodle smiley faces in the logbook and leave out important details. He’s having a stress-induced existential crisis.

Jade: He treats you like a spirit of the forest. He’s delighted. “You must have absorbed wild magic, Yuu. A kind of natural resonance. Fascinating.” He doesn’t try to study you directly—he studies your environment, your emotions, your words. He quietly logs the way you speak to objects. When you say “please,” he smiles to himself. He catches a knife once before it falls and asks, “Did you tell this not to hit the ground?” You blink. “Yeah.” “Charming.”

Floyd: Thinks it’s hilarious. “You said ‘go away’ to a squeaky door and it shut by itself! You're like a talking remote control.” He loves testing your limits. He’ll shout, “Yuu! Tell the vending machine to give me ten candy bars!!” When nothing happens, he whines, “You’re broken today.” But if you whisper to his hood to stay up during the rain, and it does, he just grins. “Creepy little shrimp~ I like it.”

[faebled-stories]

The Weight of Approval

Kinkvember Day 19: Facesitting

(G)-IDLE Cho Miyeon x Gender Neutral reader

11.7k words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you can survive it

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then, without warning, her weight lifts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bold. Unexpected, but effective.”

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[jakesaverse]

JUICEBOX VENDETTA | JAKE SIM | ONE SHOT

Jake x reader

Word Count: ~5,000

Genre: Enemies to lovers (with maximum simp energy)

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

You don’t even remember what flavor it was.

Orange, maybe. Or grape. Whatever it was, it ruined your unicorn leggings in the 5th grade and sealed Jake Sim’s fate as your eternal nemesis.

“Move,” you mutter, brushing past him in the hall now, seven years later.

“Sure. Just let me wipe my shoes—might trip over your grudge,” Jake deadpans.

You spin around. “You spilled juice on me.”

“In 5th grade!” he throws his arms up. “It was a JUICE BOX, not acid!”

“Same difference,” you say sweetly. “My thighs were sticky for days.”

Jake chokes on his laughter and then pretends to gag. “Gross, YN. Please. It’s 8 a.m.”

This is your routine. Morning insults, accidental brush-ups in class, and snarky hallway banter that somehow feels like a full-time job. If there were a GPA for verbal combat, you and Jake would be valedictorian and runner-up, constantly switching places.

You tell yourself you hate him.

But maybe it’s weird that you know he doodles on the margins of his notebooks and always flicks his pencil twice before writing. Or that he only drinks strawberry milk on test days. Or that he has the tiniest dimple on the right, not the left.

Totally normal. Totally enemy surveillance.

You absolutely do not notice how good he looks leaning against lockers.

Today, you’re both late to chemistry, and there’s only one Bunsen burner left.

“Great,” you sigh. “You breathe too loud. I’ll get carbon monoxide poisoning.”

Jake smirks. “You think I’m hot.”

“Excuse me?”

He flicks on the flame. “Carbon monoxide is odorless and tasteless. You’re thinking of carbon dioxide—what you exhale when I walk by.”

You glare. “I hope this lab blows up.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, handing you goggles. “I’d save you first. Even if you still hate me for a Capri Sun homicide in 2016.”

Your hand brushes his. You both pull back like it burned.

Spoiler: it didn’t.

Your hands felt warm.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Lunchtime.

You sit with your friends and spy on Jake from two tables away. It’s not spying, exactly. Just… gathering intel.

He’s laughing at something Sunghoon says. His head tilts back and his smile does that thing. That thing. You shove a carrot in your mouth like it insulted you.

“I swear,” your best friend says, “if you keep staring, I’m gonna charge you rent.”

“I’m not staring.”

“You have the facial expression of a Victorian ghost watching its former lover court a new bride.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“Stop simping and just talk to him.”

“I do talk to him! I insult him daily!”

They sigh. “The line between hate and love is thin.”

“Thinner than the Capri Sun straw he stabbed my childhood with?”

They blink. “You seriously need therapy.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Later. School courtyard.

You’re trying to carry an overloaded project board and a cup of paint back inside when, of course, a familiar voice pops up behind you.

“Need help, Juicebox?”

You freeze. “Don’t call me that.”

Jake grabs the other side of the board anyway. “Let me guess. DIY revenge machine? Shoots juice at unsuspecting boys?”

“Unfortunately, you’re not worth the engineering degree.”

You walk in awkward silence for a few steps before he says, “You know I didn’t mean to spill it, right?”

You glance over. He looks weirdly sincere.

“I was nervous,” he adds. “You—uh—you had pigtails and glitter sneakers and a smile that made my brain shut down.”

You trip over your own foot. “Excuse me?”

Jake looks horrified he said that out loud. “Forget it. I—I mean, whatever. You were just a weird little kid.”

“You had a mushroom haircut.”

“You liked my mushroom haircut!”

“Did not!”

“You called me ‘Toad’ and giggled.”

“…out of pity!”

You’re both smiling now. Stupidly. Your hands are still on the board, your fingers almost touching.

You clear your throat. “Thanks, I guess. For the help.”

“No problem.” Then, softer: “You look good in paint. Really brings out the menace in your eyes.”

You blink. “You’re… flirting?”

Jake shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “Do you like me?”

He grins. “Took you long enough.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The next week.

You’ve stopped calling him your nemesis.

Well. Out loud.

Now your insults sound more like… flirting. At least, that’s what your friends say.

You still glare at him, but it’s less homicidal and more “I hope you trip into my arms.”

Jake has started saving you a seat in chem. He still acts like an idiot, but now he does it while giving you his extra snack packs and picking leaves out of your hair.

One day, he shows up at your locker with a juice box.

“Peace offering,” he says, holding it out.

You squint at it. “Is it poisoned?”

He snorts. “Strawberry kiwi. Your favorite.”

You hesitate.

He gently presses it into your hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer. “Fifth grade me was dumb. And nervous. And probably had a crush the size of Jupiter.”

You look down at the juice box. Your fingers brush his again. This time, you don’t pull away.

“…Okay,” you murmur. “Apology accepted. Under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You drink one with me.”

You each take a dramatic sip.

Jake grins. “Truce?”

You shake your head.

He looks confused.

“Upgrade,” you whisper. “From nemesis to… maybe something else.”

Jake looks like you just handed him the moon.

“Deal,” he says.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Fast-forward: Spring Fling Dance

Jake is wearing a tie that doesn’t match, and you’re wearing a dress that definitely does. You didn’t plan to go together. Technically.

But your friends ditched you to take pictures, and somehow, Jake shows up beside you, sipping juice from a thermos.

“Too cool for punch?” you tease.

He nudges you with his elbow. “Too traumatized. Juice gang for life.”

You laugh. “We’re so dumb.”

“Maybe. But at least we’re dumb together.”

Then, nervously: “Can I have this dance, Juicebox?”

You mock-groan. “I swear, if you call me that at our wedding—”

Jake blinks. “Wedding?”

You turn red. “Hypothetical! Future! Very distant!”

He’s beaming. “So you’re saying there’s a future.”

You whack his arm, but your hand stays there a second too long.

“Shut up and dance with me.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

[7s3ven]

KIWIFRUIT. human! miles quaritch

IN WHICH… quaritch replays his old memories of you but starts to (jokingly) regret his decisions when seeing the way you eat kiwifruit.

Notes: age gap (quaritch - 51, y/n - 33), jake sully’s sister! reader, not following plot, details may vary from canon timeline, scientist! reader, reader is lowkey embarrassing/clumsy, dirty thoughts, pet names (from Quaritch), implication of sex

—

Fruit transported from Earth was a rare privilege in Pandora. You were delighted when you found out that boxes of fresh fruit, including kiwifruit, were being transported. Of course, it was a secret procedure but you had your ways of milking out information from no other than Colonel Miles Quaritch.

He was a tough man with scars decorating his body, which gave him a sense of pride, and large biceps (which were his defining feature in your opinion). He was not bribed easily but all you had to do was bat your eyes at him and gaze through your lashes up at him. He loved your big doe eyes; they seemed to make him do anything.

Quaritch knew you had two brothers. Had. Tom was gone. Jake, his twin, and your rather annoying younger brother, was his replacement. You had arrived at Pandora when you were barely twenty-five, freshly graduated from university. Quaritch knew of your hard-working personality; before he had officially met you, he had heard stories from the scientists at how difficult it was to distract you from your work. You were almost a working machine.

Quaritch could still remember when and how he first met you. It was all a blurred haze in his mind during the day but at night, when you would occasionally sneak into his room, he recalled everything.

“As head of security, it is my job to keep you all alive.” Quaritch announced as he clasped his hands behind his back, walking down the aisle between the new recruits. His heavy boots clicked against the steel floor. “I will not succeed.” For years now, he had been sticking to the same script, not bothered to write another speech on how dangerous Pandora was.

The door suddenly creaked and you hurried in, breathing heavily. All eyes turned to face you, and you frowned at the sudden spotlight. “My apologies, colonel.” You muttered, slowly sitting down in a free seat almost right next to the man. He paused, staring down at you with a harsh glare.

“As I was saying,” He continued on, “Before this young lady interrupted me,” He watched as your cheeks flushed in slight embarrassment. There was a small wave of snickers. “Pandora is not a playground. If you step out of line, you will be killed. Whether it is by the Na’vi or my own gun, you can decide. There will be no foolish behaviour here.” Quaritch was going to stop there but a mischievous smirk pulled at his lips as he glanced at you again. “And anybody late or anybody who tests my patience,” He made sure to lock eyes with you as he spoke, “Is required to give me twenty push-ups.”

Quaritch liked the way you stared at him in disbelief. “Dismissed.” He said to everybody else, “Except you.” He pointed straight at you, not hesitating to name and shame. Someone you didn’t know, a boy about your age with a buzz cut, patted you on the back.

“Good luck.” He whispered to you, most likely as a means to merely scare you. Everybody filed out the door, which banged heavily against the walls as it finally shut after the last person had slipped past.

“Name?” Quaritch questioned, folding his arms over his chest.

“Y/N Sully, sir.” You immediately replied, quickly standing up. Your formality amused Quaritch.

“Well, you know what to do. Get down on your knees.” He arched an eyebrow as you blinked in confusion, your mind wandering to something else. Quaritch almost laughed, immediately knowing where your mind went based on your flushed cheeks. “Push-ups, recruit. Get down on your knees and give me twenty push-ups.”

Flustered, you quickly dropped. “I am a scientist, sir. Do not judge my form.” Quaritch assumed your arms would be shaking after one push-up, but you were doing surprisingly well. You were in a tank top and loose-fitting cargo pants provided by the RDA. Quaritch, peeking out of pure curiosity, saw the tense muscles in your arms. Usually, the scientists that worked here had arms as thin as twigs. You did not.

“At ease, recruit.” Quaritch said after you had completed only twelve push-ups. “Find your station. Don’t be late to any other meetings otherwise I’ll make you do more than push-ups.” He slapped you on the back, his hand dangerously close to your ass. You jumped in slight shock, causing him to boyishly grin.

That was years ago. You were now thirty-three yet still resembled the same starry-eyed woman in her mid-twenties. Quaritch liked that about you, how you were able to remain consistent even under pressure. He liked things staying the same, which was probably why you had caught his attention after your first clumsy interaction.

“Miles?” He heard your soft voice as you entered the room. You had a gun strapped to your hip, courtesy of Quaritch himself. Pandora was a dangerous place, he was not taking any chances. Thus, he made you carry out a weapon of any sorts. He knew you had a knife hiding somewhere under that bulky white coat of yours.

Quaritch heard the faint sound of Lyle Wainfleet chuckling. It was no secret that the head of security was hopelessly attached to you. Quaritch’s team made fun of him every chance they got.

“I need some more samples. Do you think you could get someone to collect them when they accompany Grace’s avatar? I would do it myself but I’m busy with making plans for the new recruits.” You gently trailed a hand up Quaritch’s bicep, squeezing it lightly. At that point, he was putty in your hands.

“Wish I had that much power over the Colonel.” Lyle whispered to a friend, “I could stop him from making me train overtime.” Lyle’s teasing comment did not go unnoticed by Quaritch.

“Wainfleet, drop and give me thirty.” Quaritch uttered without taking his eyes off Y/N, which earned a groan from Lyle. “What plants do you need, sweetheart?” He questioned, handing you a stray piece of paper and a pen for you to scribble on.

You leaned over the desk, too busy writing down various flowers to notice how Quaritch’s gaze was looking you up and down. “I only need at least two.” You said, handing him the paper.

“Yeah? M’kay. I’ll do my best. Nice seeing ya, baby.” He shamelessly slapped your ass, an action he did quite often now. You had gotten used to it but you still rolled an eyes at his antics.

“Nice seeing you too, sir.” You mocked him, kicking the back of his knees. Quaritch’s legs almost buckled and he listened as you speed-walked off, snickering.

You had not been so confident when he first met you. At least, you didn’t show it. He always knew you had a feisty side that the environment of Pandora only encouraged but you had kept it hidden for your first few months on the new planet. Quaritch held a fondness for you but he still knew how much of a brat you could be, and not in a good way.

“Sully.” Quaritch called out your last name as you rushed past him, arms full of documents. You paused, almost stumbling forward. You glanced over your shoulder, watching as Quaritch beckoned you towards him with a single flick of his finger.

“Yes, sir?” You muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Where’s the report I asked for last week?” Quaritch knew that despite your intelligent mind, your memory was that of a goldfish. Not even that. Your memory was sometimes worse than Dory from Finding Nemo.

“I’m sorry, sir. I must have forgotten. I can get it to you by tonight.” You babbled, embarrassed for forgetting such a thing. You were always flustered in front of him, not quite knowing what to say. You were tall for a woman, you always had been, but Quaritch towered over you.

“By tonight, recruit.” He called you like he always did. You were a fully fledged scientist by this point but Quaritch still looked down on you, figuratively speaking.

“Yes, sir!” You saluted, or tried to. You had forgotten about the papers in your hands and half of the them dropped to the floor. Quaritch’s eyes dropped to stare at the fallen documents before meeting your eyes. You remained still, thinking if you didn’t move then Quaritch would ignore it. He did not.

In fact, he laughed. He actually laughed. It was not a sound you were accustomed to. Nobody was. Miles Quaritch was all bite and no bark. He kept to his harsh words without hesitation. But here he was, laughing at you.

Quaritch crouched down, picking up the papers. You gazed at him; all you could see was the three signature scars dragging through his shortly cropped hair. And when he lifted his head slightly to make eye contact- oh gosh. You stopped your mind from wandering to such places.

Quaritch took his time in standing up. His fingertips even brushed against your thigh, which you knew was not a mistake.

“Take care, sweetheart. I want the report on by desk at 10 pm sharp.”

You were late, which was not surprising to Quaritch considering you were always rushing around. He waited impatiently at his desk, drumming his fingers against the flat surface. He was almost falling asleep before his door slammed open and you came crashing in.

“I have the report, sir!” You exclaimed at such a volume that Quaritch had to tell you to pipe down. He checked his watch. You were five minutes late. Quaritch brushed it off; he would let you off this one time.

You placed the documents on his desk, flipping through pages and explaining certain points as you read the words upside down. Though, Quaritch wasn’t really listening. He could hear you ranting but his mind never registered your words. He was intensely focused on, as you leaned over to point at the paper in front of him, your cleavage. That damn tank top of yours was driving him crazy.

“Sir, are you listening?” You snapped him back to reality, “I was just saying how you should focus on this passage in particular.” You pointed a finger at a paragraph of text.

“Got it.” He drawled, leaning back in his chair. He had one arm propped on the arm rest while the other held a cup of cold water. His legs were spread, which was his usual way of sitting, but he did not miss the way your eyes darted down for a split second.

After practically forcing Wainfleet to gather the flowers you listed an hour ago, Quaritch went in search of you. He found you talking with a man in a wheelchair and a flame of jealousy flared up before he noticed the uncanny resemblance between the man and you.

He fit the pieces together. That must be Jake, your little brother. Quaritch saw Jake hand a letter to you and you briefly licked your lips, something you always did to distract yourself from too intense emotions. Jake also handed you a necklace but Quaritch knew you already hand another chained around your neck.

Hiding under the lab coat he hated so much was a dog tag necklace. Engraved in the metal was MQ, standing for Miles Quaritch.

Quaritch left you to catch up with your brother, deciding he would seek you out at a later hour.

Quaritch was always searching the base for you, his teammates compared him to a lovesick puppy. They even drew a picture to go along with their mocking comments. Quaritch let them have their fun, always too tired to shut them up.

The first time Quaritch showed any actual romantic interest in you was during this time. You had just returned from a week long trip, which deprived Quaritch of your sweet voice and clumsy actions. He found you in the lab as you always were, carefully snipping samples from a flower.

You were so concentrated that you didn’t even notice it was Quaritch behind you. “How many samples did you say you wanted, Grace?” You asked. When you got no reply, you looked over your shoulder.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, angel. I’m not Grace.” He stated. You blinked once, then twice. Lately his pet names had started to feel more personal.

“Sir, is there something you need?” You asked. Your shy personality had improved; you were no longer jumpy around him and you didn’t humiliate yourself as much in front of the Colonel. Or maybe this side of you existed all along but you decided to keep to yourself.

Quaritch turned your chair around, placing his hands on the arm rest and trapping you. You looked at him, a little unimpressed for being interrupted.

“Sir?” You spoke again but all Quaritch could focus on was your top. That damn tank top that almost jeered at him. You were always wearing it, day or night. It’s like you knew he was beginning to resent it for how it frustrated him.

“You got a boyfriend, sweetheart?” Quaritch questioned. He really should have asked ages ago before becoming infatuated. Slowly, you shook your head. “You’re a charming little lady, how come you don’t have one?”

“I was never that much interested in boys.” You admitted. Quaritch’s stomach dropped. Oh gosh, were you a lesbian? “I wanted to focus on studying. And even now…” You fidgeted with your hands, “I have my eye on someone who is almost unattainable.” Your eyes said it all for you as you peered through your lashes.

“Unattainable?” Quaritch played along despite your doe eyes practically begging for him to make another move.

“I like… older men, sir.”

Any doubt Quaritch had about your feelings towards him disappeared. That was all the confirmation he needed. You shifted in the chair, growing uneasy with the sudden silence. You were tired of waiting and frustrated with the Colonel’s mixed signals.

“Sir, I apologise for what I am about to do.” You wrapped your arms around Quaritch’s neck and that was all you really needed to do to break him. You kissed him, your flower samples behind you instantly forgotten.

Quaritch forced you to stand up, dragging you by your blouse collar towards his room. The halls were empty and even as you heard Grace calling your name from the lab, not knowing you had disappeared, you did not look back.

Quaritch was lifting a heavy set of weights when Jake Sully approached him. Your brother had a more rugged appearance compared to you but he could still see the similarities in Jake’s eyes.

“Jake Sully, correct?” Quaritch sat up, dusting off his hands.

“Yes, Colonel. You must know my sister, Y/N.”

Quaritch pretended to think for a moment. ‘You mean the Y/N whose back I blow out almost every night?’ was what he wanted to say but he held his tongue. “The scientist.” Quaritch said, “Yes, I know her.”

“She told me of your… relationship. And I just wanted to say to treat her well. She is all I have left. If you hurt her, I’ll ask God to return my ability to walk and I will throw my wheelchair at you.”

Quaritch let out an amused chuckle. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Jake turned around to wheel himself away but he suddenly paused. “There’s one more thing… I know the way she eats kiwifruit is strange but don’t judge her.”

Quaritch raised an eyebrow at the statement. He had never seen you eat kiwifruit but with an order of fruit being transported into Pandora, Quaritch could see what Jake meant.

He knew kiwifruit was your favourite, especially the sweet golden ones. So as soon as the order arrived, Quaritch called first dibs.

“Hey, angel, look what I got.” Quaritch said as he walked into his room where you were lounging on his bed, taking advantage of your rights as the Colonel’s favourite.

“Kiwifruit? Yum.” You stood up, grasping one of the brown fruits. Quaritch was expecting you to walk over to the small kitchen inside his room and cut the fruit using a knife. But no, you bit right into it with no hesitation. Quaritch could see what Jake meant now.

“Want some?” You waved the half-bitten fruit in Quaritch’s face. You pouted. “I know why you’re looking at me. Eating kiwifruit like this isn’t a crime, you know.”

Quaritch snickered. “I don’t know, baby, seems like a serious offence to me.” He cut a kiwifruit in half and grabbed a spoon, sitting beside you on his soft mattress.

“You should try it like this at least once.” You attempted but Quaritch firmly shook his head.

“I’m good, baby.” He muttered, “Careful, don’t make a mess. I just got these sheets cleaned yesterday.” He warned, watching as the fruit juices dribbled down your chin.

“Be honest, are you judging me?” Y/N piped up.

“Nah. It’s a little weird but I ain’t judging. You do you.” Quaritch shrugged. He had seen much worse; his girl eating kiwifruit with the skin was the least of his concerns.

[essaeterakoindia]

Milk Fat Testing Machine

Essae, a leading manufacturer of Milk Fat Testing Machines, offers precise and reliable solutions for dairy quality control. Trusted for accuracy and efficiency.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Amy Maxmen at KFF Health News:

Keith Poulsen’s jaw dropped when farmers showed him images on their cellphones at the World Dairy Expo in Wisconsin in October. A livestock veterinarian at the University of Wisconsin, Poulsen had seen sick cows before, with their noses dripping and udders slack. But the scale of the farmers’ efforts to treat the sick cows stunned him. They showed videos of systems they built to hydrate hundreds of cattle at once. In 14-hour shifts, dairy workers pumped gallons of electrolyte-rich fluids into ailing cows through metal tubes inserted into the esophagus. “It was like watching a field hospital on an active battlefront treating hundreds of wounded soldiers,” he said. Nearly a year into the first outbreak of the bird flu among cattle, the virus shows no sign of slowing. The U.S. government failed to eliminate the virus on dairy farms when it was confined to a handful of states, by quickly identifying infected cows and taking measures to keep their infections from spreading. Now at least 875 herds across 16 states have tested positive.

Experts say they have lost faith in the government’s ability to contain the outbreak. “We are in a terrible situation and going into a worse situation,” said Angela Rasmussen, a virologist at the University of Saskatchewan in Canada. “I don’t know if the bird flu will become a pandemic, but if it does, we are screwed.” To understand how the bird flu got out of hand, KFF Health News interviewed nearly 70 government officials, farmers and farmworkers, and researchers with expertise in virology, pandemics, veterinary medicine, and more. Together with emails obtained from local health departments through public records requests, this investigation revealed key problems, including deference to the farm industry, eroded public health budgets, neglect for the safety of agriculture workers, and the sluggish pace of federal interventions. Case in point: The U.S. Department of Agriculture this month announced a federal order to test milk nationwide. Researchers welcomed the news but said it should have happened months ago — before the virus was so entrenched.

“It’s disheartening to see so many of the same failures that emerged during the covid-19 crisis reemerge,” said Tom Bollyky, director of the Global Health Program at the Council on Foreign Relations. Far more bird flu damage is inevitable, but the extent of it will be left to the Trump administration and Mother Nature. Already, the USDA has funneled more than $1.7 billion into tamping down the bird flu on poultry farms since 2022, which includes reimbursing farmers who’ve had to cull their flocks, and more than $430 million into combating the bird flu on dairy farms. In coming years, the bird flu may cost billions of dollars more in expenses and losses. Dairy industry experts say the virus kills roughly 2% to 5% of infected dairy cows and reduces a herd’s milk production by about 20%. Worse, the outbreak poses the threat of a pandemic. More than 60 people in the U.S. have been infected, mainly by cows or poultry, but cases could skyrocket if the virus evolves to spread efficiently from person to person. And the recent news of a person critically ill in Louisiana with the bird flu shows that the virus can be dangerous.

Just a few mutations could allow the bird flu to spread between people. Because viruses mutate within human and animal bodies, each infection is like a pull of a slot machine lever. “Even if there’s only a 5% chance of a bird flu pandemic happening, we’re talking about a pandemic that probably looks like 2020 or worse,” said Tom Peacock, a bird flu researcher at the Pirbright Institute in the United Kingdom, referring to covid. “The U.S. knows the risk but hasn’t done anything to slow this down,” he added. Beyond the bird flu, the federal government’s handling of the outbreak reveals cracks in the U.S. health security system that would allow other risky new pathogens to take root. “This virus may not be the one that takes off,” said Maria Van Kerkhove, director of the emerging diseases group at the World Health Organization. “But this is a real fire exercise right now, and it demonstrates what needs to be improved.”

[...] Curtailing the virus on farms is the best way to prevent human infections, said Jennifer Nuzzo, director of the Pandemic Center at Brown University, but human surveillance must be stepped up, too. Every clinic serving communities where farmworkers live should have easy access to bird flu tests — and be encouraged to use them. Funds for farmworker outreach must be boosted. And, she added, the CDC should change its position and offer farmworkers bird flu vaccines to protect them and ward off the chance of a hybrid bird flu that spreads quickly. The rising number of cases not linked to farms signals a need for more testing in general. When patients are positive on a general flu test — a common diagnostic that indicates human, swine, or bird flu — clinics should probe more deeply, Nuzzo said. The alternative is a wait-and-see approach in which the nation responds only after enormous damage to lives or businesses. This tack tends to rely on mass vaccination. But an effort analogous to Trump’s Operation Warp Speed is not assured, and neither is rollout like that for the first covid shots, given a rise in vaccine skepticism among Republican lawmakers.

KFF Health News reports on how America lost control on containing the bird flu that could set the stage for another pandemic. If we see another COVID-level or even Ebola-level pandemic, America will be in for a world of hurt, thanks to the rise of anti-public health sentiments.

See Also:

CNN: How America lost control of the bird flu, setting the stage for another pandemic

[hoe4sports]

Two blossoms on a single branch

Ona Battle x reader

Triggers; Post partum anxiety. Angst.

Ona was always very clear on that she wanted to be a mom. She wanted kids, multiple of them. A family, a golden retriever, an suv: the whole shebang. The process from you getting pregnant through ivf wasn’t very long, you got lucky and it sticked on the first try. Or, she sticked. Your sweet daughter, Sofia was born on her duedate a bright sunny day in July. She was the most perfect newborn: she slept through the night fast and would only cry if she was hungry. She was all over just a very happy baby.

That lasted until she was 3 months, and let’s just say; hell broke loose. Your normally happy daughter had started crying at every chance she got. She would only be quiet if she was being rocked in her stroller or if she was being bounced back and forth. Sometimes, bouncing wasn’t even enough. You had spent hours upon hours each night trying to calm her so that Ona would get her sleep as her restitution was a part of her job. Being one of the best footballers in the world had its benefits.

You were pacing in the downstairs living room while walking back and forth between the couch and the kitchen in hopes that it would calm Sofia down. The now 1,5 year old was crying even after food, diaper, cuddlesand bathing. Nothing seemed to help. Her high pitched screaming was awful, and you knew that Ona had been developed postpartum anxiety that she was still working on. It was normal for partners, especially female partners to develope it as they naturally would fear that the baby wouldn’t connect. Ona hadn’t felt connected to the baby since the era of crying had begun. Every time Ona stepped into the room while she was crying, it would only get worse and you wouldn’t be able to calm her down. You were trying your best to support her, but sometimes you wished that you could have some support as you were running on 3 hours sleep every night for the last 9 months.

“Shh, baby, come here, you are okay. Mamma is here, princesa” You shushed as the high pitched screaming started just five minutes after you had put her down sleeping in her stroller. The stroller was where she usually slept best leaving you to have an inside stroller and an outside stroller. The little blonde was red from crying, her icy blue eyes full of tears as she grabbed your arm. You stood up and started rocking her again. Her crying was only escalating, and you were just hoping that Ona wouldn’t wake up. “Baby, mamma dosent know what’s wrong” You said as you tried to adjust her position to a more upright one. You had done everything we could; taken her to a bunch of doctors, chiropractors and therapists. Nothing was wrong with her, she was just fussy. You brushed her hair back from her face as it was drenched in tears. “Ai, mamma wishes she could understand you better, preciosa” you said as you walked towards the kitchen hoping that she was wanting her bottle. It was more of a comfort than a source of food as she was getting older, but she was still taking it. You pressed the baby brezza. The machine buzzed as the milk was mixed and warmed at the perfect temperature. You grabbed the bottle and tested it on your arm before taking it with you to the living room. You sat up in the big larger chair and supported your daughter on a pillow as you offered her the bottle. She thankfully accepted it as she kept drinking making the cutest whines you could ever imagine a baby making. Everytime she stopped crying, you were reminded of how sweet she was and how much you loved her.

The clock was now 6.30 and Ona entered the living room. You quickly gestured for her to not talk as Sofia had finally settled down. When Sofia would finally sleep, you wouldn’t dare to move. “Hi” you whispered as she shoot you an apologetic smile while slipping into the bathroom. You frowned. You missed your wife. You missed how she kissed you on your forehead, how she could hug you, how she would hold you and how she would cuddle you when you went to bed. Life hasn’t really allowed for any of that lately. Sofia wasn’t at a place where you could bring her to the trainings as she only cried. You loved being a football player, but you loved being Sofia’s mamma more so going back to work was paused.

After some time, Ona reappeared from the bathroom as she was fully dressed to go to work. “No breakfast, grabbing something at the arena” she said as she kissed your forehead and walked fast towards the door. “Baby?” You asked as she stopped with her back towards you holding tightly on to the door handle. “Mmm?” She responded, not turning around. Almost like a deer in the headlights. Sofia then woke up and turns her head towards her mami while blinking slowly. “Que, mi-» Ona started before she looked at Sofia in horror. “Ai, no-“ she said again as she was cut off by the familiar sound of Sofia fussing while she was looking at her mami. Her little lips forming into a pout as her feet was kicking and her hands were reaching towards Ona. Ona quickly walked out the door before saying “sorry” as she left. When the door closed, Sofia was once again screaming. “Ai, mi princesa, what’s wrong” you cooed as you tried to cradle her in your arms. It didn’t work as she only became more wiggly, and you were forced to put her down to give yourself a minute to breathe. She had been walking for a few months, so as soon as you, put her down she shot up while launching unsteadily towards the door only to fall on her butt when she tried to reach the doorknob. “Mama” she said as she started crying. You sighted and walked towards her to pick her up. “NO, Mama! Mama!” She screamed as she tried to throw herself backwards. “Baby, I’m here, mamma is here” You said as you catched her and leaned her body into you and she grabbed your sweater with all the might that her tiny fists could hold. “Mama” she cried as you stood confused while bouncing her back and forth in the living room. You stopped in front of the window to see Ona pull out of the parking lot in her Mercedes. You could hear Sofia fumbling with something behind your back as if she was playing with the shelf. “Baby, be caref-“ you said as you shifted her position to sit on your hip. Except she had something in her hands. A frame of you and Ona before Sofia was born. Ona holding your waist as you laughed together. Your absolute favourite picture of you together.

The little girl pointed to the picture as she sniffled. “Mama” she said as she pointed and hugged the frame into her body. You sat down with her in the couch and grabbed the picture as you held it up infront of her. “that’s Mamma” You said as you pointed towards you. “And that’s Mami” you said as you pointed towards Ona. Sofia sniffled as she wiped her nose with her hand before pointing towards Ona. “Mama” she said as you took a look at her and realised that she was trying to talk. “Mamma” you said as you pointed to yourself. “Mami” you said as you pointed towards Ona. “That’s mamma and Mami” You repeated as she sniffed. “Mami” she mumbled as you started at her in shock. “Yes Sofia! Mami, that’s right! Estas mami!” You said as you cheered, Sofia almost immediately clapping for herself. It was the first time that Sofia had been able to separate mamma from mami and you couldn’t be more proud as I wished that Ona would be here for it.

Later that day you tried to feed Sofia lunch after her midday nap. She wasn’t having it throwing the soft boiled paprika to the ground before the potatoes and the carrots followed. She cried, and cried, and cried and cried and cried. You let out a sight as you picked her up. “Preciousa, mamma knows that you are hungry” you said as you looked at her while she was crying. You closed your eyes and let out a sighed before taking a couple of deep breaths like the therapist had advised Ona to. “Okay preciousa, how about mamma make you some porridge, si?” You said as you reached over to the little girl and picked her up. She was still crying, but not as bad as before. It had probably something to do with the smell of the familiar porridge spreading around the house. It was one of the few things she liked, and it was the same porridge Ona had grown up with. The smell of milk, oats and cinnamon was wrapping your house in a feeling of bliss, comfort and familiarity. As the porridge was done, you buckled Sofia into her chair again before feeding it to her. She was luckily eating this time, but you could see that the exhaustion was taking its toll on her. You picked her up and got her all cleaned off as you headed towards the living room. Originally, you had wanted to keep her toys in her playroom but motherhood was rough and toys were now in every room. You sat Sofia down as she reached for her train. It was a blue train that Ona got her for her first birthday. She loved the train and would always bring it to bed when you tried putting her down for the first time at night. After a good 20 minutes of Sofia playing soundly on the floor giving you some well needed time to refresh your mind: the lock in the door clicked. Your eyes shot up as you immediately got scared. Ona was at practice and all of your family were busy. You grabbed Sofia terrified of whoever was behind the door. You held Sofia close as she looked up at you and was feeding off of your nervous energy. Your hand searched for your phone to be ready to dial for help as you gulped. The door-handle suddenly twisted and Sofia started her high pitched crying when she saw the face behind the door. It was Ona that had been told to go home early as she seemed exhausted. Sofia cried as she screamed and Ona looked like she was about to fall apart in the middle of the hallway. Sofia screamed as she reached her arms out and threw herself back in your arms trying to wiggle loose.

Then it hit you like a brick. Like a train. Like a trailer. As if the sky had just fallen down. Sofia wanted Ona. She wanted mami, not mamma. She was missing mami, and her little heart was longing for her mami’s warm touches. Sofia and Ona had a good relationship before the crying started, and you were just now able to put two pieces together. You sat down Sofia on the floor as you stood up and looked at Ona. Ona gulped as the toddler was stumbling towards her terrified of what would happen and her hand instinctively reached for the door. “Ona, stay.” You commanded as your daughter made her way towards Ona. She reached her front and stood at Ona’s legs trying to be picked up as she cried. Her little arms reaching up to Ona as she wanted to be close. “Mami,mami!” She yelled as Ona closed her eyes and took a breath while once again, looking like she was about to break down. She took a step a side causing your daughter to fall on her butt making her cry even louder. “She wants you” Ona said as she ushered towards the staircase and your master bedroom. You sighted as you picked up Sofia, and just as you were about to try and soothe her; you decided that it was time to try something new.

You walked after Ona with the screaming baby in your arms. Ona was sitting on the bed, her face in her hands while she was sobbing. Sofia stopped crying as she looked nervously at you. “Mami” she said as she pointed towards Ona. “Si princesa, estas mami, Mami is feeling sad. Maybe you wanna give her a cuddle, si?” You said as you slowly moved towards Ona scared that she was gonna leave again. You sat down next to her on the bed as your daughter sobbed. “Ona, what does Sofia call me?” You asked as Sofia sobbed in your arms. “Mamma” Ona responded still with her face hidden. “Si, and what is she saying?” You asked as you tried to console Ona. “Mamma” Ona said as she looked up at you, eyes red from crying. Just as you were about to continue your rambles, Sofia reached her arms for Ona and got out of your grip leaving her to bolt at Ona. “Mami, Mami” she cried as she grabbed the fabric of Ona’s sweater tightly, like she was scared that she would leave again. “She’s saying Mami” you said as you looked at Ona who wasn’t able to put the pieces of the puzzle together even thought you were basically giving her all the clues. “Mami” Sofia muttered as she frowned and sat down on her butt after not getting any attention. Ona’s eyes lit up as it finally clicked. She looked down at Sofia and instantly grabbed the little girl holding her close like she did when she was a baby. Sofia’s big blue eyes met Ona’s and a small smile formed on her face as she closed her eyes and relaxed. “Ona, she wants you. That’s why she’s crying. She wants her mami.” You said as you rubbed Ona’s back. You could see tears forming in Ona’s eyes as she studied the little girl suddenly seeing how eyes were icy blue, just the the most beautiful glacier she had ever seen. How her skin felt like the most expensive silk she had ever touched. Her finger traced her noce as she saw the little ski jump nose already making its mark on her face. The roses in her cheeks making her look so vulnerable. “Baby, mami’s here. Mami is so so sorry, but Mami is here now. Mami is never gonna disappoint you again, princesa. Mami is gonna get better, for you and for mamma.” She said as Sofia’s body finally relaxed and drifted off to sleep. You looked at Ona who looked like she had just discovered oil. She looked over at you as tears were forming in her eyes. “I’m sorry, mi amor. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m gonna take the week off, and we can have time together as a family. I haven’t been the best mami, but I’m gonna try to figure this out for you, for us. I’m sorry for diss-“ you cut her off with a kiss knowing this was finally it. Ona was finally ready to try to connect with her daughter again.

[yukibunnii]

books & café dates . ˚ ₊ ⊹

— your academic rival !

(class president!alhaitham & vice president!reader)

୨୧ president!alhaitham who immediately got nominated as class president, followed by you as vice president.

୨୧ president!alhaitham who also occasionally visits the library, like you, to study or read.

୨୧ president!alhaitham who is also your academic rival, being at each other's throats all the time. (your classmates and his friends question if you're either flirting or fighting . .)

୨୧ president!alhaitham who you compete with on who gets the higher score on the exam. god, you hate that slight smirk you see on his face when he wins. your classmates watch you two argue like it's some free show.

୨୧ president!alhaitham who shows more of his emotions when he's with you, unlike that stoic expression always on his face. even his friends are surprised.

୨୧ president!alhaitham who secretly smiles (very slightly) and stares at you when your back is turned. he definitely admires you from afar even if his face doesn't show it.

୨୧ president!alhaitham who, one time, purposely answered some questions wrong on a test so that you could have the joy of winning the little competition you two have. he was trying not to let out that tiny smile when you were rambling on about having won to him.

୨୧ president!alhaitham who prefers novels, while you prefer manga. one time you forced him to read one of your favorites. though, you still have a lot of novels that you personally love.

୨୧ president!alhaitham who accompanies you to the bookstore after school because apparently he was 'just about to go there too'. you both ended up in the café after that.

୨୧ president!alhaitham who has made a silent agreement with you that the café is now your usual meetup place whenever you two are partnered for a project or something similar to that.

୨୧ president!alhaitham who memorizes your favorite drink and food.

୨୧ president!alhaitham who noticed you always drinking those korean milk drinks . . and now you always find a milk box sitting on your desk before class. from a 'secret person'. I wonder who?

୨୧ president!alhaitham who you always get stuck with while doing your responsibilities as president and vice president. sometimes you two are alone and stuck together in the classroom after class, stapling papers.

୨୧ president!alhaitham who noticed you slowly progressing into calling him 'haitham' instead of his full name.

୨୧ president!alhaitham who has this secret spot with you near the vending machines and benches to eat with you during lunch. he finds it cute how you're always surrounded by the campus cats as he sits next to you on the bench, with the bento box on your lap and a book right next to you.

୨୧ president!alhaitham who loves your soft spot towards animals, and how you two always sit next to each other in the library, reading in comfortable silence.

୨୧ president!alhaitham who denies EVERY SINGLE sign and statement from his friends that he likes you. he says you're 'just his rival'. yet he so obviously treats you differently from the others.

୨୧ president!alhaitham whose academic rival will always be you. he wouldn't want any other.<3