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setsugekka · 1 year

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❥5 weeks (m)

↳ In which a freelancing stylist gig puts you between a rock and a hard place.

The rock being ‘never slept with a client before and not looking to start now,’ and the hard place being a younger than you and much too daring for his own good, Jung Wooyoung.

jung wooyoung x older stylist fem!reader — coworkers to lovers, mutual pining, porn with plot, explicit sexual content. [12.1k wc] cws: unspecified age gap!! they’re both down atrocious but he is the one making all the moves, mutual masturbation, a metric fuckton of dirty talking, praise, humiliation, pet names including ‘mommy,’ and the use of ‘noona’ but really it’s his kink and not hers (a drop of ‘daddy’ too but it’s more for comedic purposes than anything), drop of a breeding kink (also kinda comedic), oral sex (m+f), unprotected penetrative sex, creampie, wooyoung has a Big Dick and is wildly kinky and confident.

“Oh, give me a break!”

Shoulder sling of your bag dropping from you in exasperation and barely caught by your hand as to not allow your belongings to fall to the floor, you roll your eyes briefly towards the man informing you of the terrible news of the day. Of the month.

“Are you kidding me? This isn't what my contract said.”

“It sort of is,” the man reluctantly replies, avoiding eye contact that he knows will not help make the situation any better for either of you. “Blah blah blah 'in the event of a personnel shift then we have the freedom to place you wherever we need you.”

You knew, you were lying in hopes of being able to get out of it.

Unfortunately, when you took the job and signed the contract, you did know that this would be a likely outcome. Freelance stylists were able to choose three groups of which they had preference in working for throughout the show — bigger groups come with their own stylists and full slots majority of the time, but occasionally need additional hands on, which is where you come in. Smaller groups have less on board staff and require more freelance help on set — also where you come in, although, not ideally.

Of the six groups on broadcast, you had worked with four. three you enjoyed, they went on the list of preferences.

The one that you didn't enjoy working with, along with the other that you hadn't become acquainted with, were left off. Nothing against them, just better to play it safe with what you're familiar with.

And now you have to find out which group you got assigned for the next five weeks.

Slinging your bag back onto your shoulder with a huff, you thank the man for his time even in spite of not really being all that thankful, and make your way down the white walled hallway, the names of groups you're familiar with passing you by — slowing down as you pass the ones you had wished to work with and happily waving towards the members as you carry on — it's a brief relief, you'll still get to see them and have fun with them, just not as much as you would have given alternate circumstances.

And then you reach the room number, 3B.

ATEEZ.

Squinting slightly, you recall that you're actually not completely unfamiliar with them, and happily, they're not the group you didn't enjoy working with. You already know the names of everyone in the group, and you think you remember doing some behind the scenes broadcast work when they were still in their first year, albeit, not much.

It could have been worse.

Walking into the room, you first introduce yourself to the entire lot of people, then focus towards managers and the other stylists — all very welcoming and happy to receive the help, it seems.

Then, the members.

All of them gathered around, clamoring to accommodate you in such an overwhelming way that you can't hardly make out a single word being said one way or another, Hongjoong finally shushes the rest to get a word in edgewise and calmly welcomes you on board, along with apologizing in advance for whatever it is that may take place as a result of working with the lot.

You don't know what he means by it exactly, but you're familiar with working with boy groups — some things are pretty standard across the board. The dirty jokes, the messiness, the crudeness — if you're lucky, it mostly ends there, immature young men just trying to fit in having a good time in the midst of their otherwise busy schedules — you're used to giving it a pass.

But you sift through your mental rolodex of stories that you've heard about groups through the grapevine — water cooler among stylists type talk — and fail to land on anything in particular about them.

When it comes to this sort of stuff, no news is good news.

The boys scatter back to where they had come after the warm welcomes, and you dart your head around in an attempt to find a place to put your personal belongings. Truthfully, the room is small for the amount of people in it, and you're seemingly the last to join the crew. You wish not to place your purse down on the floor next to the door, but without another option at hand, you resign yourself to the fact that this will have to make due. Phone and wallet sticking out of the top, you kneel down to scoot the items against the wall when a strong hand comes from the side, taking you by the wrist. It's gentle even in it's abruptness, and takes you by surprise all the same.

“Sorry, didn't mean to scare you,” he says, quickly letting go of you but remaining in his knelt position next to you. “Don't put it there, I got a place.”

Eyebrows furrowing at the words, and the implications, you cock your head to the side before responding to him. “Problem with thieves? I mean, I know it's a pirate concept—“

“Oh, very funny!” he says, matching your playfully mocking tone with wide eyes. “No, but the door has loose hinges and if someone comes through that thing fast enough it's going to destroy everything you've got in there.”

Come to think of it, you had noticed that upon entry. Not as funny as what you had said, though.

The both of you stand, your items in hand again, and he leads the way towards a small area of the room that he appears to have made out for himself. It's simple: two folding chairs, one for sitting, and one to serve as a table, with his food already set out on it — the man points towards under the table-chair. “Put it there.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you know my name?” he asks, no discernible tone to it, but you can't recall an idol ever asking you the question outright — especially knowing that you're a freelancer.

You watch him only break eye contact with you long enough to seat himself back down, taking his lunch into his hands and nodding towards the makeshift platform, communicating to you that he wishes for you to use the chair for its intended purpose now.

“Is this a test? Or some kind of, I don't know—“ you pause, leaning back comfortably. “Am I like, supposed to?”

And he laughs in response, a sudden chuckle as if not having expected the retort at all. You watch him wipe his mouth with a napkin and take a sip of his drink before settling in to respond to the comment. “No, I was just curious because I wouldn't introduce myself again if you already had. I'm Woo—“

“Wooyoung, I know who you are.”

“Wow, all of that just for you to already know who I am?” he questions, wide eyed again — you can tell that he's enjoying the banter between the two of you. You'd be lying if you had said you weren't doing the same. “Enjoy playing games, is it?” he asks.

Typically, you would say no. But right now?

There had been a handful of idols that you had worked with over the years where the two of you hit it off naturally, comfortably. A welcomed lack of professionalism in an area of work that didn't normally allow for any room for it, being able to meet people that truly allowed for you to simply be yourself — it made going to the job everyday just that much easier.

“So,” you begin, not wanting to allow the conversation to die down as the man with the two-toned hair in front of you continues his meal with all eyes on you as you speak. “Who has the problem head in this group?”

“Problem head? “ Wooyoung exclaims, having never heard the verbiage before.

“Yeah, like who is going to be the biggest issue. Who doesn't wash their hair like a normal person or never brushes it or whatever.”

“Oh!” he yells, finally having caught on, and wipes his mouth with the napkin again before pointing across the room and loudly calling out towards another member. “It's Seonghwa! It's 100% Seonghwa! Never seen that man brush his hair in my life!”

Laughing, you turn to look behind you at Seonghwa seated in front of a mirror, another stylist going to work on his hair — roughly, at that — and as you make eye contact with a Seonghwa who is shaking his head, you move your eyes up and towards the stylist behind, solemnly nodding in accordance to Wooyoung's claims.

You turn back, Wooyoung shoving more food into his mouth. “Told you,” he mumbles between chews. “You got a boyfriend?”

You had let the conversation die down, and just as quickly, Wooyoung sparks it up again, still gnawing on the chicken in his mouth as he gets the words out.

“No,” you carefully reply, question lacing your tone that the man is sure to pick up on, but he only grins, swallowing, wiping and leaning forward towards you so that he doesn't have to carry his voice in more than a whisper.

“Good.”

By the end of the first week, you had a good idea that you might have sex with this guy.

On a surface level, you weren't too thrilled with the prospect, though. In all of your years working in the industry, you had never crossed that line. You knew colleagues who had, and worked with idols that regularly did, but despite not being morally or fundamentally opposed to the idea, it seemed better for everyone to just not. It was easy enough, usually. You had met some people that you had hit it off with and sure, the thought had crossed your mind occasionally — the sneaking 'what if' of a fling with someone, but it never felt especially in grasp. You weren't going to go out of your way to make it happen, and as far as you could tell, no one else had on their end, either.

Until now.

An entire week of friendly banter and heavy flirting that only came on stronger and stronger with each day, it's the first friday when you have Wooyoung in your chair and hair in your hands that the glances shared felt especially loaded.

Pulling on his hair slightly at a particularly tricky knot, you apologize, watching him wince vaguely in the reflection — only for him to glance up from his phone with a half grin and a wicked pointedness to his eyes.

“It's fine, I like it.”

And you want to be able to ignore it. Ignore the implications of the words. Feeling foreign eyes on you, your vision quickly darts over to make contact with Hongjoong's — seated next to the two of you and being dealt with on his own. He chuckles under his breath, having overheard the comment, and you pull on Wooyoung's hair again, this time on purpose.

A silent insistence for him to behave.

“How old are you, noona?” Hongjoong suddenly asks from beside you, eyes glued back down to his phone screen, and you're not sure why he's asking.

You have your suspicions, though.

“Older, old enough,” you respond. It pulls another chuckle from the leader of the group.

“Makes sense,” he says, finally receiving the go ahead to get up from the chair after having been finished with. “He likes that. Good luck with this one.”

Feeling heat rush to your face, and not particularly enjoying the fact that everyone in the room seems to be in on the situation at hand, you look back at Wooyoung in the reflection: still grinning with not a care in the world related to the topic.

'Play it cool,' you tell yourself with a deep inhale. “You do this often? Flirt with your stylists?”

“I wouldn't say often,” he responds plainly. “It's not unheard of, though.”

“You run off a lot of stylists?” you laugh, playfully pulling at his hair again.

“No,” he says, a certain cuteness taking his tone before leaning his head back against the headrest and looking up at you directly. “They don't run off.”

You want to be better. Stronger. Able to ignore it. Not to be like them, you don't flirt with idols you work with and you certainly don't sleep with them, either.

But you're guessing Wooyoung has plans for that, as well.

On the next Wednesday when filming runs late, with the majority of the staff having left, Wooyoung, Yunho and Yeosang are kept behind to refilm some shots. For only three members needing attention, and the normal staff for the group having to accompany the rest to their other schedules, you're left in charge of the three — along with their managers.

Which is simple enough: Yeosang, as off the wall nutty as he is, is relatively easy to work with, and Yunho being so kind and willing to do whatever it takes to make your job easier, you're only left with the one problem-child, as it were.

When filming for the three finally wraps at a quarter past one in the morning, you thank everyone for their time and willingness to accommodate you as they all head out to meet up with the rest of the members...until a PD comes in last minute once again and requests for another shoot for Wooyoung.

“It's fine, I'll catch up with you guys later,” he tells the rest, including his manager — tired and worn no doubt from a hectic schedule of, well, managing Wooyoung.

“How are you going to get home?” you ask him, confused about his dismissal of his handler as he hurriedly shakes his black and blonde hair free of the half ponytail it had been put into as they were leaving.

“I know how to get home, I'm an adult,” he laughs in response.

“I mean with the fans.”

“Oh,” he pauses, slipping on the shoes from wardrobe that they had had him in prior. “That's easy to deal with, honestly. Already scoped out the escape!”

For some reason, you don't even question that to be the truth. It sounds like something he would have already had planned.

“Are you leaving now?” he asks, rushing out towards the hallway, only lingering in the doorway long enough to catch your response.

And you know that deep down, you should — that the best way to avoid trouble, and subsequently Wooyoung, is to leave while he's caught up, with no chance of roping you into some nonsense that you wish you didn't want to be roped into.

But at the same time...what could it hurt?

What's a little adventure?

And the way that his lips curl at the response is devilish — has you second-guessing your choice already. Evidently, a man with an extremely devious plan that he has every intention of putting into action with the older stylist that he barely knows anything about.

Suddenly, you recall Hongjoong's words just a few days prior. A warning. 'Good luck.'

“Be back soon!” Wooyoung chimes, “and then we can get out of here.”

As if the 'we' wasn't bad enough, it's the way his bottom lip catches on his teeth as he exits the room, eyes locked with your own before disappearing into the madness of idol life once again.

You had sort of hoped that something would have come up that barred this scenario that you had originally agreed to. Now darting and weaving through dark, empty hallways of the entertainment building — quite possibly the last people in there that night besides overnight security, when Wooyoung finally brings you to the VIP entrance that he had briefly mentioned before, dual hearts sink at the sight just beyond the large, glass doors.

Pouring rain — unable to be heard from inside of the massive concrete building, but now plain as day in front of you, Wooyoung huffs at the sight, scanning the scattered construction equipment also littering the outdoors — not taken into account, but now definitely hurting the escape plan that had already been set into action.

“I guess we just make a run for it,” Wooyoung sighs, raking his fingers through his hair. “This wasn't really part of the plan, you know.”

“I gathered, but—“ you pause, bringing his attention down to the three bags of your heavy and also quite expensive belongings that you would rather not get soaking wet. “I'm not running anywhere, not well, at least.”

He huffs again, looking up again to stare back out of the window pane. “Well, we can't stay here, don't think we have much of a choice.”

You had already accepted the fact, but hearing the words only causes a pleading sigh to drop from you. “Yeah...where are we running towards, anyways? What's the plan?”

Bringing a hand up, Wooyoung points out towards what appears to be just large equipment for moving and storing concrete and other such things, before elaborating further.

“Across the parking lot and then across the street there's a small, 24-hour convenience store where we can wait and call a cab.”

“How is that safe?” you question, dumbfounded. “How is it safe for you to be seen running around in convenience stores in the middle of the night with a random woman?”

“No one is going to see us, first of all, the weather is terrible and no one knows about this exit,” he begins, “second of all, my friend owns the place, so we'll hang out in the employee lounge until it's time to go.”

You visibly frown at the plan, still worried about your work items, but Wooyoung catches it — gently placing his hand on your wrist just as he had the first time the both of you met.

“We'll...figure it out, okay? Trust me. But we gotta get out of here before security calls security.”

Darting through the doors, Wooyoung holds your hand tightly into his as the two of you slosh through the downpour of the great outdoors — cold and windier than you both had anticipated, when the wind catches you and the bulkiness of your belongings just right, Wooyoung tightens his grip even more as he feels you veer off of the trail. You call out to him once, pulling your things against you as best as you can and he only calls back, “I know!” before finding some sort of shelter where you can hide for the time being.

And once inside, you realize how cramped it is.

It's a totally spur of the moment decision obviously, and not much else to work with, you know this — crammed face to face between two metal sheets in an otherwise packed construction shed — but you're able to shrug your bags off of your shoulder and push them to the side with your foot to grant you a bit more space as you attempt to wring out your hair, dress, and cardigan.

Eventually, when Wooyoung comes back to mind, you look up at him — thin, wet, t-shirt clinging to every curve and dip of the muscle in his chest, hair windswept and just as wet as everything else — and you try not to take notice, or allow your eyes the freedom to trail down, because you remember that he left in sweatpants, and that's plenty good enough to go off of.

But with not much space between you and the hastiness in which you arrived, Wooyoung's thigh ends up not so gently crammed just between your legs.

You notice. You can't help but to notice, you can only hope that he doesn't.

However unlikely that may be.

The first violent shiver of the cold air taking the wetness of your body, you insist that Wooyoung ignores, and he does, at your request — but by the second, he's not so willing to listen to orders.

Taking you by the wrist, the man pulls you forward and against him, your hands only able to catch yourself on his shoulders to keep from falling completely flat against his body, and you have no choice but to force down the sound that being pulled up and along his leg threatens to elicit.

'Bite it back, bitch,' you tell yourself in thought.

“Don't be difficult, it's freezing out here,” Wooyoung finally says, wrapping his arms around your waist to keep you pressed into him. “Keeping you from catching pneumonia isn't really my go-to move.”

You chuckle, the only thing you can do at the ridiculousness of the situation. Turning to look outside as the rain beats loudly against the shed that the both of you take shelter in, Wooyoung shifts again, causing the top of his thigh to press upwards and harder against you. Eyes screwing shut, you try to steady your breathing — it's so dumb, you think as the situation unfolds, feeling like a teenager who can't keep it in her pants but in a situation where it otherwise wouldn't be an issue if it weren't for the fact that the hot guy that you work with — who almost definitely wants to fuck you — is currently lodged against your pussy with either not a clue and therefore doesn't have the knowledge to keep still, or very much aware and no interest in keeping still.

You didn't even really want to know which one it was, you just had to wait for the rain to lighten up.

“Hey.”

You turn your head to match Wooyoung's gaze, air finally drying out his hair a bit to leave it more air dried than soaking wet. He looks good, you hate that.

“You ever hook up with anyone you worked with?”

Mind reader? Gross.

You choose to ignore the implications, answering in a way that doesn't satiate the curiosity that he's hoping for. “Yeah, I used to date a guy who worked for the same company I did before I went freelance.”

“That's not what I mean,” Wooyoung frowns. Of course he wouldn't let you get away with it. “I mean an idol. The talent.”

Clearing your throat, you find that your proximity to Wooyoung that once offered a comforting warmth was now emitting far more of a scalding heat, and with your palms pressed to his shoulders, you manage to free yourself from him slightly, back against the metal sheet behind you and creating space between you and the nosy man just in front of you.

“No, I have not.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know!” you snap, not angry but unsure of what it is that he's fishing for. “Just...never been in a situation where that was a realistic thing that could happen, I guess. It's not really something that I seek out. I'm there to work.”

“You've never wanted to?” Wooyoung then says, tone dropping slightly and a small shift of his leg. It's enough that you can ignore it, but with your face fully visible to him now, you're not sure how much you can fake it if he starts to catch on and get braver. “Never desired someone?”

He's extremely perceptive.

“And what about you?” you ask back, table turned to grant you some proverbial breathing room. “Hongjoong sure made it seem like this was the sort of thing you do often.”

“Hongjoong is terrible at keeping his mouth shut, that much is for sure,” Wooyoung chuckles, then reaching forward with one hand and finding the hem of your dress — pressed up the length of your thigh only slightly due to his own having your legs agape. “But he is right, I do like older women.”

“So you just hit on every stylist that comes into contact with you?” you laugh, trying to ignore the burning sensation of his fingers playing with the cloth on your thigh, or the way that his eyes are smoldering and locked onto you.

“No, of course not, I'd have had a reputation that you'd have heard of by now if that were the case.”

That was true.

“So no, hitting on the stylist isn't a first for me, if you must know,” he adds coyly, hand now slowly sliding up and against your bare skin. You freeze against his touch. Is this really happening? Here? Now?

“I play with a lot of them for fun, and they play with me, but rarely does it leave the fitting room.”

You swallow hard, and when he shifts again suddenly you aren't prepared — his words, his touch, it's all too distracting for when the press against you comes — breath hitching in your throat for a split second before biting your lip in an attempt to pull the involuntary reaction back.

Too late, though.

Wooyoung looks down, seeing the positioning of his leg between your own and finally makes the connection with a devilish grin — looking up at you from through eyelashes, he hums in response, hand that had once begun a journey up your leg now stilled at the outer side, fingers playfully dipping into the elastic of your panties as if having a plan in mind all along.

“Oh, I see,” he sing-songs at you, deliberately pushing up and into you for the first time, and it certainly makes the difference — your head falling back against the steel lightly. “You know it's funny, I genuinely did not mean to do that.”

“Don't laugh,” you sigh out, now on your last leg of having the composure to not give in to him, and to yourself. “I'm not going to have sex with you, I don't have sex with clientele.”

Humming again, the man begins a steady, slow pace of flexing his thigh up and against you, hand coming around to feel what he can of you that isn't taken up by the space of his leg, and with his fingertip only finding slick wetness that water doesn't have, he smiles again.

“Fine,” he responds with a tone that's only just above a whisper. “But I can still make you come.”

“Shut up,” you whimper out, knowing that your resolve is falling away with every second that you're near him and even faster with every word that he says. You say that you won't fuck him, but truth be told: you're not completely convinced of it yourself. “I—, I—“ you attempt to say, always cut off by the way he feels against you, and even distracted by the lone finger that gently rubs at you from the side as best as he can.

You open your eyes, an attempt to come back down to earth from how quickly you're giving yourself up to this man, but your eyes immediately drop to catch the protrusion in his sweatpants — still wet and fabric clinging to the girth, you swallow hard and bring your eyes back up fast.

That knowledge was the last thing you needed if you were to make any sort of strong attempt not to have sex with him.

“Like what you see?” Wooyoung says playfully, a nod to the silly line often heard in comedies or pornography.

Unfortunately, you do.

You feel him shifting again, having to mull up the braves to allow your eyes to fall back down that way to find out what it was he was up to, and once the courage is mustered, you grant it to yourself.

It was a mistake.

“God,” is all you whisper out at the sight — Wooyoung's beautiful hand wrapped loosely around himself, lazily stroking in time with the ministrations of his leg up and against you, and it's all just a little bit too much.

“Watch,” he says, this time no jest in his voice and the pace of his thigh picking up just slightly. “You don't want to watch me?”

In the moment, you think that you would literally not ever want to watch anything other than that ever again.

Eyes coming back down, first to meet his own — half-lidded and mouth slightly parted, a beautiful sight before you, the visual of him palming over himself for your viewing pleasure — getting off on nothing else but the sight of you riding his leg.

The visual serves to be more stimulating than you'd have liked to admit, feeling the familiar bubbling in your abdomen, you try to find something that you can brace your hands on to give yourself more leverage — since the both of you are now resigned to letting this moment play out — and Wooyoung catches on quickly, choking out a “use me,” between steady, rhythmic pumps of his fist along himself.

You lean forward, hands on his shoulders again — now able to feel him work himself beneath you as you rut against his leg and if you weren't already so worked up, you might have been embarrassed about how quickly your orgasm approaches you.

“W—Wooyoung, I—“

“Good, good girl,” he groans, rhythm of his arm beginning to give out at the implications of your orgasm fast approaching, but it's the next words that truly wreck you. More than you may have ever anticipated outside of that singular moment in time.

“Use me.”

And it breaks you. Orgasm washing over you — it's not particularly hard or overwhelming, the circumstances not exactly granting themselves to having an earth shattering sexual experience, but Wooyoung follows you shortly after — high pitched whine escaping him as his eyes screw shut, ropes of cum painting his fisted fingers as he gently finishes himself just next to you.

Taking his messy hand from himself and into your own, you bring it up and to your lips, the man before you catching on quickly despite a hazy come down and shortened breath; two of his fingers part your lips and press inside shallowly at first, then slightly deeper as he feels the way that your tongue wraps around him to clean his cum from them.

All the while with unbroken eye contact, when Wooyoung finishes imagining the way that your mouth would feel around his cock, he snorts, pulling his hand from you and grinning.

“Nah,” he begins, gently attempting to dislodge himself from between your legs. “You're definitely going to fuck me.”

With two weeks down after that late night stuck in the rain, without so much as a single sly comment about the goings on of that evening, you resign yourself to the understanding that he had gotten the interest out of his system.

And you suppose now, with the imminent danger of potentially going where you've never gone before and crossing that line, you can admit to yourself that deep down, you're a little disappointed in that fact. He had made quite the compelling case, after all.

And a beautiful cock, at that.

You do, however, find it charming that his behavior never really changes towards you. Even in spite of the bizarre intimacy that comes with watching the other come without having ever so much as shared a kiss, Wooyoung plops himself into your stylist chair just as he always has — hair a mess and tank top a bit too loose for your liking given your coming to terms with not ever having sex with him, you allow yourself one good look across the expanse of skin he's happy to show, and even with knowing that he sit in the reflection watching your eyes rake over him with a slight curl of his lip, you still can't help yourself.

Besides, what's one more good look? It's not the only part of him you've seen.

Tapping on his phone as you begin brushing into his hair from behind, Wooyoung asks you how you are today, just as normal. No suspicious tone, seemingly no ulterior motive.

“The same as always, how are you?” you respond, still tugging at the strands.

“Better now that I get to see my work wife,” he quickly responds, as if the entire premise of the conversation had simply been a set up for him to lay this one on you.

And if his intent was to trip you up, you were ashamed at how well it worked, freezing up instantly just before shaking it loose and carrying on. “Work wife? Is it okay that you joke like that?”

“Why not?” Wooyoung chuckles, looking up at you through the reflection of the mirror in front. “Also, your legs look crazy in those jeans.”

Heat rushing to your face, not wanting to look to either side at whether or not another stylist or member is listening in on the conversation, you lean down toward him and rush to a whisper. “Okay you definitely can't say that!”

“Of course not,” Wooyoung whispers back, turning his head just an inch to nearly meet your skin with his mouth. “Let me see you.”

Instantaneously, you pull back from him — back into working position and fight back the embarrassment of what's taking place. Wooyoung only grins again, looking back down to his phone and not pushing the topic any further.

When the guys begin exiting the room one by one to begin shooting, Wooyoung exits last, but not before stuffing his hand into the back pocket of your pants and maintaining a knowing eye contact with you for far too long.

You want to think that he left something in your pocket, but knowing him, just wanting to touch your ass isn't a possibility you can completely write off.

When the rest of the staff leave besides the other stylists, you manage to pull away just enough to check your pocket, feeling the presence of a small slip of paper — clearly what Wooyoung had intended on you finding, with a phone number scribbled on it. Nothing else.

Sure, you wish to be stronger than to give into the allure of the sexy, younger guy that you work with, but you'd be lying to yourself if you said that you weren't delighted at the prospect that he had not, in fact, lost interest just yet.

>you: hey, it's me.

It's all you send. Playing it cool and not at all desperate being paramount in this exchange now in order to maintain your dignity.

After all, you said you wouldn't have sex with him and now here you are, texting him knowing fully well that that is precisely what he's after. Perhaps you just needed a push in the right direction, but not without being able to feign a lack of interest, first.

It's only fifteen minutes later that he responds, and given you know they're recording, you expected it to be longer.

>big trouble: who is this? who is me?

You roll your eyes, but immediately move to reply.

>you: you know who, the woman whose ass you just groped so that I would contact you.

The signal of his typing pops up just as quickly.

>big trouble: you'll have to be more specific :p

He begins typing again.

>big trouble: kidding, what do you have me saved as in your phone? don't use my name!!

>you: oh darn I actually had it saved as group name plus full name and flashed it around when you replied, is that going to be a problem?

You become hyper aware of how you're smiling at your phone in the presence of other people, you try to bite it back as to not raise any awareness, but relatively unsuccessful in doing so.

He is so fucking charming, and fuck if you didn't enjoy his company.

A few more minutes pass before he begins typing again, close to ten when a response finally comes through.

>big trouble: sorry replies are gonna be spotty until we get out of here. let me see you.

You realize now, upon him saying it to you again — that you're not even entirely sure of what he means by that. See you: naked? Date? Outside of here? Too many options to just assume, but you also hate to ask — stomach bubbling with anxiety at the prospect of what it could mean, you realize that even you have to figure out just what, exactly, your intentions are with this guy.

But if you want to know something, all you can do is ask.

>you: what do you mean “see me”

Immediate typing again.

>big trouble: not at work, preferably with your legs over my shoulders and my face buried in your pussy.

Locking your phone you immediately press it face down and into the couch cushion next to you. Inhaling deeply, you close your eyes for a second to recollect yourself; steady breathing, and desperately trying to ignore the ache growing between your legs from just a single line of text.

You feel your phone vibrate again and can't even be sure you're ready to read whatever insane thing he's sent next, but suppose you can't just leave him on read. Not on that note.

Not when you're particularly interested in the proposition yourself.

Slowly picking your cell back up, carefully looking around to make sure no one can spy in — now not necessarily about it being who you're texting but generally speaking sexting is frowned upon in professional settings — you illuminate the screen to confirm that the incoming message is indeed, from him.

You open it.

>big trouble: i'm flexible though, actually hope you are too <3

Sick with how you can hear his tongue in cheek tone even through text, you get it together enough to finally begin typing out a response — not entirely sure what to say, given you don't necessarily want to agree to doing anything with the man just yet, and especially not like this.

>you: is that a good idea?

With some time having passed since his reply, you know that he's probably off working again — setting your phone down you exhale heavily, leaning your head back against the couch.

But all you can think about is Wooyoung's sandwiched between your thighs.

The buzzing from your phone brings you back, and you open it in more of a hurry than maybe you would have liked — much too eager to find the next insane thing that the man has to say to you.

>big trouble: oh no it definitely isn't

>big trouble: that's kind of the fun of it though

>big trouble: get into a little trouble with me, but i'll make it worth your time if you let me

You don't doubt him for even a second. Another text comes in.

>big trouble: I think you want to play with me, like a little bit

In the moment, the only thing that you can offer in response is that you'll think about it, still not completely willing to give yourself up to the desire of having him, or letting him have you — an obvious conquest of sorts on his end, of which he seemingly stacks up notches on his bed post — but you need time to decide if you're willing to make peace with being just that in exchange for getting what it is that you want from him, anyways.

Mutually beneficial? Absolutely. You just have to decide if the juice is worth the squeeze.

Two days out from wrapping filming, backstage is hectic — corridors lined with people running back and forth, darting in and out of rooms and racks of clothing and shoes serving as a make shift obstacle course everywhere you go, it's nothing you're not used to, and despite working for ATEEZ as a group, in ways you found yourself assuming the position as Wooyoung's handler in particular — occasionally Hongjoong's as well, enjoying his quips and stories as sort of an old soul in the body of a young man who took comfort in placing himself in otherwise awkward scenarios between you and the man you were almost definitely going to have sex with — you could only assume that Hongjoong had caught wind, and not because Wooyoung told him, but because he was quick on the uptake.

And he found it humorous.

Winding through the halls pushing the both of them out and ahead of you towards where they need to go, it's Hongjoong first who greets the senior idol exiting their dressing room to the left, then Wooyoung, and then you.

But you know them already.

One of the idols of the groups that you already get on with quite well, it's a friendly greeting, and you certainly can feel Wooyoung watching it all too intently — as if trying to poke a hole in a story once told to him in fabrication.

Saying your goodbyes, the three of you push forward again, not long before reaching just back stage and to your destination. You pull Hongjoong first, doing some last minute touches on his hair and eye makeup before sending him on his way, then Wooyoung — pouting like a baby as you press fingers into the sides of his hair that had fallen and now needed retouching.

“Oh geez, what?” you huff out quietly, thankful for the goings on around you that no one would hear you even if any one had time to stop and eavesdrop on the conversation.

“You two were cozy, huh?” he says — playfully, but you think it might be a ruse.

Wiping excess hair wax from his temple and shoving a clip into your mouth due to lack of hands, you look him dead in the eyes. “Wooyoung, I haven't slept with him, oh my God—“ you exasperate, slicking more product into his head, “and even if I had, none of your business.”

You watch as his eyes narrow, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth at your bitter words and begins to curl his lips into a smile just before telling him that he's finished and to go do his job.

“I know,” he says under his breath, leaning forward momentarily. “Was just hoping to hear the story if there was one.”

It's sinister in tone, like he's already getting off a little on the prospect of hearing about you getting fucked by another man, and the more you think of it in that split second, the less you would even be surprised if that had been the case. But Wooyoung continues to look at you as he steps backwards and towards where it is he needs to go — a display of power, in ways.

You're not sure you could run this guy off if you tried.

Hours later into the evening and close to midnight, you just about finish packing up your things, placing bags by the door next to all of the other stylists and managers items also eager and ready to head off and get rest before the last day of filming before you catch from the corner of your eye — phone laid out on the table and face up, illuminated in the dim lighting of a room soon to no longer be occupied for the day. Stretching your arm out and reaching towards it, almost immediately you recognize the length of name on the screen that alerts you of who it is that's contacting you.

You glance around yourself, just to be sure.

>big trouble: let me see you tonight.

Stomach jumping into your chest, to say yes to him is a big step. You're aware that at any point in time you can rescind said yes, but all the same — even just the logistics of getting him into your place to begin with comes with it's own set of worries and challenges and truth be told; you hadn't put any thought into such a plan.

But you still kind of wanted to.

>you: how?

He begins typing just as quickly as your response sends.

>big trouble: i'll take my managers car, just say yes if it's yes don't worry about the rest.

Realistically you know that it's him on the line. Sure, it wouldn't look great for you as a freelancer if it started getting around that you take home men from work, but not nearly the same career expectations are in place. You take a second to mull it over before attempting to respond. He sends another text through in the meantime.

>big trouble: please if I have to see you in those jeans again and not suffocate in your cunt I think i'll fucking die.

You appreciate his eagerness, as does the throb between your legs in anticipation. He sure knows how to talk to a lady.

And despite the reluctance, you give in, sending over your address in the next text, along with the demand that if he not be there by 12:30am to not bother showing up at all, it's a long work day the next one, after all.

An immediate reply again, you pull your bags onto your arms and head out of the doorway before reading his response.

>big trouble: I have every intention of putting you to sleep.

When 12:18am ticks on the oven clock in your kitchen, one glass of wine down in anticipation and an attempt to calm your nerves, you start to assume that he's not coming. Perhaps he had come to his senses, or got held up and wasn't able to make it.

But just as suddenly as the thought comes to you, a buzzing on your door sounds, and your heart drops to your stomach — bubbling in anxiety and the possibility of what's going to happen now. Now that the both of you will be properly alone. Now that...he's here, and with hours to spare.

Setting the glass down onto the table, you clear your throat and make your way towards the door, checking the peep hole despite knowing precisely who it is that you will find — it's charming, in a way: Wooyoung standing there in baseball cap and mask, heavily bundled in an attempt to not be found out on his naughty little rendezvous. He's brave, you gotta give it to him.

Opening the door slowly, Wooyoung slips in, pulling both adornments from his head before you're even able to close the door completely, then moving to kick his shoes off. He looks at you, shrugging his jacket off and placing it onto the rack just next to him.

“I can't believe you're still wearing those fucking jeans.”

And as taken aback as you are by it being the first words to leave his mouth upon entering your apartment, more than that, you're taken by being immediately pushed back and towards the couch — his eyes flat and narrow and completely darkened by lust as your behind eventually finds the cushion and Wooyoung immediately falls to his knees between your legs.

Pulling himself up and beginning to grapple with the button and zipper of your jeans, he leans up and finally kisses you — for the first time, you're reminded again — plush, hot lips messily pressing into your own, it's evident just in that contact alone how much he's been wanting this moment, greedy and quick and not at all making a point of taking his time before pulling away to loosen the fabric from your legs and toss it elsewhere on the floor beside him.

Wooyoung comes back up, kissing you again and just as hungrily as before — feeling his fingers dip into the elastic hip of your panties, before once again pulling back to release those of you as well.

He breaks the cycle then, bringing up the flat of his fingers against your pussy to feel the heat radiating off of your skin before looking up at you and resuming said cycle — pressing his mouth hard against yours again, trailing down the corner and along your jaw — teeth grazing lightly against the skin as the tip of his middle finger gently dips between your folds to tease at you. Breath hitching in your throat at the contact, you feel him grin into your skin.

“W—Wooyoung,” you choke out, intensity of the situation all consuming and somehow more heavy set than you had even expected.

“What?”

But you forget what it was you were even planning on saying once his finger makes proper contact with your clit — perhaps it was nothing, just an airy exasperation of his name altogether, but just as quickly as everything else the man between your legs pulls from you and pulls you down by the legs, ass edging on the side of the sofa and propping your legs up on his shoulders just as he had said he would — wasting no time thereafter going to work on you.

And you didn't expect him to be lying about what he would or wouldn't do if given the opportunity, but his eagerness right then and there — tongue pressing hard circles into your clit just before applying ample suction against you with his lips, not unwilling to make a mess of himself in the process and, from what you can tell, all the more delighted in doing so as his face glistens with each time that he pulls away to reposition — with eyes screwed shut and one arm tossed over your face in an attempt to stay grounded, the other reaches down, finding its way along the top of his head, fingers curling into hair that only hours earlier you were neatly decorating and clipping into place — hair now entangled and tightly gripped as Wooyoung makes alarmingly quick work of your body from your living room floor.

Bringing a hand up, he delicately presses one finger in, finding little resistance, and adds a second upon his following drive into you. Hand pumping into you at a slow, almost excruciating pace, Wooyoung focuses all of the attention on sucking you harder, faster with the way that your breaths pick up and become weaker, whines higher pitched than before — and if you weren't close before, the additional stimulation gets you climbing that peak all that much faster, gripping hard into his hair as you whimper out his name again, this time far more broken than the time previously.

But like a good man, he doesn't stop — bringing his eyes up to watch as you fall apart above him, you open your eyes only briefly to take in the sight, his eyes smiling back at you with the pretty little adornment of the beauty mark just beneath one.

You cuss, grinding hard down and against his mouth, and come undone against him just like that. Wooyoung sucks you through your orgasm, shallowly pressing fingers into you before removing them altogether as your high dissipates. Chest heaving, you lie in the afterglow of your peak, eyes still closed from exhaustion in the aftermath.

Wooyoung chuckles from between your legs. Cracking open your eyes, you find him settled back and on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looks at you with unbridled satisfaction.

“I've been dying to do that,” he finally says, leaning forward and snaking the palms of his hands up your bare thighs, thumbs catching on the hem of your shirt and pressing upwards with insistence that you allow him to remove it. You grant him the access, pulling your back off of the couch long enough for him to pull the fabric up and over your head and watching as he happily tosses it elsewhere before leaning down and pressing his mouth against your own again.

The kiss is brief though, before a man on a mission makes his way back down from where he came but with stops along the journey — nimble hands reaching around the back of you and working to remove your bra — before you even have a moment to settle, plump, warm lips and tongue press into your now exposed flesh and the feeling of him; so encompassing and overwhelming has you squirming in desire beneath him as if you hadn't just come already.

“I need you,” he whispers into your skin, tongue circling your nipple between commentary. “Please, I need to feel you so bad, you drive me crazy.”

You're not sure what it is, the unabashed neediness or just the fact that it's him or maybe even the combination of the two — a man so young and famous and sexy that he could have anyone he desired and yet right now, in this moment, he makes you feel as though the only person or thing he's ever desired so badly in his life...is you.

It's as if the burning throb of arousal never even left you.

“Noona, please.”

It wasn't typically something that did it for you, and in fact, you never understood why it really 'did it' for anyone — but you had to be honest, it was working for you now.

Needy whining, begging, spilling from Wooyoung as his mouth lingers across the expanse of exposed skin. You ask him to take his shirt off and he follows through immediately, only to come back up to pick up where he had left off, but the feeling of his own hot skin against your own only serving to light you up even further.

“Switch places,” you whisper to him, and he follows order without question, pulling up quickly and allowing you space between his legs. Palms grazing over the top of his thighs, you smile up at him at the sight before you. “Same sweats as that one night?”

“Coincidence,” he answers, voice already slightly broken at the implications of what's to come, so you waste no time gripping into the waistband of his pants and pulling down his legs, freeing him and finally becoming more acquainted with what it was that had your interest really piqued since that night only a couple of weeks prior.

“Don't seem so tough now, you know,” you mock, taking his length into your hand and lazily pumping him, his eyes glued to the way you make contact on him.

“Wait until I get you in the bedroom,” he answers, tone lower and less broken now — as if snapping back to reality to assert some form of dominance that had never really had a place in the interaction prior.

You inch forward, taking him into your mouth shallowly, tongue wrapping circles along the tip as he melts into your mouth — both hands coming forward to hold onto your hair. He's not rough, and not assuming the pace, but with every press down of your mouth along him you take him deeper and deeper, his mouth dropping open just that much more at the feeling of your warmth along his shaft.

“Feel so good, you feel so good,” he chants under his breath as you bob along him — a steady rhythm but not so fast with intent to get him there, Wooyoung's head falls back to take in the feeling. “That's it baby, you take it so well.”

The praise has your pussy throbbing all over again, pace on his cock quickening unbeknownst to you just at the prospect of what other filthy things will fall from those beautiful lips.

So, you play along.

Pulling off of him briefly and replacing the sensation with your hand, you look up at him, quickly fisting him and occasionally licking a circle around the tip. “Yeah? That why you like older women? Like the experience?”

Wooyoung groans at the words as if you accidentally stumbled upon some kink that he hadn't made you all that privy to to begin with, hips bucking up into your hand as his eyebrows furrow, “Yeah, know your way around a cock, don't you?”

“I do,” you answer, stuffing him back into your mouth without warning and taking him down a few times just to listen to him groan deeply at the sight and sensation before pulling back up. “Hoping I fucked that guy back there just so you could be sure?”

“Little bit,” he chuckles through a whine as you continue to jerk him off along side the conversation. “Kinda like hearing about it, too.”

“Nasty boy,” you tease in reply, licking a stripe up his shaft before circling around the head of his cock again and watching the way his eyes roll back.

But just as suddenly, Wooyoung snaps forward, pulling your hand off of him and standing up to pull you with him towards the bedroom. “This one?” he asks, simultaneously shoving you inside of it as if the answer you provided wouldn't have matter to begin with, but you assure him that it is, in fact, the correct room as he continues pulling you towards the bed — turning to lie himself on it first before reaching for your wrist and pulling you down to straddle his hips.

You assume the position, grinding gently against his length as he brings you into a sloppy kiss again, you pull off of him not long thereafter, hands flat against his chest as you slide against him.

“All this talk just so I can ride you, eh? Lazy boy,” you say with the same teasing voice as before.

But Wooyoung shakes his head, hands quickly making their way up the length of your thighs and settling on your waist as you hover above his aching cock.

“I just have to see you ride my cock, please, I'll fuck you stupid afterwards, I'll have you begging for it, baby—“ he pleads, one hand slipping down between the two of you to align himself with your entrance, other hand gently pulling you down onto his shaft as he continues on. “—Wanted me to fill you up that night, but I'll do it tonight instead.”

It's an unfortunate giveaway the way his words have such an affect on you, already nearly fully seated on him when the nasty implications of the plans he has for you that evening drop from his sinful lips — walls clenching hard around him, so much so that he groans at the feeling as you sink down to fully take him in. Wooyoung's fingers dig into the skin of your hips as you gently begin to rock against him, thick girth of him tugging at you in all of the ways that you knew it would when you saw it — so full and stretched that even the slightest movement pulls at your clit as you ride him ever so delicately. You whimper shortly thereafter at the feeling he provides you, your nails now digging into the skin of his chest as he watches the space between the both of your hips — watching how your cunt struggles to accommodate his size and yet does so regardless, he allows his head to fall back against the mattress, taking in the feeling of the moment as you bite back your pathetic, flustered, sounds.

“Feel so good, baby,” he finally says, rubbing your thighs as you attempt to ride him to any useful degree. “Is it what you wanted? When you thought about it, is it better?” he adds, pressing his hips up ever so slightly to meet your own as you drop down onto him, a louder hiss dropping from you at the added friction.

“Awww,” he coos teasingly as he watches the way you struggle on top of him. “Mommy's good at talking but not so good at taking it, huh?”

You're not proud of the way that sentence goes straight to your pooling arousal.

And just as quickly, Wooyoung pulls you off of him to switch you places, pressing your back to the mattress as he adjusts himself between your legs.

“I can come in you?” he asks suddenly, and it feels almost random, as if breaking scene in a film. So sudden that you almost don't catch it, but coming back to reality, you nod.

“Uh, y—yeah.”

“Oh, this is going to be so much fun,” he replies, leaning back down and pressing his chest into your own to kiss you — head of his cock teasingly dangling just against your pussy and occasionally grazing your sensitive clit, you press your hips up and into him in an attempt to make the contact that you want, Wooyoung chuckling devilishly against the skin of your chin and neck as you struggle to achieve what you set out for.

“Not as good at taking my cock as I thought you'd be,” he playfully pouts, lips attaching into the skin just at the juncture of your neck and shoulder to suck red and purple blotches into it. “But mommy, you were supposed to be so good.”

The tone in which the words drop from his lips, quite evidently mocking, playful, toying with you and the idea of the age play of it all. You knew that this was part of it for him, you had been warned.

But you didn't know it was going to do it for you, in addition.

“Guess we have to try again,” he whispers, lips trailing up a bit higher and just under your ear. “Probably better off if I'm in control, huh?”

With that, Wooyoung begins his slow drive into you once again — for a man that talks so much about your inability to take him, and being in control, you find his attention to your comfort almost surprising — not taking it quickly and giving you ample time to adjust to the intrusion even in spite of it not being the first time that night that you had taken him, once bottomed out, he settles for a few moments; kissing and sucking along your neck, along with babbling words of affirmation and encouragement all the while before pulling his hips back and slowly pressing forward once again.

The fullness of him is almost stifling, though — and paired with the fact that he won't shut the fuck up through it.

Five or six more delicate drives into you and Wooyoung begins to settle into a more fluid pace, rocking his hips against your own with hard impact but not entirely quick, every push of his cock into you more brutal than the last as he hovers above you and watches the way your face contorts with glee.

“Look at you, so good,” he groans in between snaps of his hips, hands flat against the mattress and on either side of your head to watch the way your cunt takes him. “Aww, I was wrong, you take my cock so well, I knew you would.”

Clenching hard around him with praise, your hands clasp around his arms, nails digging into the tan, hot skin with every drive of himself against you — the sound of wet skin against skin reverberating through your bedroom, and more than that, the sight of Wooyoung's bottom lip sucked up and between his teeth — arms and chest flexing with every movement of his hips.

The familiar feeling of your impending orgasm felt building once again at a particularly hard thrust from him, you cry out, catching his attention. Wooyoung slows, not entirely sure of how to take the sound, but is just as quickly met with your babbling and begging of him not to stop, to which he grins and resumes his rough pace into you.

Leaning down and wrapping an arm up and under your shoulder for more leverage to pull your body down and against him, chest to chest like this, Wooyoung continues his previous ministrations on your skin with his mouth, nipping and sucking at the skin of your neck, collar bones, jaw and mouth as he fucks hard into you — harder now with the positioning, you cry out again and louder even, much to his delight.

“Fuck, Wooyoung—“ you whisper against his mouth, feeling your orgasm threatening in the not so distant future.

“Yeah baby?” he coos back, so gentle in tone and completely opposing the brutality of the way he's fucking you. “Gonna come? Gonna come for me? Just from my cock, nothing else?”

You nod wildly, the way he's talking to you bringing you to the edge even faster — muscles tightening in your abdomen and losing the ability to verbally communicate to much extent at all.

“Good, good, you're so good,” he babbles into your skin, grip on your shoulder tightening even more. “Love it when you say my name, God you're so perfect.”

You whine, pulling forward to press your mouth into his shoulder just in front of you.

“Want me to come inside of you now? Make you mine? You know I want to so bad, want to fill you up so bad.”

Your insides twist at the way he's nearly begging to, despite already having been given the go ahead to do so. All a part of the game, you figure.

It's working, though.

You nod again, but Wooyoung brings his free hand over and to your clit, taking it between his fingers and thumb to force you into eye contact with him.

“Gotta say it, noona, can you say it for me?”

Your fingers dig into him harder, you're reaching inevitability much faster than you had originally intended with the way that he's talking to you, and the anticipation of just what it is he'll say next.

You knew he was gonna be a wild ride, but you didn't anticipate him to be this much of a freak.

“God, noona, please say it, please noona say you want me to come in you, I want to so bad.”

“Wooyoung, Jesus, I'm gonna—“

But he stills, cock buried deep inside of you as you whine at the loss of your incoming peak, shocked at the fact that he would do it.

You're not proud of your next step, either.

“Wooyoung, please, please, don't stop—“ you beg, trying to fuck yourself onto him in an attempt to reach your orgasm, and he does start a drive into you again, albeit much more delicate and less hearty than previous.

“Wow, so whiny,” he chides against your ear, shallowly thrusting into your soaking wet cunt with no intention behind it at all. “I'll give you what you want noona — thick, young, cock to come around, yeah?” he whispers, the words sending chills down your spine paired with the way that the tip of his length dips in and out of you teasingly.

“That what you want?” he whispers again.

“Yes,” you whine in response.

“Want me to come in you too, don't you?” he adds, nose nuzzling into the side of your face as he begins a proper push of his length back inside of you. “Fill you up? Pump a nice, hot load into your tight little cunt?”

It's the first time in the night that his dirty talk had been so lewd, so filthy. Slow drive of his cock back into you and even with the tiniest friction that it provides, just the words alone have you building back up to that place that only moments ago he had stripped from you just as quickly.

You'll do and say anything, now.

“Yes, Wooyoung, please,” you whisper, his hips snapping into you two, three times at the words. “Please daddy—“

The both of you stop as a point of both shock and confusion, neither expecting the word dropping out so suddenly, and not one typically on your repertoire, but Wooyoung seems to take it happily and in stride with an accompanying small giggle, quickly falling into the role that is required of him and driving hard against your hips at the pace once lost all over again — teeth baring against your cheek as he does so.

“Daddy? Well I wasn't planning on it but if you want it so bad,” Wooyoung grits out, reaching down with one hand and pulling one of your legs up and out. “I can fuck a baby into you, too. That why you want me to fill you up so bad? Want me to give you one?”

“Oh my God, Wooyoung, I—“ you groan, nails digging so hard into his skin that you fear you may actually hurt him, muscles in your abdomen tightening so suddenly, so hardly that it takes you by surprise — thick cock still pounding hard into you at an even better angle now, and Wooyoung begins kissing against your skin again.

“Feel so good around me, God, noona, come for me baby, milk me dry, wanna feel you come around my dick.”

muscles locking up, sound catching in your throat, your orgasm rips through your body with little more warning and nearly silently — stilling beneath the man as he continues to fuck you through your high, chasing his own and praising you through it as you do.

“Gonna come baby,” he groans at the impending orgasm of his own. Pulling up and off of you slightly he looks back down between the two of you before meeting your fucked out gaze again and screwing his own eyes shut. “Fuck, noona, fuck you full of me, God I'll ruin this pussy, yeah?”

Two, three more drives into you, Wooyoung buries his cock deep before stilling, head dropping as he growls through his release into you — gentle, shallow thrusts accompanying him as he begins to pull himself out of you. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—“ he whispers as he finally expels his body from yours completely at the feeling of the overstimulation on his dick, flopping over onto the side of you and clenching his eyes shut for a moment as he attempts to steady his breathing in the aftermath.

Even having had more time to settle than him, you're not that much better off.

Silence takes the room beyond heavy breathing, you look over to take in the sight of the light sheen of sweat adorning the man's beautiful body, unsure if you'll ever even get the chance to enjoy this again — if you were to want to, that is. Wooyoung cards his fingers through black and gold hair, pulling most off of his slick forehead before turning to you to meet your gaze. Somewhat embarrassed upon having been caught looking at him, he only smiles gently, as if to tell you that it's okay. That the two of you are past such silly formalities, as it were.

“Hey,” you whisper, searching for his stray hand among the crumpled sheets beneath you.

“Yeah?”

“You're kind of a sicko, you know that?”

Wooyoung laughs, so much so and with such a dry throat that it sends him into a coughing fit as a result. You reach for a bottled water that you have on your nightstand and hand it to him for him to lubricate with, clearing his throat and handing the bottle back to you before attempting to respond to such accusations.

“Maybe so,” he finally says. “But you sure liked it. What's that say about you?”

“Who knows,” you reply, staring at the ceiling as if soul searching for the answers to such questions. “Maybe we're just particularly, disgustingly matched.”

“Maybe so.” Wooyoung nods, adjusting comfortably into the bed beneath him.

On the last day of filming, everything carries on as normal.

You're not entirely sure what story Wooyoung told the others as to why he never came home last night — having slept the rest of the night with you and the two of you having to devise quite the plan to leave from the same place and arrive to the same place without anyone being in on the pick up, but you figure that you manage with no bizarre or questioning looks upon your entry — and Wooyoung already seated and waiting, ready for you to begin to get to work on him.

As he ticks away on his phone, you lean down towards his head questioningly.

“Did you use my shampoo?”

“What was I supposed to use?”

“Probably not the thing that smells like me?”

You watch in the reflection as he stops for a moment to mull the concept over, quite evidently having not thought about it prior to this moment, only to shrug and go back to typing on his phone.

After shooting wraps and everyone is saying their goodbyes, you thank the members and their staff for the warm welcoming and all of their help to make sure that the work environment was comfortable and smooth for you. For Hongjoong and Wooyoung especially — who you worked with most closely — the two hug you, sending you on your way, but not before Hongjoong makes some snide comment about finally being able to escape Wooyoung.

It was true, that you would finally escape the grip of that man, however, wanting to escape? You weren't so sure.

Gently tossing your belongings into the back of a taxi, you climb in and pull your seatbelt over you, reaching towards your purse and pulling out your phone to see what your next schedule would be for the upcoming weeks, only to find a text on your phone that had come in hours prior.

>big trouble: let me see you again (not just sex way)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ hope you enjoyed! please check out my navigation for more (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)

—this is a oneshot, there will be no part 2.

#wooyoung smut #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung x you #wooyoung x y/n #wooyoung scenarios #wooyoung imagines #wooyoung fanfic #ateez smut #ateez x reader #ateez x you #ateez x y/n #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #ateez fanfic

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hana-no-seiiki · 5 months

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YANDERE BATFAM x MAKIMA! READER CONCEPT PROPOSAL

is something that i wanted to write for a long ass time now but never really got a full concept for until now so here’s like a bulleted list for the idea and why you should totally like and reblog this so i get the motivation to write a full fic

tw/cw: spoilers for chainsawman manga, yandere themes, violence. this fic assumes you know what makima is so-

in any case, enjoy.

All of this is semi-based on the batfam x makima! headcannons i made before but going more into detail

Basically reader starts off as Batman’s parallel. Less of a nemesis than Joker, but not completely his ally cause you’ll represent the other side of saving people. The ‘necessary evil’ one must make.

Also known as the deaths of many in order to assure a perfect world.

So while Batman’s motto is “Never Kill” yours is “Kill as much as necessary.”

Batman is essentially powerless against you, but you give him one chance. One chance to end your entire concept as a devil. Essentially ending all fear towards control.

This plan comes as Damian Wayne. You are to reincarnate and grow alongside his first born child and that child would choose your fate.

By that I mean he’s the only one who can kill you.

Literally making his ‘born to kill’ backstory even more prevalent.

I won’t spoil the ending ofc but that’s basically the gist of it, or at least the main plot mechanics.

ofc the other batboys appear as well, maybe even batgirl.

but as of now i don’t have that many plot mechanics i can throw at them but Jason Todd

I feel like he’d be a nice wrench in the mix considering he thought Batman’s policy fucked him over.

In any case, any suggestions, additions, changes and improvements are welcomed.

Let’s hope this blows up so I can write a full on fic or something.

OH! And we can also make an alternate version where Batfam aint Yandere if that’s what you guys prefer. Would still be pretty dark though.

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flufftober · 10 months

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🍂 🍃 Hello and welcome to our third annual Flufftober 🍂 🍃

We’re so excited to be back and to once again have you here!

As always, let’s fill the month of October with as much fluff as possible 🥰 and for that to happen, we not only have 31 prompts for you, no; we also have something special this year...

Prompt Extras

Last year's Prompt Substitutes were very well-loved and a lot of you used them to replace some prompts from the original list. You're more than welcome to do this again if there's a prompt that doesn't work for you for whatever reason - no explanation needed.

Once again, we offer you last year's top five fan favorites (as voted in the end survey). In addition to that, we also offer five scenario prompts.

If you don't want to replace any prompt from the original list but still love the additional ones - or you simply want to challenge yourself - you can also mix them all together!

So in whichever way you use these Prompt Extras, have fun with them and go wild 💚

Below the cut you'll find all our rules, posting info, all the prompts in writing, as well as some explanation for prompts we feel might need clarification. If you have any more questions, please feel free to send us an ask 🥰

We hope you like these prompts, and now

Happy Creating 🥳

Standard Blog Rules & FAQ

No inc*st or p*dophilia - we can’t keep you from writing it or creating art for it but it won’t be reblogged. See further down for clarification.

No hate or ship bashing - we’re all different and we all love different things. As long as it doesn’t go against rule #1, it’s allowed.

Tag correctly! Trigger warnings (including cheating!), ships, ratings, (pure) smut, etc - it’s all fine as long as you tag it.

There’s absolutely no word count restriction, write as little or as much as you like.

In regards to art, anything goes: drawings, paintings, collages, mood boards, gifsets, videos, playlists… the sky’s the limit (though not really…)

While we can’t force you to write fluff or create fluffy art, please try to keep in mind that this is a fluff event 😉

You can start writing and/or arting as soon as you see this - but please refrain from posting before the respective day.

You can participate on as many days as you like, even if it’s just one; you can also create multiple entries for the same day.

You can replace prompts from the original list with either or all of our prompt extras; you can also mix them with the original prompts or create for them in addition to the 31 original prompts, that's completely up to you.

It’s okay to write one story/a series for all the prompts as long as it’s separated into chapters and the respective chapter/work is posted on the given day.

You do not have to stick to one ship or even one fandom - switch as often as you like to or even write for multiple ships for one day.

The ship does not have to be a romantic one! Friendship and family feels are more than welcome (but this is not a way to get around rule #1!)

This event can be combined with other events as long as the other event allows it.

Late entries are always welcome, even if it is months later.

All fandoms and ships are welcome - fanon and canon - as long as they’re of age (in case you want to add smut) and not related.

Since this has often been asked in previous years, please let us clarify the no inc*st or p*dophilia rule:

No inc*st: This rule does not apply to distant cousins and such, as you might find in the LotR fandom (or basically in all of European Monarchy). The line we draw is at direct blood relations (siblings, parents, kids) and/or legal guardianship.

No p*dophilia: This rule does not rule out fandoms that feature teenagers such as Harry Potter, Heartstoppers, Hunger Games, etc. It also doesn't mean you can't write about their time together as teenagers! It was mostly aimed at ships in which one is a minor and the other is not - but since even that got complicated over time, the rule is now this: if you keep it SFW, all is good and allowed, we don't care; if it turns NSFW, be mindful of the legalaties of the world/society/times your characters live in.

Posting

Posting to tumblr

Please use the tag #flufftober2023

Since tags are sometimes wonky, make sure to also add @flufftober in your post

We will try to catch them all, but please don't be mad if we miss a post or if it gets reblogged a bit late

If you're absolutely certain a post has slipped past us, feel free to send an ask with the link to your post

To make reblogging easier for us, make sure to add the following tags: #flufftober2023 #day [xy] #[fandom] #[ship and/or main character(s)]

If you're using a prompt extra tag it as #alt [number]

Posting to ao3

You can add your creation to the collection flufftober2023 or flufftober_2023 (yes, we've once again claimed both)

Late entries are always welcome, on tumblr as well as the ao3 collection! Neither will close - but like always, reblogs will become less regular the more months have passed...

Prompts (and explanations)

1. “I’ve got you”

2. Family, Friends, Loved Ones

3. “Wait you love me?” - “I always have”

4. Cinderella Moment (the "ugly duckling" gets their moment to shine)

5. x + 1 (can be a classic "5+1 things" [or any number you want] creation or literally a plus one for an event or really anything else you can think of)

6. Corn Maze

7. Porch Swing

8. Rainy Day

9. (...) at first sight (think "love at first sight", "enemies at first sight"...)

10. Love of my Life (even this does not have to be romantic 😉)

11. Sweet Tooth

12. Fire & Ice

13. Wrong (...) (think "wrong number", "wrong train", "wrong person"...)

14. “I hate it” - “No, you don't”

15. Emergency, Confession, Adventure

16. Singing one another to sleep

17. Encouraging someone to achieve a goal

18. “Did you plan for this to happen?”

19. Keeping someone safe

20. Pumpkin

21. Swoon

22. Picking (think "picking flowers", "picking up someone", "picking out a dress", "picking a song for the wedding"...)

23. Trinket

24. [melting emoji] (does anyone even know what this emoji stands for? No? We neither but we would love for you to get creative with it 😉 but also, think "melting in the heat", "melting from embarrassment"... also, I would've loved to add it here but tumblr doesn't have this emoji yet)

25. Nook

26. Fireplace

27. Outdoor Event (think "hiking tour", "concert", "picnic"...)

28. Soothing Touch

29. “Hey, wake up!”

30. Self-Worth / Self-Love

31. Dreams Do Come True

Prompt Extras

Last Year's Favorites

Alt 1: Hot Chocolate

Alt 2: “You’ve told your parents?”

Alt 3: Wearing Each Other’s Clothes

Alt 4: Candles, Lanterns, Fairy Lights

Alt 5: “Oh no, you’re a Morning Person!”

Scenarios

Alt 6: Reverse all the Roles

Alt 7: Create a Fairytale Retelling

Alt 8: Give your character a new occupation

Alt 9: Create a crossover of two or more fandoms

Alt 10: Have your characters share the last table at a café

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fuckyeahgoodomens · 5 months

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Update for November from the upcoming Good Omens Graphic Novel! :) ❤

Apparently I’m a demon and I lied: we won’t be doing more frequent updates, split between information and reveals. We had heard feedback that the updates were too long; then last month, we heard even more feedback that people liked the comprehensive updates after our last one, so instead of promising a particular amount, we will mostly stick to monthly, but play it by ear if anything special comes along…

We did say we’d be back with some exciting things: we’ve already shared with you Rachael Stott’s beautiful alt cover featuring Crowley and Aziraphale, but here is Bookshop Blaze, the print included in Loot Box #1 (Serpent Tier+). Isn’t she a beauty?

What we’re also hearing, every time Aziraphale is illustrated alongside ducks is, “More ducks”, so meet the duckling enamel pin (Demon Tier+). Any angelic duck names welcomed.

As for the mystery packs, we promised more pins and more pins you shall have. These mystery packs are add ons, and these five are just a sampling of what is to come. To keep track of the enamel pins, you can visit goodomenshq.com.

We’ve had sample pins showing up and while most that we have in person we’re yet to reveal, here is the fearsome hellhound Dog in all his glory:

Some eagle-eyed fans spotted another pin cameo: Sir Terry Pratchett pins appeared at Neil Gaiman and Rob Wilkins’ event at the British Library, which celebrated the Worlds of Terry Pratchett, just in time for the 40th anniversary of Discworld. You can watch that event here.

PledgeManager

Onto more logistical updates, while PledgeManager is closer to being ready, we will now be launching this in March. We’re working on some additional versions of items based on your suggestions, ensuring everything is locked in for shipping everywhere, dotting the is, crossing the ts. This is a busy time of year for everyone, and so it seems best for all, rather than to rush the process, we instead give everyone a decent bit of notice with a much firmer date, and hit 2024 with some gusto.

On that note, as a reminder, PledgeManager is where we will process shipping addresses and payment, so don’t worry about not supplying addresses yet, or indeed moving in between now and the graphic novel's release. There’s still plenty of time before this is needed.

Cameos

We are working through cameo admin at the moment. Note that Archangel Tier backers have their survey with a deadline of 30 November, the higher level cameos should expect to hear more in December. If you have purchased a cameo and have any questions, please drop us a message.

Staying up to date

As always, you can hear more about Good Omens more widely at Good Omens HQ and sign up to our mailing list for news and more.

p.s. We’ve had some Crowley artwork, let’s end with some Aziraphale.

#good omens #good omens graphic novel #colleen doran #graphic novel #neil gaiman #terry pratchett #graphic novel kickstarter #graphic novel is coming! :)

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dimepdf · 1 year

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★ 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐊. + 𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐘

masterlist. / taglist. / any request? synopsis. with Ethan being the poor loser virgin that he was, the boy just couldn't help but have some weird fantasies about you taking his virginity.

─── ☆ notes. new pathetic whiny man to obsess over added to the list, i haven't even seen the full movie yet which is why this is more fantasy au instead of anything related to the canon plot . | — feedback is always welcomed & don't forget to reblog 🤍

─── ☆ length. 1.3k (10 min read) .

Ethan had the skill of using his thoughts to escape the comforts of his own made-up reality, more commonly known as daydreaming.

He would find himself slouched against any surface, lost in his own dazed thoughts, making up little scenarios that would often leak into his dreams.

Maybe that was why Ethan had liked sleeping so much, mastering the skill of falling asleep every time he would crawl into bed and let his head lay against his pillow.

Just to get back to his fantasy world, he knew that in no actual reality would he find you sitting on his lap.

In real life, you were just friends; having met Ethan through the same group of friends, the feelings that he had for you only seemed to fester more and more, overflowing like a bubbling pot.

He was too nervous to even make eye contact with you, yet here you were, the main character starring in all his fantasies.

well, not the totally normal human version of you, but some sort of demon version at least. Your brown ebony skin, now a dark red, as your eyes glowed a misty light orange, and you had to protrude two small dark horns coming from your temple.

Smothered under your weight resting down, you straddled his hips as your arms steadied yourself with your hands against his chest.

It took Ethan a few blinks to realize the reason he had been panting for air as if he had been taking his last breath. Being covered in a thin layer of sweat, which almost melted into the bedsheets from how on fire his body had felt with the spark of pleasure that had flooded through his system all at once.

The dream had felt so realistic—the thump of his heart in his ears, how soft your abnormal skin had felt against the rough pads of his fingers, almost massaging your pelvis as you slowly rolled your hips against his erection.

Ethan felt like he was dying. That had to be the only way to explain why he felt like every section of his body was burning from the inside, like something inside of him was building up to burst out at any second, as if your touch was coaxing something to escape from his pitiful little body.

In addition to your demon-like features, the clothes you wore were normal in the theme of your usual set of clothes, but just below the sag of your gym shorts peeked a lewd mark of some sort of unidentifiable symbol of some sort that seemed to shine the same color as your eyes.

The symbol on your skin matching one had been embodied into his skin in the same place, just above his happy trail.

the way that they had beamed brighter together in sync, almost like the two were intertwined in the appearance that something was flowing through you, and whatever it was had to be the reason he felt the way he did.

Your eyes had caught his graze, another hammer of his heart beating rapidly against his chest as his tongue dragged over the bottom of his lip by nervous habit.

Your gaze held something completely different, other than the obvious change in appearance.

It was the glint in the way your eyes seemed so alluring that had his hips stuttering to bring some sort of relief to the throbbing problem in his sweatpants.

You leaned in closer, the peek of your breast exposed from the low cut of your loose shirt, making him swallow thickly under your stare. A sharp smile had spread across your lips.

Ethan should have found it worrying.

Alarms should have been ringing in his head, telling him how weird his virgin subconscious was forming some type of freaky monster sex fantasy about his crush.

But there was a bigger part of him that refused to think about anything other than wanting to bury his cock inside of you.

He had almost felt drunk on this new strange feeling, his lips parting and him panting as your foreheads touched, "Awe, you're burning up, Ethan."

Just the mere sound of your voice had his hip lifting from the mattress, your tone going straight to his dick.

"It…feels weird…" He had finally managed to stutter from his mouth, he wasn’t in agonizing pain, but the amount of discomfort he had from you teasing his rock hard erection was enough to bring him to tears.

He shuffled under your weight to ease the deep, boiling feeling coiling in his lower stomach. "I know, baby, I know, I'm gonna make it all go away, okay?" A whine pulled from his throat from the reassurance, the brush of your hands against his cheek.

Watching your lips form with every word, thinking about how much he had wanted your mouth around his cock, the small embrace had him aching all over for you.

"Please," Ethan begged, his tongue suddenly feeling too big for his mouth. "Touch me, please."

A sigh of relief sounds from his lips as your hand trails down his torso straight towards his erection, reaching below the elastic of his briefs and freeing him, greeting the thigh clenching sight of his veiny hilt.

Sitting between his legs, you could feel the tenseness of his leg muscles twitch as you lean down to press a wet kiss against his puffy tip, Ethan shivering at the sight of your tongue poking from your mouth and stealing a taste of the precum that coated your lips as if you were first taking a sample.

His heart started to thump against his chest, the beat of his heart ringing through his ears.

A pained whine tugged from his throat as his hips arched once your mouth had finally engulfed the head of his cock, and he was keen at the feeling of your warm tongue tracing down along the underside of his veiny length all while you never broke eye contact with him.

“S–shit,” The hum of your mouth around him had him stretching out his arms for a fistful of the blanket.

A whimper parted from his lips once your hands guided his to the back of your head, letting him ground himself with a fistful of your hair.

His hips thrusting up from the mattress seemed to be on their own, fucking your throat, trying to chase the overwhelming feeling of pleasure that came from the rawness of fucking the back of your throat.

But then there was a pause, with Ethan coming to a trembling halt, his chest rising and falling from his panting breath. "Um, can—is it okay if I do it inside?" His voice was small and filled with concern as if his cock was already down your throat.

Your lashes fluttered from processing the question. The small bob of your head and the way you continued to take him all the way were more than enough confirmation to have Ethan go back to rolling his hips into your mouth.

With one more buck of his hips, holding down your head with one harsh thrust, it was all the warning you could get for Ethan’s abrupt orgasm as he came down your throat.

It took a moment for clarity to finally kick in. Ethan’s hands stopped moving from your hair to gently caress your face with an adored look plastered all over his blown pupils and his face flushed a tint of pink.

"I—I think I'm in love with you," he whispers as he watches you crawl up his chest, settling just below his still erect dick.

Ethan shivered at the sigh of your sharp fangs poking from your gums and the stretch of your gleeful smile as your tongue dragged over the sharp canines before leaning in close enough to press a trail of kisses up his neck.

"Wanna put it in me now?" Your question being the only thing to knock around in his head and having your mouth so close to his ear so erotically.

Ethan actually whined at the abruptness enough to knock him out of whatever bliss he had felt just seconds ago, his eyes shooting up and sitting up with an uncomfortable groan.

The wet mess in his underwear as he peered from under his blankets at his morning issues.

🔖 ...

tap here to be added to taglist.

#[ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ ★ — t.wrks. ]#ethan landry #ethan landry smut #ethan landry x reader #jack champion #jack champion x reader #scream 6 #scream 6 smut #ghostface #ghostface x reader #slashers x reader

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whisperofsong · 3 months

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Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female Reader

Summary: Bob takes care of you after a long day.

Word Count: Approx. 3,082 words

Warnings: Language and explicit sexual content

Note: This piece was written for @attapullman ‘s International Bob Floyd Fucks Month celebration and intentionally posted on Lewis Pullman’s birthday. I adore our collective boyfriend and loved writing this to honor one of my favorite characters of his💛

____________________________________________

The rain patters against your windshield as the windshield wipers rhythmically glide back and forth, almost putting you in a trance. Your shoulders are slumped as you stare ahead and count the minutes until your car is once again in the driveway.

Work had been more stressful than usual. The incessant alerts signaling the arrival of new emails flooding your inbox. Additional things being asked of you despite your already taxing workload. Interruptions from your coworkers as you attempted to focus on completing the various tasks on your to-do list. Despite these challenges, you managed to accomplish a few things, but it wasn’t enough. And you feared that the week may only get worse.

When your tires meet the smooth pavement of your driveway and you pull the key out of the ignition, you remain in the car. The stillness and silence is a welcome respite from the pandemonium in the office. Your energy is almost nonexistent and you find yourself wincing when you look at the distance from your car to the front door. You eventually muster enough energy to grab your things and head inside.

Faint music and a pleasant aroma greet you and the man responsible for them is Bob Floyd. But Bob Floyd isn’t just any man. He’s your boyfriend. Your boyfriend of a little over a year to be exact.

“Boyfriend” is almost an inadequate label for what Bob Floyd is to you. He’s the man who memorized your coffee order just so he can get it for you every Saturday morning. He indulges in your favorite TV shows alongside you and makes remarks that he’s confident will make you laugh. When you inevitably fall asleep in the middle of watching them, he doesn’t disturb you, but instead covers you in the coziest blanket you own because he knows you sleep more soundly on the couch. He’s the man who embraces you at the end of each day and whispers the most tender words while kissing you between each sentiment.

But as you stand in the tiny entryway of your home, your heart deflates because not even Bob’s presence can buoy you right now. Your chest is tight, your shoulders are throbbing, and your whole body feels heavy. When you enter the kitchen, Bob’s back faces you as he busies himself with stirring something on the stove while the comforting melody of “Silly Love Songs” surrounds you.

“Hey,” you say softly. Even your voice is strained.

He immediately turns around to face you, his eyes twinkling. “Hey, honey. I didn’t even hear you come in,” he says as he happily makes his way toward you. His strong arms engulf you and you sink into his warmth, his scent calming you in ways you can’t even describe. It’s one of his specialties. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, wishing you could permanently reside there.

“Hey.” He slightly pulls away while putting his hands on your shoulders in an attempt to get you to look at him. “Talk to me, honey.”

You slowly lift your head, reluctant to meet his gaze. There’s no use lying to him. He can read you well and therefore detect anything that seems amiss. “I had a bad day.” Your eyes travel downward, refusing to maintain eye contact. You’d prefer not to make this a big deal. Ideally, you’d prefer to curl up in bed, hibernate under the covers, and drift into a deep slumber where work can’t get to you.

Concern decorates Bob’s features as he furrows his eyebrows and cocks his head, preparing to prompt you further.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

You release a long and labored sigh. “Eventually. But right now…I just…” You shake your head and peer down at your shoes.

He gently nudges your chin with his fingertips. “What do you need?”

Hesitantly, you lift your head once more, two sets of pleading eyes meeting each other. You chew on your lip, contemplating your response, before saying, “I need to not think. To turn my mind off.”

Bob’s quiet for a few beats as he mulls over your admission. “That’s what you really want?”

You’re momentarily stunned by the lower octave and rougher edge to his voice. You almost forget that he’s waiting for your confirmation, so you lightly nod in response, eyes locked with his own.

Wordlessly, Bob catches your jaw in his hands, his thumb slowly moving back and forth across your bottom lip in a tantalizing motion. After several sweeps of his thumb, he presses it firmly against you, silently requesting that you part your lips. You oblige him and as soon as you do, his thumb enters your mouth. Your tongue darts out to wet it and your lips wrap around him, closing your eyes to savor the way he pushes it farther into your mouth.

“Good girl. Just like that, honey.”

This elicits a whimper from you because he knows the effect his compliments have on you. When his thumb pulls out of your welcoming mouth, you find yourself thrumming with anticipation. Your heart is hammering against your chest and your toes are curling inside your shoes as you await his next move. It’s almost torturous.

He crouches down and carefully removes your shoes, one at a time, his eyes refusing to leave yours. He caresses your calves and his touch alone has you weak in the knees. Without warning, his hands grab the back of your thighs and he wraps your legs around his waist as he ascends the stairs with you in tow. Your hands play with the tufts of hair positioned at his nape as your chest fits comfortably against his.

Once you reach the bedroom, he gingerly lays you down on the bed, a hungry and determined look evident in his eyes.

Your hands begin to lift the hem of his t-shirt, but he stops you.

“No,” he objects in a low voice. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you. I wanna make you feel good, baby. No thinking. Just feeling.”

You shiver at his words. You’ve never been more eager to be intimate with him than you are at this moment.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His lips descend on your neck and a soft moan leaves your lips as he litters your neck with kisses, licks, and marks that are proof of his love for you. Although you try to remain still, you can’t help yourself from lifting your chest toward him, silently imploring for more of his touch. Needing more, more, more.

He chuckles against you, understanding your plea. “So needy for me, baby. Such a greedy thing.”

“Bob. Please.” You’re growing impatient and have no right to feel this way. He’s just getting started, after all.

He leans up on his knees and stares down at you laid out beneath him, sporting a smirk that seems to imply he’s got you exactly where he wants you. His hand expertly dives under your dress, gradually climbing until he’s reached your stomach. When his hand finds the cups of your bra, he squeezes each one, but the fabric prevents you from enjoying the full sensation.

“You know better than to hide them from me,” he chides.

“I-I have to wear a bra or my nipples will show through my dress.”

“Mmmm.” He nods in agreement. “Because no one deserves to see them. These are for me only, aren’t they?”

“Yes. Only for you, Bob.”

“Sit up for me,” he orders gently, guiding you so that he’s able to support you in this position. As he pulls down your zipper, he plants several kisses on the side of your forehead, his sweetness almost overwhelming after the day you endured. His touch grounding you when you need it most.

Bob peels the fabric from your body, helping you remove your arms from the confining sleeves. He pulls it down your body and you use your feet to kick off the now rumpled dress on the bedroom floor. Before you can resume your position beneath him, he deftly unclasps your sleek black bra and flicks his skillful tongue against your exposed, peaked nipple, causing you to fall back against the mattress.

Your unabashed moans fill the room as your fingernails dig into the thick comforter. You’ve imagined moments like these on nights when you were alone and Bob was deployed miles and miles away with email being your sole form of contact. But knowing that you have him here, that this is real, is enough to send you careening over the edge.

His tongue is strategically rolling your pointed nipple back and forth and you find yourself fighting the urge to touch yourself because his touch is worth the wait. When he moves to your other nipple, your hands card through his hair and your legs wrap around his waist because you need to be as close to him as possible. This closeness allows you to feel his bottom half and his erection is prominent, reminding you that he’s as turned on as you are right now.

His mouth travels down your stomach as it leaves wet and somewhat sloppy kisses in its wake. Your nipples are now exposed to the cool air and missing the heat of his mouth, but its current destination is enough to dull your disappointment.

His nose nudges the lacy edge of your black panties, but he doesn’t rush. His sincere eyes meet yours questioningly.

“Can I eat you out, sweetheart?”

“Please, Bobby. Take care of me.”

“Always.” He presses a soft kiss to your clothed center before tugging the fabric to the side and dipping his tongue between your soaked folds. “You’re so fucking wet.”

You try to cross your legs, a little self-conscious about your body’s response to his minimal touch, but he protests.

“Don’t hide from me. Please. Don’t ever hide from me.”

Your legs fall to the side and he tugs your panties down and flings them over his shoulder. The sight of him positioned between your legs with his slightly askew glasses, perfectly styled hair, and enthusiastic gaze is something to behold. His strong hands grasp your thighs and his tongue laps at you fervently. Within seconds, you’re bucking against him and he holds you down, wanting to take his time in tasting you. His tongue enters you and you yelp in surprise as pleasure surges throughout your body.

His tongue moves upwards and swirls around your clit before sucking on it as if it’s the greatest flavor of candy he’s ever tasted. You can’t imagine it ever being any better than this, yet he always manages to prove you wrong the next time. You’ve never been so ecstatic to be wrong.

You feel your orgasm approaching and as much as you want to wait until he’s seated inside you, you can’t garner the strength to tell him to stop. Instead, you pray that he doesn’t stop because you want this. You need this. Less than a minute later, your release arrives. “You’re making me come, Bob. I can’t-“ Your words abruptly trail off and you feel wetness pool out of you, but Bob doesn’t change his motions. His tongue accepts everything you’re giving him with enthusiasm.

When Bob pulls away and meets your satiated, dazed face, his glasses are fogged and his mouth is glistening.

“Bobby.” With this singular word, his mouth is on yours in an instant and he’s kissing you passionately, his tongue clashing against your own. You bring him to your level and clutch him to your chest.

“Not done with you yet,” he growls and this intensifies the heat blooming in your chest along with the achiness thundering between your legs.

He swiftly removes his jeans and t-shirt, but before he strips completely, he guides your hand to the massive bulge that’s barely contained by his briefs. “That’s what you do to me. Every day.”

A small gasp leaves your mouth, even though you’re cognizant of how easily you’re able to turn him on. Though somehow, he seems bigger this time, if that’s even possible.

“Need you inside of me,” you whine impatiently, growing frustrated without his closeness, without his body claiming your own.

“Can’t be premature, honey,” he reminds you. He leans over your exposed body to fetch the vial of lube in the drawer of his nightstand. Although it’s no longer painful, there’s still a burning stretch that accompanies the first few minutes of him entering you. The lube reduces your discomfort and even though you prefer not to prolong the timeframe when Bob’s not inside of you, you know you’re always grateful for it once he’s where he belongs.

He strokes his length with a generous handful of the sticky substance and you watch him, mesmerized at the sight of his mouth-watering, glistening cock. He’s a delicious eight inches with a plush head that always hits the right spots.

“Spread your legs for me, honey,” he instructs sweetly and you notice the blush that colors his cheeks when you heed his command. Even after all this time.

Bob languidly strokes his cock against your soaking clit and through your drenched folds. “Fuck,” he mutters, his eyes scrunching shut. “You feel so good like this. Can’t get over how wet you are.”

“I-I’m sorry. Can’t help it,” you admit as you find yourself barely holding on.

“Don’t apologize. I love it. Love that you’re so needy for me.” He continues sliding his dick up and down your clit and your hands grasp his forearms as you try to steel yourself. You glance at his dick, now covered in a combination of lube and your arousal, and the way it moves against you in a frenzied manner while his glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose. The sight is so erotic that your body begins to shake. It’s already happening again.

“B…Bob.”

“Come for me. Give it to me and don’t hold back,” he says breathlessly.

A sharp cry pierces the otherwise silent room as a deluge of pleasure consumes you. You relish every second of it, riding the heady wave of euphoria until it’s gone and you’re nothing but mush.

Your chest rises and falls dramatically just as Bob moves so that he hovers above you. “You’re definitely ready for me now,” he shares with a shy smile despite the events that just took place. He lines himself up and fleeting eyes meet yours to confirm he can proceed. Your fingertips graze his cheek with a feather-light touch and the two of you exchange earnest smiles.

Bob slowly pushes himself inside of you and the burning stretch that’s accompanied the other times is almost absent. Once he’s fully seated inside of you, he exhales deeply and shuts his eyes in concentration. You know he’s trying to focus in an effort to make this last as long as possible.

You brush the stray tendrils of hair that fall in his face aside and he looks up at your touch. “It’s okay, Bob. You can move. Just wanna feel you.”

He wordlessly shifts forward and this singular action practically steals the breath from your lungs. He’s so deep and it wasn’t until he reached that spot that you realized how much you yearned for this. This intimacy, this contact, this unparalleled devotion.

Bob inches out only to enter you again and you’re clawing at and clutching at the expanse of his broad shoulders.

“You have the sweetest little pussy. Being inside you feels like home.”

All you can do is make incoherent noises because his sinful movements are robbing you of your voice. Of your ability to do much of anything besides bask in this glorious session of lovemaking. He directs your chin downward. “Look at that. The way you respond to me.”

Watching him disappear and reappear over and over again causes your head to spin. You’re so wet that a prominent squelching noise seems to echo off the walls. Bob notices it, too, because he’s biting his lip and hastening his movements.

“You trust me?” he asks in a serious tone.

“Always,” you reply.

He takes your legs and places each one on his opposite shoulder. He then resumes his movements, but picks up the pace, and this angle causes your vision to blur, colors fading in and out.

“Beautiful,” he punctuates with a particularly emphatic thrust. “You’re so beautiful,” he gushes.

“Honey…honey,” you moan, a victim of his tender words in tandem with every thrust and twist of his hips. You clench around him and Bob shouts, unable to contain himself.

“Close, honey. So. Close.” His voice is huskier, tired, and indicative that he’s in need of a release.

You clench around him again and this time, he freezes above you before a final thrust of his hips that ends with his seed spilling into and dripping out of you. He’s spent and already gave you two orgasms, but this doesn’t stop him from getting you to the finish line a third time.

“You don’t…you d-“

“I made a promise to take care of you, baby. I never break my promises, especially when I’ve made them to you.” He bends down and kisses you, communicating with each stroke of his tongue. You’re important to me. I’ll always take care of you. I love you.

In the middle of your kisses, your third orgasm overtakes you and your release soaks his cock, the two of you a complete mess from your activities. When you come down from your high, Bob rolls over and pulls you to his chest that is now covered in a sheen of sweat, peppering your forehead with kisses.

“Thank you for that,” you whisper bashfully against his chest. “That was amazing.”

He tips your chin so that you’re face to face now. His eyes are soft again and he’s looking at you with such reverence that you think you might cry. “You’re amazing,” he tells you. He tangles his fingers in your hair as his eyes search your face. “Was that what you needed?”

“It was better,” you correct with a kiss on his nose.

A broad grin stretches across his handsome face. “Anything for my best girl.”

Several minutes pass before you speak against, the afterglow of your lovemaking too precious to interrupt.

“Um…Bob?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Did you ever turn the stove off?”

“Oops,” he says sheepishly, causing both of you to erupt into laughter as your naked bodies intertwine and hearts beat in unison.

@bradshawsbaby @luminousnotmatter @rhettabbotts @lewmagoo @sebsxphia @bobgasm @delopsia @up-thereinthesky @floydsmuse @roosterforme @ryebecca

#bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #international bob floyd fucks month #top gun: maverick #lewis pullman

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comfortless · 5 months

Text

Outside they say you’re alright (chapter 1 of ?)

🌱 PAIRING: König x fem!reader 🌾 CONTENT: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. fae au. blanket warning for death, violence, very light horror elements <— comes with the territory; all of this being said it’s still cozy and sweet here!!, not even remotely canon compliant, slow burn, eventual smut. chapter specific warnings: animal death (bird), implied ghoap, minor character death (but not really, hold tight!), non-consensual cuddling. 🍃 NOTES: this is my first time writing in a long stretch, but after finishing Meeting the Other Crowd i had to write this lest i wound up chewing thru my own fist. later chapters may have additional warnings added. not proofread. wc: 7.9k

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The season of turning leaves, of the harvest moon, of a waning veil; it feels as though the entire world calls for change. Packing to move feels less arduous when the very earth is moving along with you, shifting her shape to bring in the autumn, the winter. Autumn feels less intense in the city. Concrete and vehicles don’t naturally shed their skins, hibernate, bed down and cozy up by a warm hearth. There’s a significant lack of trees and wildlife, all uprooted and shed away to make room for more human comforts. It’s never felt like home to you.

It’s almost funny how in your desperation to be untethered from an unwelcoming, pristine and metallic skyline, you’ve managed to neatly pack away your entire life into a mere two bags. Everything that wasn’t utterly necessary or sentimental donated or tossed into the garbage behind your former apartment. You know it’s a silly thing to believe a new roof over your head in an unfamiliar town a few hours venture away will change your entire life, but just as the leaves turn you feel it’s your moment to follow suit.

Kate hadn’t made you pay anything in advance. No deposits, no frivolous faxing of paperwork, Kate had requested nothing but email correspondence, and perhaps that should have set off some instinctual alarm bell in your head. Yet, you had been in contact with this woman for weeks, and you hadn’t picked up on anything odd in the eloquent responses Kate had given. The woman answered all of your questions with ease, and even had the decency to ask if there was anything she could do to make the move more bearable.

You found Kate’s listing on craigslist of all places— a humble little ad showing off a barren room in a small cottage located in the middle of nowhere, some mountainside town down south that you had never heard the name of prior. It was impulse that led you to reach out, typing out a sloppily worded email in the midst of another sleepless night expressing your interest in the room and a few words about yourself. Kate didn’t waste any time with her response, declaring that she felt you would fit in well in the home and things progressed naturally. You had decided that you liked Kate already.

But nothing could have prepared you for actually meeting Kate Laswell.

As you park your little, beaten down sedan in the forested driveway, you takes a moment to calm your nerves. A six hour drive has left you feeling as though you’re in an entirely different world— around the midway point in your journey was the last time you had actually seen a town. There’s a sense of apprehension building, and yet it does little to fully snuff out the excitement.

The cottage laid out before you is off-white in color with a grayish-brown roof, blanketed by tendrils of hedera helix curling up each corner of the home and meeting in a cluster on the roof. The fence surrounding the property, wooden and worn seemed more decorative than any protection against anything getting in or out. ‘Quaint’ was the only word that seemed to come to mind as you step out of the vehicle and move to the trunk to collect your meager belongings.

And as the trunk of the vehicle slams shut, you’re met with the sight of a gentle-looking woman sprinting toward you from the cottage, a bright, welcoming smile on her face and an oversized yellow cardigan draped ‘round her shoulders. “So glad you made it,” Kate greets warmly. “Need help with your bags?”

“Oh, I’m fine. Didn’t bring much.” You reply, and for the first time in months, you feel your heart begin to settle in your chest. This was good. The stress of the city seemed to retract its claws from your shoulders the moment you take a good look at Kate and the cottage behind her. The woman is older, soft lines visible on her face. She was fragile looking like a twittering little bird, but there was something in her eyes that suggested she was much more than her stature. Maybe not a robin at all, but a red-tailed hawk instead. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and the clothing she wore looked comfortable, a loose fitting white blouse, jeans, and the cardigan you wonder if she may have even knitted herself.

“Well, come in then. We’ll get you settled and have tea, or whiskey if you would prefer it.” Kate says with a wink, taking you by the hand and pulling you up the gravel-laden trail towards the door. Sparrows are nesting in the trees above, clover, sourgrass and wildflowers springing up in a viridian and brown blanket beneath your feet, and the dirt feels far more forgiving against the soles of your boots than the pavement of the city ever did. This already feels like home. “Just tea would be fine.”

Kate shows you around the cottage with pride, and you find that it’s entirely deserved. The home is immaculately tidy, albeit a tad cluttered. The woman had all sorts of strange baubles and crafts lining walls and shelves, books of all nature (even an extensive romance section you had found yourself drawn to, Kate had laughed at the sight of your eyes lingering on the spines as you read the suggestive titles), her furniture was all clean and patterned. Your room nearly brings you to tears. It was still rather empty, just as the pictures in the listing had suggested, with only a bed, dresser and vanity furnishing it. However, in the windowsill sits a blue planter with your name delicately painted on the front of it.

“A lily,” Kate informs you, smiling soft as you gaze down at the little green bulb in the pot. You ghost your fingertips over the rim of it as you tilt your head to look back at Kate, both confusion and gratefulness painting your expression. Kate’s smile doesn’t waver as she steps to your side and gives your shoulder a comforting squeeze. Her kindness has already made you trusting, and it seems with every action she takes you feel more at peace, as though Kate were merely an estranged aunt rather than a complete stranger. “I thought a lily might suit you. It might still be early enough for her to bloom.” You whisper a thanks, returning her smile with one of your own. The thoughtfulness of such a simple gesture warms your heart in a way that you hadn’t felt in some time. You make a mental note to read up on plant care to ensure Kate’s gift doesn’t go neglected.

She waits to lead you into the kitchen and dining area until after you had put away your things and have properly seen your room. The rooms are just as well cared for as the rest of the cottage, every item in its proper place, the sink cleared and a knitted doily placed in the center of the range. The table is what catches your eye most of all though— a fat loaf of fresh baked bread placed carefully on a platter next to small serving dishes filled with honey and jam, a tea kettle and two floral painted mugs set neatly just beside the display. It looks more like a painting than any meal you’ve seen before, far too accustomed to quick snacks and dull fast food bags. In the city, working so much just to ensure that you still had your apartment to come back to, the time it would take to prepare something even as simple as this was never something you could expend.

“This looks… it’s lovely, Miss Laswell,” You breathe out shyly, taking a seat at the table, your fingers flexing slightly. This kind of welcoming felt so foreign, not that you minded it. Not at all.

“Please just call me Kate.” She says with a laugh, pouring out a generous mug of tea for you and sliding it across the table as she takes place on the opposite end. Her smile is infectious, warming your heart and causing the corners of your mouth to tug upward, too.

“Kate.” You say aloud, committing it to memory. You wanted to be respectful. This was her home, you were just a temporary guest after all. You accept the mug of tea with a thankful nod of acknowledgement before taking a small sip. Warm. Everything about Kate’s home and her demeanor is so warm. Even in the midst of autumn, there’s no chill here, only tenderness and warmth as though some invisible hearth roars in the corner of every room. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me.”

Kate hesitates for a moment, and had you blinked you would have missed the way her thin shoulders seemed to tense and the lines at the corners of her mouth visibly tightened. She parts her lips to speak, eying you carefully before… she merely reaches across the table to slice you off a plump helping of the bread, scooting the bowls of jam and honey in your direction.

You wonder if somehow your words had offended her, and you wished you could retract them, snatch the fluttering of your voice from thin air, but as quickly as that thought comes, Kate sighs.

“Well, I haven’t been entirely upfront with you, dear,” Kate begins in a soft voice, tilting her head as she sips her own tea. Your eyes widen in surprise at her words, uncertain as to what weight they carry. Your thoughts immediately veer in the worst direction— perhaps she wasn’t offering the room as long as the listing stated, and you had no where else to go. Perhaps someone else lived here too, someone dangerous.

“What do you mean?”

“The neighbors come around sometimes.” She says, and it almost pulls a giggle from you. Neighbors? You hadn’t seen any other homes on the way up here, and having lived in an apartment complex you were used to all manner of folks, from the loud, the strange, the elderly and standoffish. You give her a little shrug in response, unsure of what to say to such a silly thing.

“You’ve just got to understand how to deal with them if you see them,” Kate continues, her mouth pressed to a thin line as she regards you. There’s that sharp look in her eye that suggests she really isn’t kidding around, that there may even be a threat if you didn’t hold what she says next with the highest regard. You feel a swell of unease, but give the woman your rapt attention, not even bothering with the bread on your plate despite the way your stomach grumbles, quiet but demanding. “Don’t eat their food, never give them your name. Don’t thank them either, even if you break your ankle on a hike and one stops to help. No thanking them.”

You laugh. This had to be some silly joke, harmless hazing for the new roomie. Your mirthful giggles die in your throat when you meet Kate’s gaze again and her expression is entirely grave— gone was the soft smile and the twinkle in her eyes, and you’re quickly reminded as to why you thought of a hawk when you first saw that look in her eye.

“Kate… I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

She toys with the handle of her mug for a moment, watching as if to ensure your amusement has entirely died out before she graces you with another word. “Dear, I know I sound like I have bats in the belfry, but I need you to listen to me.” A heavy sigh leaves her lips after her words and her brow pinches as if she’s trying to consider the best possible way to explain this farfetched idea of her neighbors to you in a way that’s easy enough to digest without giving too much away. “Perhaps meeting one of them would be the best way to show you.” She mumbles as she sets her mug aside and stands from her chair. You remain dumbstruck in your seat, watching as she pulls her yellow cardigan tighter around herself before fumbling around in the kitchen to retrieve a small woven basket. Kate places two thick slices of bread inside and the little dish of honey too as you watch on.

“Sure.” You say with a quizzical tilt of your head. You didn’t want to insult your new roommate further, and she seemed deadly serious about this strange concept. Maybe it was best to appease her, and meeting other folks that lived out here didn’t seem like too arduous a task. Kate flashes you that smile again as you agree and offers the basket out to you. Your fingers curl around the stiff handle as you stand and bring it closer to your person.

“There’s a little walking trail out back that leads straight up the hill to the cemetery. Ghost should be there.”

“Ghost?” A ghost in the cemetery. How fitting.

Kate breathes a laugh and shakes her head. You’re pleased to see the tension has left her, she seemed at ease and just as sweet as she had when she rushed to greet you earlier. “Not really a ghost,” she explains with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You’ll see. He’s a bit… prickly at times, but he’s harmless enough. Just take him the bread and you’ll see.” Harmless, you want to tell her, is what most people should be expected to be without graceful description. ‘Are the others harmful, then?’, your mind supplies, as if trying to make you feel closer to a side character in some low budget horror film. Something was certainly off here, but you don’t find yourself questioning it further.

Kate leads you to the back door, unlatching a chain lock before unlocking the deadbolt and pushing the door open. The hinges whine as she directs you toward the trail with a pointed finger. And, with an encouraging pat on the shoulder, she pushes you out of the door. You can hear the tinkling of the chain and the thump of the deadbolt as she locks it behind her. You don’t know whether to side more with the anxiety building in your chest or the frustration burning at your stomach after finding yourself in this situation. So maybe Kate did have ‘bats in the belfry’ as she had called it. What woman would have invited a complete stranger to come live with her in the middle of no where, after all. But this was only your first day here, and you knew you had to make the most of it. Where else could you possibly go?

At least she was nice. The tea had been perfect, too. With a sigh, you decide to overlook her eccentricities for now as you start walking towards the trail. Your pace is brisk, orange and red fallen leaves crunching with each step as you meander up the thin, forested trail. The chill of an autumn breeze pushes through the trees with ease, shaking a flurry of dead leaves from dark branches to whirl around you, one landing gently on the shoulder of your coat. You pluck it off, twirling the stem between the fingers of your free hand as you walk.

The cemetery comes into view about half an hour later. The peaks of moss covered tombstones rise up over the hill, and you’re surprised to find that the old graveyard isn’t entirely overgrown. Some thorn bushes border the backside of the small clearing, trees towering so high to either side it almost roofs the area in entirely apart from a center circle where sunlight beams in. It’s quiet apart from the splintering of leaves beneath your soles and it dawns on you that you haven’t heard a sound not pulled from your own being since you started your short journey here.

You look around for this supposed ‘Ghost’ for a few moments, scanning both behind and above the tombstones. There’s nothing and no one to be seen, just a heavy silence and carpeting moss over stone that hasn’t been touched in what looked like centuries. You didn’t want to return too soon for fear of Kate not taking too kindly to it, you couldn’t run the risk of being cast out, even if the thought of her doing such a thing already felt uncharacteristic and outlandish.

So, you kneel in front of a larger headstone, fishing out a slice of bread from the basket and smoothing honey over it with the butter knife Kate had placed inside. The engraving was entirely illegible, worn away by the elements, and with so much moss encompassing it you doubt you could have read it anyway even if it hadn’t been so neglected. The bread, still warm and soft is nibbled at as you inspect some of the other graves, all in the same state of disrepair. A part of you wishes you had plucked some wildflowers on the walk, perhaps you could have given some restless spirit the satisfaction of not being forgotten.

A clipped ‘woof’ pries you from your thoughts, a deep and breathy sound that sends a chill down each bony knob of your spine as you whip around to face whatever had made the noise. You’re met with the view of a massive dog standing a mere three meters away. The animal’s fur was a coarse, wiry black, it’s eyes just as dark. It regards you with its ears flattened back against its skull, dark lips pulled back in a snarl, though it doesn’t growl. In fact, the creatures tail betrays this display of intimidation as it wags lazily behind it.

You break a corner of the bread off and extend your hand out to the dog, cooing softly to it and encouraging it to approach. The dog huffs, ears flicking forward. It watches you for several long moments before stiffly walking towards you, accepting the bread into its large mouth and swallowing it down without so much as a courtesy chew. Up close, you can’t discern what breed of dog this is at all. His ears were long and floppy, descending down past his maw, his hair looked stiff and rough almost like a wolfhound’s but it was much shaggier, longer.

“Good boy.” You chirp, reaching up to lightly ghost your fingers over the crown of the dog’s skull. The dog recoils with another huff, and for a moment you almost think you see his eyes narrow as if he were glaring at you— a silent ‘do not touch’. Your hand retreats and you mutter an apology out to the creature. The dog doesn’t move, standing still as a statue as it watches you fiddle with the handle of the basket and rise to your feet.

So, no Ghost, but you did meet a dog. That would have to do for now. You were exhausted from the drive, and more than anything you wanted to be in the warmth of a building, away from the volatile breeze and the eerie silence of the graveyard.

“Wait.” A voice rasps as you turn back to the trail. Everywhere and no where at once it comes and the feeling that arrives with it, so peaceful yet uncanny. Just like before, you don’t hear the dog approach, but you feel the cold of a wet nose press against your palm. His mouth opens, grazing your fingertips with his teeth as you whip your head around to look down at the creature, eyes wide and brows raised in shock. What?

You wrench your hand away from the dog, uncertainty sending a violent shiver down your spine. Surely the animal couldn’t’ve …

“F’me, wasn’t it?”

It’s not your mind playing tricks from the emptiness of the graveyard.

The dog spoke, rough and deep and accented.

The creature’s tail wags languidly behind him as he stares up at you expectantly, big paws placed firmly in a moss bed below with long, black claws curved into it.

“P-pardon?” You manage to breathe out, voice tight as your chest rises and falls rapidly with shallow, panicked breaths. This was impossible, you knew it. As a child you had spent countless hours trying to get your childhood pet to utter a single ‘I love you’ to no avail, and yet this dog before you seemed to find human speech as simple as inhaling or flicking his ears. The dog huffs, his dark eyes rolling, and you realize the animal does not simply speak, it finds you amusing too.

He noses at the basket, sniffling deeply at the food within before peering up at you in silent demand. You part your lips in a small ‘o’, lowering the basket to the mossy floor. The dog doesn’t spare you another glance as his tongue lolls out to lap at the dish of honey and draw the bread between rows of hungry teeth. He eats quickly and with all the grace of any normal canine, crumbs dotting the fur surrounding his mouth as he raises his head to regard you.

“You just… you spoke to me?” You question, your knees wobbling in surprise. Perhaps if he didn’t have the look of a cute dog, you would have been more fearful. “You talk?”

The dog tilts his head before sniffing at your boot for a moment only to raise his head back as he settles onto his haunches. The animals ears perk up, still flopping at the ends, almost covering his dark eyes.

“You smell like Kate.” He speaks, but his mouth doesn’t move. In fact, his entire body remains rigid and still, a graveyard statue blessed with the breath of life.

Something clicks as his words register. This isn’t just some extraordinary talking dog, this was the Ghost Kate had mentioned. Your eyes finally relax, there’s no more look of surprise, there’s no more unease. Having a talking dog for a neighbor seemed so much better than dealing with Mr. Thomson, stumbling back into the apartment complex after a long night drinking, singing his curses to the city, to the world itself.

Ghost was just fine.

Emboldened by this sudden realization, you reach out to the dog again. “Ghost,” you say with a hint of a smile. “You’re awful cute, aren’t you?” A giggle escapes you as you see he’s not moving away this time, but diligently sniffing at your hand. The dog pauses after a moment, flashing a hint of teeth at you. It’s not aggressive, you realize. Perhaps, he’s not the best with people.

“An’ you’re awful chummy, girl.” The dog snorts, turning his head away indignantly. So this one had a bit of an attitude, you let it roll off the shoulder. Surely he would warm up, talking or not, most stray dogs had a tendency to. You retract your hand and collect the empty basket and the dog gives you a slight nod in approval.

“I’ll walk ya back.”

— — —

The walk back to Kate’s cottage felt longer than the hike up to the graveyard. Ghost didn’t seem very keen on talking to you, despite his offer to escort you home. He padded in front of you with hurried steps, only circling back to nip at your heels every now and then if he felt you were trailing too far behind him. You didn’t yet know that there were other eyes in the forest observing the two of you. Each time a branch snapped behind or to either side of you, or when footsteps or laughter could be heard some distance away, Ghost would dart behind you to mouth at the leather of your boot with a low growl to keep you from looking at anything apart from the roof of the cottage as you approached.

After the third bite, with the cottage in full view you finally stop in your tracks, reaching down to ruffle his ears. “Why do you keep doing that?” You ask, an air of annoyance to your tone as you note the indents of fangs in your boots— the only pair of shoes you had even brought with you, already covered in drool and bite marks by some magical dog you hardly knew.

Ghost snorts, dark eyes locked on your face as he circles back around you. “You’ve got lead in your head or your shoes girl, which is it?”

You puff your cheeks in a slight pout, half a mind to knock his fuzzy head with the basket in your hands. “Neither,” you mutter, carrying on towards the cottage. “Stop biting me.”

Ghost shakes his shaggy head, opting to press his mouth to your hand in a silent order to get you moving again. You oblige, leaving the dog behind as you make it to the back door of the small house. You knock once, and already hear the sounds of the locks unlatching just beyond the wooden door. The door swings open, and Kate stands there in silence. face paled.

Ghost lets out a low bark somewhere behind you as you wave him off. Kate smiles broadly at the dog before turning to look at you just as he scampers back up the trail, no doubt back to the graveyard he had appeared in.

“I apologize, dear,” she breathes out, ushering you back inside. She looks incredibly apologetic as she takes your shoulders and turns you around to face her. Her tone remains a cross between stern and reassuring, and you feel a swell of guilt, almost like you should be comforting her rather than the opposite.

You explain to her that Ghost didn’t frighten you, and she settles immediately, a sigh of relief leaving her lips. You return the basket to its proper place, stored on a shelf high up in the pantry as you tell Kate about your interaction with the strange, talking graveyard dog.

“Sounds like he likes you.” Kate responds followed with a soft laugh. You notice she’s cleared the table of breakfast, only neatly crocheted doilies in place of where the two of you had sat earlier that morning. “He wouldn’t speak to me the first day we met.”

You shake your head in protest, gesturing towards the marks from his teeth in your boot. “He bit me!” You whine, earning another laugh from Kate. You crouch down to untie your boots, pulling them off of your feet, the woman kneels next to you and pries the boots from your hands with gentle, aged hands. She runs her thumb over the indentations with a hum.

“I should be able to fix them.”

“Really?”

Kate nods, standing to her feet and offering you her free hand. You take it, straightening yourself out. The room smells of lemongrass and lavender, the flickering glow of a large candle placed neatly on a side table housing a few choice pieces of fine china.

You watch as Kate takes your boots to her room, no doubt where whatever supplies she deemed useful enough to fix them lay in wait. She returns roughly a half hour later with them graciously repaired, and you’re uncertain of how she’s managed such a feat to the extent she has— no more indentations, no scuffs on the leather. They look new, something you haven’t seen since the day you purchased them.

You thank her graciously with a little bow of your head and you and Kate fall into a comfortable conversation. She tells you that there are many others like Ghost, that some of them look human but aren’t, that some are no more than groaning shadows or looming abysses of fur and sharp claws. Kate diligently reiterates her rules from earlier, and though you weren’t quite sure you believed her entirely about the dangers of these ‘neighbors’, you nod along enthusiastically.

“So, if Ghost is just a dog, why doesn’t he live here? With you? Winter gets cold in places like this,” you breathe out, seated on the opposite end of the floral patterned loveseat next to Kate.

“Oh? He didn’t show you then.” Kate laughs. She’s brewed another kettle of tea and she dispenses the amber fluid between two mugs. “I suppose he didn’t want to frighten you off, but he’s no dog.”

Your eyes widen, and you’re uncertain as to why Kate’s words fill you with dread, a cold spike through the chest that sends a shiver down each ridge of your spine. Ghost hadn’t hurt you, of course. He didn’t even seem to be entertaining any idea other than eating and walking you home. Maybe a bit pushy, but otherwise a proper gentle…dog. Your head tilts, wordlessly asking Kate to fully explain what Ghost may have been hiding.

“He’s a big guy,” is all she says as she takes a long sip from her tea. You open your mouth to speak again, but all of a sudden the scent of tobacco fills your lungs, swirls around the entire room as though it was emanating from the walls itself. You stifle a cough with your palm pressed flat against your lips and Kate laughs. Yet, as you glance about the den, you see no one else. Paranoia? But Kate seemed to have smelled it too. “Not me, dear.” She says quietly.

“… what are they?” You question, voice wavering. The scent of tobacco seems to grow stronger then dissipate after a few moments only to return.

“The good folk,” comes Kate’s immediate reply as she stands, clapping her palms against her thighs with an exasperated sigh. She tilts her head to look down at you with a small smile. “This one’s nice enough, too. Don’t worry.” Despite the waves of scent that drift in and out of the room, nothing else seems to appear. With everything that’s happened today, a part of you expects to meet with a sentient cigarette at Kate’s words, but… nothing.

— — —

As the days pass, you and Kate fall into a sort of routine. The woman will tell you the most unbelievable things with a smile on her face, and you find almost too quickly that everything she says is true. This place feels holy in a sense. It’s no church, but things of myth seem to embedded themselves into the walls, singing like a choir in the dead of night. You swear you hear Kate talking to someone some nights, a man’s voice booming through the cottage. They share laughs and the scent of a cigar ebbs and flows, but every time you’ve tried to steal a peek at this visitor, he seems to vanish the moment you step out of your room. Maybe you would think him rude if you knew for certain he existed at all.

Your mind tends to play tricks after the stress of leaving behind everything you knew, uprooting your entire life to come here. On the second day, you lose your car keys. You had placed them on your nightstand and you knew it, but the following morning they were no where to be found. On the third night, you wake up on your side in bed, the sound of someone breathing deeply behind you sending a swell of dread from the base of your neck down to the heels of your feet. Sleep paralysis, you tell yourself, but you knew you had pulled the blanket a bit tighter around yourself when it happened, stealthily tried to move your foot to see if you could feel anyone. You could move, it had been real.

It’s on the fourth day that your heart sinks in your chest. You wake to morning light flooding through the curtains, the chirping of birds in the willow just outside of your window. As you sit yourself up and wipe at your eyes with the meat of your palms, you realize the potted lily Kate had gifted to you is gone. Plants don’t just get up and walk, using their leaves to tug up their pots as if it were trousers as they saunter away on thin, wiry root legs. You feel like your sanity is slipping when you check the window and realize it’s still locked. Even though the lily was just a plant, you feel a sense of grief at the fact you couldn’t find it anywhere— not beneath the bed, in any drawer, the closet or… anywhere in the cottage.

You finally give in and decide to ask Kate, to which she explains that this event isn’t uncommon. You expected her to be upset (with what you believed to be your own irresponsibility), but she remains kind as always, tells you it will turn back up when you least expect it and ushers you to the kitchen to prepare breakfast with you, coffee, omelettes and bowls filled with blackberries.

“You could try asking Ghost,” Kate offers, “He seems fond of you, perhaps he took it.”

You bite back the urge to ask her how a dog could have possibly broken into your room and stolen a potted plant. The very image of it seemed silly, a beast like him biting down on the clay pot to, what? Haul it off to rest it atop some long-forgotten soul’s grave? Instead, you toy with the eggs on your plate, still feeling a bit strange about the entire ordeal.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Don’t be afraid,” the woman speaks up again. The expression on her face, oddly sheepish, doesn’t suit her well. A silent ‘don’t leave’ buried beneath her words, written clear as day in the sullen look in her eyes.

The trek to the graveyard feels heavier this time around. The dog isn’t what has your skin crawling, it’s the ever-present feeling that something just beyond your field of view is lying in wait, eyes trained solely on your form. You swear you can feel a puff of breath on the back of your neck a time or two, almost causing you to trip over a cluster of fallen pine cones and other forest debris. It’s silent, as always, and as much as your eyes scan through fallen leaves and bent branches, you can’t make out the sight of anything scampering about, not so much as a squirrel or a proud cardinal. It’s strange how empty a place teeming with life can feel at times when something lurks coaxing the other creatures to silence lest they fall victim to sharp fangs. Even you, you find, have taken to subconsciously adjusting your strides as to not step on too many fallen leaves, avoiding twigs as though making a peep at all would be a death sentence.

Making your way to the hill littered in graves only makes it feel more certain, that steady drip of dread telling you that death was nipping at your heels. Though, a part of you considers that’s just Ghost’s presence. Black shulk, a keeper of fairy mounds, a harbinger of death.

You’re not met with the presence of a wiry-haired dog this time though, but a man clad in black, face concealed by the frontal bones of a human skull with all but the jaw mostly there. Tall and bulky, the thin fabric of a tunic barely concealing the rigid musculature beneath. There’s a moment of panic, so brief the swell and fall leaves you breathless, before you realize looking into those eyes that this was still the dog you had met before. Different, but still just as haunted and weary. There’s a misplaced sense of peace with Ghost; a wolf taking to shepherding a lamb rather than devouring it.

“Ghost?” You call to him, and he tilts his head ever so slightly, attention pulled from whatever duty he feels that he owes to this cemetery. Some instinctual guardianship, perhaps, rooted just as deeply in his fae blood as the pride and fear in your humanity.

“Yes?”

The dog, man, whatever he may be doesn’t seem to have a care that you see him as he is now, his focus returning to the same tombstone you had kneeled beside the day you met him, thick fingers roving over the mossy stone. He’s not clearing it away, you notice, merely looking it over and it dawns on you that perhaps, in some distant past that this was someone he once knew. Had he waited at their side during their end? Pressed his muzzle to their palm in a kiss of death? Your fingers twitch at your side as your feet move on auto-pilot, arriving at his side before you seat yourself next to him.

Ghost smells of sulfur, of pine and morning dew. Not death as you had expected. He smells of spring mornings and hazy summer afternoons, scorched earth and vibrant meadows all in one. Purgatory made flesh, a passerby between heaven and hell.

“Did you steal my lily?” The words seem entirely outlandish as they spill from your mouth, and you realize how stupid you sound the second he cocks his head to look you over beneath the skull concealing the majority of his face from you. He doesn’t have to give you an answer, really, because you know he didn’t take it, but he still gives you the courtesy of a slow shake of his head. “Well, it’s gone.” You say quietly, drawing your gaze away from him as you look to the tombstone before the both of you. You can see it now, the name. Johnny MacTavish.

“Don’t know anything about it,” Ghost utters, his dark eyes remaining trained on you, but his hand moves to the soil beneath his feet. There’s a certain reverence to his touch as he splays his hand across the earth. This ‘Johnny’ must have been important to him in some capacity. Not a kiss of death at all, you realize then. Whatever Ghost was, he had the propensity to love, to grieve.

“Oh.” You breathe soft, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. A heavy silence hangs in the air for a moment. You hadn’t meant to interrupt him during such a sensitive time, but there’s some flicker in his eyes when you look up at him that suggests a semblance of gratitude that you’re here. “… you knew him?” Your force the question from your tongue, and Ghost merely turns his head to look at the stone before him, eyes somber as they trace over the engraved name as though he were reading poetry.

“That I did.”

You both sit in silence for a time. There’s a part of you that doesn’t want to leave him to haunt this place alone anymore, and a more rational part that tells you that he belongs here, tethered to this Johnny’s side for the rest of his days. Ghost seems less tense in your presence, almost soothed by the silence it seemed as his broad shoulders go slack and he pays his silent respects to this buried man by way of gentle touch and a barely contained softness in his eyes. The silence feels neither awkward nor unfamiliar, it’s as gentle as a breeze passing through. You picture what this man must have been like, to steal the heart of someone like Ghost, even in death. You don’t ask, despite the questions burning in your throat. In due time, perhaps.

An hour passes before you force up the will to leave him, and just like the last time, Ghost walks you home. There’s no more pushing, no ushering you to look forward or walk faster. The man would never voice it, but something about the way he looks at you now tells you there’s some newfound respect budding up in his chest like a wildflower.

The silence is only broken as you reach the door to Kate’s home.

“Somethin’s got its eye on you, lovie.” You whip your head around to question him, but find the man has already gone.

— — —

You return empty handed, noting that Kate’s car was no longer parked in the gravel driveway. A note on the refrigerator door reads ‘Out. Be back soon!’. It’s the first time that you’ve found yourself alone in the cottage, but you have the sense to tell you that you’re not entirely alone. Even the mottled white and blue wallpaper, some faux marble pattern, makes you feel as though you’re being watched, as though something you’re just not seeing is tucked away beneath those colors observing you with the eyes of a starved wolf.

And it’s quiet, it’s so quiet that it makes that unease grow. You’re repeating Ghost’s words in your head like a strange mantra.

Somethin’s got its eye on you, lovie.

Why didn’t he elaborate? Did he even know? Could he know?

The house settles, a floorboard creaks loudly and that’s enough to spur you to hide away in your room, at least until Kate returns.

Your room feels like small sanctuary as you shut the door behind you and let out a shaky breath. The calm is only interrupted when you notice the dead sparrow lying neatly atop your bedsheets, it’s wings spread out, feet tucked against its tiny body and it’s eyes closed. It looked peaceful, not brutally marred and yet the sight alone pulls a gasp from your throat as your eyes grow wide.

Something had been in your room. Someone had been in your room.

Was the dead bird a threat? A gift? You couldn’t be certain, but you glove your hands and bury it in the backyard, eyes carefully scanning the tree line every so often as a chill runs down each knob of your spine. You’ve heard mentions of the fair folk your entire life, in books and film, but those stories all felt so nonsensical and sweet compared to the here and now. Were they not supposed to simply be little people donning butterfly’s wings? Fluttering about thick oak trees and being birthed from flower bulbs? Kate’s ‘neighbors’ looked and felt the part of demons by comparison.

If not for Ghost’s existence, you would think this all was her doing, that perhaps she was more eccentric than you had realized. You’re scared, you’re alone here in the country, and it seemed as though these strange occurrences would just be your new day-to-day. As normal as a walk to the subway, as ordering your coffee from a local cafe. You pat the small grave with the spade once as you rise to your feet to head inside to wash your sheets.

— — —

You don’t remember falling asleep, memory only supplying you placing your sheets in the washer with a slight grimace on your face. But you wake, you wake to the dim light of the moon basking your room in a hazy, milky glow. You can feel the presence of a blanket covering your lower half, but you’ve hardly time to question how it got there at all.

A long, muscular arm curls around your middle, inviting in a cold, billowing wave of fear to wash over your bones. Ghost?, you wonder in silence, but the thought immediately dissipates as you feel the figure shift closer behind you, tucking you further against himself. Ghost was big, but this person was somehow larger. Impossibly so. You part your lips to scream, but not a sound comes out. You feel as though your voice itself has been snatched away from your throat. “Shh,” a voice hisses into your ear, the feeling of fabric moving over your face as the man behind you tilts his head to look you over.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I won’t hurt you,” the voice continues, somehow both gravely and light as he speaks. It’s unfamiliar, entirely unfamiliar. He sounds unhinged in a way your fretful mind can’t even begin to voice, and surely, he must be. Climbing into bed with a stranger, pulling someone you’ve never met so closely to you… why would anyone in their right mind do that?!

You manage to find your voice when the man lowers his head to the crown of yours, deeply inhaling as his grip around you tightens. “What the hell are you doing?” You try to sound assertive, truly, but it comes out as a small squeak, anxiously wavering with each syllable uttered.

“You smell like honeysuckle.”

Was Kate back yet? If you screamed would she come sprinting through to door to rid this beast of a man from your bed? Your thoughts are like a roaring storm in your head just before you feel the gentle brush of lips, hidden beneath some veil, against your cheek and the figure pulls away to settle against your pillow with a soft huff of breath.

“Your heart is racing like a little hase. Calm down.”

“Stop. Please.” Your voice cracks again. Through the dim light of the moon seeping through your window you make out the sight of a clawed hand resting over your tummy. Thick, black keratin gently splayed over the fabric of your shirt, grip firm but not tight enough to cause injury. Your breath catches, the stranger let’s out an airy laugh, tries to pull you closer once again. You’re so entwined that it’s for naught, you’re only grateful he was gentle. The thought of those claws splitting you open surfaces just before he shushes you again.

“I won’t hurt you,” he repeats as if sensing your unease. You can almost detect the dejection in his voice, as though he knows, knows that you’re catching glimpses of a monster, a sight he couldn’t change. It’s gone so quickly you think you’ve imagined it. His thumb moves languidly to trace a circle along your sternum, trying to soothe.

“What do you want?” Your voice was a low hiss, eyes darting from his hand to the wall in front of you. The courage to twist in his grip and face him wasn’t there, your imagination running wild with possibilities of the rest of him like stills from a horror film.

“To hold you.” Simple sentences do nothing to make his voice sound calm, the man is practically trembling as his hand moves to your hip to trace a pattern there, clawed fingertips dancing over a hint of exposed flesh. His other arm shifts to fit beneath your neck, you can see the taut muscle, the veins there as he moves it to curl over your chest, his breathing uneven and deep. The sound was familiar, the same sound you had heard when you felt the dip in your mattress a few nights prior. “Just to hold you.”

And this, despite how horrific and strange, is oddly comforting. Your mind has been plagued with anxieties caused by the unseen for days on end, and you can’t even recall the last time you’ve been held like this, if ever. So tender, so warm. The man behind you quietly hums the tune of a song that isn’t familiar, but feels as though it were just behind you. His fingers continue to delicately trace small shapes against you, warm paths of connecting points, some angular, some smooth. Despite yourself, you find you’re lulled into a deep sleep filled with dreams of fall forests, of unknowns with sharp teeth and fierce eyes. A song, dancing naked in groves, a man with eyes like an ice covered stream.

When you wake, you find your bed empty apart from your own person, and a fully bloomed lily in your windowsill.

#König x reader #konig x reader #König x you #konig x you #konig fanfiction #konig #König #call of duty #if i look at this any longer i will never post it raaah #erlkönig!König is everything to me

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teeth--thief · 6 months

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Google Drive full of book PDFs about Chernobyl

Link to the Google Drive if you don't want to click the title: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1kscKFciW6almJA8p-0sUQPO3c0A4AQYe

Note: It will be updated regularly - for as long as I'll be able to find/get new things =) So far I've compiled 41 books in three languages.

Just to repeat what I said in the first post: I'm open to any requests or suggestions or even PDFs themselves, if someone wants to share theirs from their collection. Message me, send me an ask, throw a rock through my window - whatever you prefer, just please, do it yourself because I'm too scared to message anyone, thanks. No fiction - that's the only rule. Any language is welcome - if you want me to look for a certain book in the language of your choice, I'll do that. If you have a book in language other than English, I'd love to add it to the Drive! If you have a better version of whatever PDF I've already got, then I'd be more than happy to do a swap.

Now, some of my reasoning, if anyone's interested: first of all, I think it's important for everyone to be able to access stuff like this. Think of it as a library, minus the "give these back" part. Secondly, I get soooo mad when people are like haha, found this super rare, basically impossible to find, very expensive book! ...I shall now keep it exclusively to myself. Ma'am, you're ruining the vibe and stalling everyone's hobby research but I guess you do you...

List of all the books (under the cut):

In English:

Voices from Chernobyl - Alexievich S.

Chernobyl Reactor Accident - Source Term

Chernobyl - Insight from the Inside - Dr. Chernousenko V.M.

How It Was - Dyatlov A.S.

(ENG+RUS) Chernobyl Booklet

Chernobyl: The Devastation, Destruction and Consequences of the World’s Worst Radiation Accident - Fitzgerald I.

Final Warning. The Legacy of Chernobyl - Gale R.P.

Midnight in Chernobyl: The Untold Story of the World’s Greatest Nuclear Disaster - Higginbotham A.

INSAG-1

INSAG-7

Interesting Chernobyl - 100 Symbols

From Chernobyl To Fukushima - Karpan N.

Manual for Survival. A Chernobyl Guide to the Future - Kate Brown

Chernobyl. Confessions of a Reporter - Kostin I.

The Politics of Invisibility. Public Knowledge about Radiation Health Effects after Chernobyl - Kuchinskaya O.

Memories - Kupnyi A.

Chernobyl 01:23:40 - The Incredible True Story of the World’s Worst Nuclear Disaster - Leatherbarrow A.

Chernobyl Notebook - Medvedev G.

No Breathing Room - Medvedev G.

Chernobyl Record - The Definitive History of the Chernobyl Catastrophe - Mould R. F.

Wormwood Forest - A Natural History of Chernobyl - Mycio M.

Life Exposed: Biological Citizens After Chernobyl - Petryna A.

Chernobyl: History of a Tragedy - Plokhy S.

Ablaze - Story of Chernobyl - Read P.P.

Producing Power: The Pre-Chernobyl History of the Soviet Nuclear Industry - Schmid S. D.

Chernobyl: A Documentary Story - Shcherbak I.

The Vienna Report

Chernobyl - Crime Without Punishment - Yaroshinskaya A.A.

In Russian:

Chernobyl: Kak eto bylo. Preduprezhdeni - Kopchinsky, Steinberg

Chernobyl. Tak eto bylo. Vzglyad Iznutri - Voznyak Ya. Troitskiy N.

Лучевая болезнь человека (очерки) - Гуськова А.К., Байсоголов Г.Д.

Чернобыль. Как это было - Дятлов А.С.

Чернобыль: 30 лет спустя - Кравчук Н.В.

Живы - Купный А.

Чернобыль - Щербак Ю.

(ONLY Pages 367-383) Чернобыль, 10 лет спустя. Неизбежность или случайность?

KGB files - pre and post accident (includes additional information in Ukrainian)

In Polish:

Jak to było - Diatłov A.S.

Czarnobyl - Plokhy S.

Czarnobyl - Sekuła P.

Katastrofa w Czarnobylu - Sekuła P.

Czarnobyl. Od katastrofy do procesu - Siwiński W.

#chernobyl #26th april 1986 #nuclear power plant #chornobyl #nuclear disaster #chernobyl hbo #you wouldn't download a car #file: special interest: chernobyl #Чернобыль #pripyat #rbmk 1000 #radiation #free resources #free books

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buckybarnesevents · 1 month

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Yep, this is an event dedicated to Alpha Bucky Barnes! The rules are pretty simple for this one, please see below the cut!

FAQs/RULES:

Your work has to feature Bucky Barnes as an Alpha. -» There are no restrictions on pairing. This means polyamorous relationships are fine as well, so long as Bucky is the prominent feature. -» There are no restrictions on the type of relationship. You can have alpha/omega relationships or go for something less conventional like alpha/alpha, etc. It could also involve no relationships. -» There are no restrictions on the rating of the fic. Omegaverse is not inherently sexual, so works of ALL ratings are welcomed and encouraged. Some examples of G/T ideas include: an act such as nesting, courting, purring while cuddling, scenting, getting territorial

Your work must be tagged appropriately. You must use the tag “Omegaverse”. As a note, “a/b/o” is considered offensive, so we ask that you please avoid using this terminology and just stick to: “omegaverse”, “alpha/beta/omega”, “alpha/omega dynamics”, “alpha/alpha relationships” or some variation of those.

All modes of creation are accepted with the following minimums: -» Fics: 750 words -» Art: finished sketch (inked/lined, coloured or shaded) -» Moodboards (9 pictures) -» Fanvids (2 minutes) -» Podfics (4 minutes) -» Other crafts (equivalent of the above - if unsure, give us a shout!)

There is no maximum to the limits above, and no limit on how many works you create.

POSTING:

Please tag us on Tumblr (“@buckybarnesevents”) when posting to get reblogged! Posting will happen ALL OF APRIL! You can use the tags listed below for the event. You can post to our AO3 Collection, and in our Discord server under the Alpha Bucky April channel!

-» AO3 Collection: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/AlphaBuckyApril

-» Tumblr Tags: #Omegaverse, #AlphaBuckyApril2024, #BuckyBarnesEvents + any additional tags you need for your work

-» Twitter/X: @EventsBucky

If you create more than one work for the event, please tag us in your masterlist of all your works as well to be reblogged.

EXTRA FUN STUFF:

As always, this event is low-pressure. There is no sign-up for the event, and no obligation to participate/finish if you decide to start. So long as you are inspired or enjoyed your time, that’s all that matters.

For those that want to make it a challenge for yourself, we have our bonuses! We have five “golden stars” you can aim for!

✩ BREEDING KINK/BABY FEVER ✩ NESTING ✩ PURRING/AFFECTION ✩ BETA CHARACTER ✩ DOUBLE MINIMUM REQUIREMENTS (ex: fic of 1,500 words, 2 sketches, moodboard of 18 pictures, etc.)

You can include as many or as few as you want in your work(s). This means you can create one work containing all of the above or separate works including some. Please submit your badge claim here: https://forms.gle/Bbmg9uM8DPff9qqj6

Happy creating!

#alphabuckyapril2024 #alpha bucky barnes #bucky barnes #BBE #fandom events #marvel events #bucky barnes fanworks #omegaverse #bucky barnes events

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thydungeongal · 4 months

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Hi there, I got started with ttrpgs after dnd 5e came out so I don't have any personal experience or strong opinions about 4e. Would you be willing to share some of the things that were different in that version that you enjoyed?

So okay with the caveat that there isn't a single edition of D&D I don't enjoy to some extent, this isn't really a "list of reasons why D&D 4e is objectively better than any edition of D&D ever," but more like "list of features of D&D 4e where I feel it distinguishes itself from other editions":

As much as D&D has always been a combat-focused game, where characters usually have to at some point rely on violence, D&D 4e is the one edition where combat has felt the most tactically engaging and where there are sometimes genuinely tough tactical decisions to be made. Part of the beauty of D&D 4e's combat is down to a very simple fact: combat isn't quite as swingy as in other editions, where a couple of lucky rounds can either make or break the combat in the characters' favor. If you lose in D&D 4e it's usually not the result of a single bad turn, but multiple turns' worth of bad decision-making and bad luck. There's nearly always a way for players to turn around a combat that's going badly. While I also enjoy the extremely lethal and swingy editions of old on the macro level, combat in them isn't as tactically satisfying as in 4e to me (but on the flipside, combat being very quick and dirty is definitely a benefit of those systems).

I genuinely feel that it does class balance better than any other edition of D&D. Class balance has always been tough in D&D: you've either had artificial balancing like "start Magic-Users weak and have them advance slower, but once they survive to higher levels they become extremely strong," or just poorly thought out "I guess one of the Druid's class features is having an extra character that's a bear and almost as strong as a Fighter, and the Druid can summon more bears while turned into a bear." That isn't to say that it's perfect: some classes had their growing pains (Warlocks weren't great to begin with, Avengers were good but not great) and some classes did outshine others (I'm not sure if this was ever the consensus, but I always got the vibe from discussions that Fighters were probably the best Defender), but it was very hard to build a character who could overwhelm an entire party or play rocket tag while everyone else was still playing D&D.

Many of the additions and changes to the lore and cosmology of D&D were welcome to me. I liked reframing the cosmic conflict as gods vs elemental primordials, as it felt like a return to the Law vs Chaos conflict of old. I liked the idea of devils as corrupted angels, punished for deicide, which also made them a great mirror to demons that in 4e were technically corrupted elementals! It basically turned the Blood War into a dark reflection of the ongoing conflict between order and chaos (as represented by the gods and the primordials)

The Warlord is such an amazing class. It is genuinely my favorite thing to come out of 4e, and the fact that it was never brought into 5e is actually the worst thing the designers of 5e ever did, even though they explicitly promised the return of every class that had ever been featured in the first PHB of the game.

Of all the WotC D&Ds it had the simplest and most intuitive action economy. Standard, Move, Minor. You get one of each. Standard action can be traded in for a Move or Minor action. Move action can be turned in for a Minor action. It's hilarious to me how simple it is and how 5e in trying to simplify it further by making movement something you have every turn by default and making bonus actions a separate thing ended up making the action economy more complex with its various if: then statements about when you're allowed to use a specific bonus action and how sometimes a bonus action you've used can limit the actions you can take.

#thydungeongal answers

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holybibly · 5 months

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Divine Rosa ❢ot8xreader❣

❣ Pairing: yandere!otx8 x reader

❣ Genre: Dark Romance, vampire au, angst, horror, yandere au, smut

❣ Word Count: 10.1k

❣ Summary: The moth always pours itself into the flame; what a pity that in the end it burns out. After the tragic death of her sister, MС tries to find answers to the questions she left behind. This leads her to a gated cottage town known for its luxurious rose gardens. In addition, there are also these mysterious men who manage all the affairs in the city. Too sweet, too helpful, too intrusive, and too in love.

❣ WARNING: only!18+ Themes of death, suicide, severe depression, stalking, blood, yandere behavior.

❣ Disclaimer: I don't support yandere behavior, stalking, or religious imposition. Themes include violence, obsession, possessiveness, and emotional or psychological manipulation. This book is intended solely for entertainment purposes.

❣ Chapter 1: Memento Mori ❣

Have you ever thought about death?

How many times have you asked yourself, “What will happen to us next?” “Is there something on the other side?” “Will we see the shining light at the end of the tunnel and the white-winged angels, or is it just darkness waiting for us?”

We constantly reflect on this, sitting in the noisy company of friends, frozen for a moment in cold numbness; late at night, when there is no sleep and gloomy thoughts creep into your head; on the subway, bus, or taxi returning home from work or school, desperately understanding the desperation of their situation; recurring days in endless solitude.

We should stop doing that. When the time comes, we will ask ourselves other, more important questions.

Nevertheless, we tirelessly continue to be interested in it. Again and again, until our clock stops.

Sometimes I think all we have after we die are flowers and regrets. In our soul, heart, and mind, every second, there are many events that do not obey any rules of formal logic. All that we lose at death. There is no longer the privilege of choice that we had in life; now we have to settle for small, choking on despair and memories, staring into our own reflection on a silver epitaph.

“Our love will stay with her forever.” It would sound like a dream if it weren’t such a dirty lie.

I don’t think love exists. It’s like a sweetener: we feel sweetness, but the brain realizes it's fake, sending out red signals warning of deception. But we still desperately crave this feeling, however painful it may be.

And yet, after death, our lives go on, and in some special cases, we find ourselves more alive than ever before.

It's our time to watch as the new story unfolds, and the usual roles are played by other actors. New names appear on the waiting list, and celebratory ribbons are given to the new queens. See how fake diamonds sparkle in their luxurious crowns. Despite that, you’re the star of this show. Your name is in the news, in the bold headlines on the front pages of newspapers, and every casual passer-by claims to have known you personally while you still existed in a small, closed time period called life.

So what does it feel like to be the only spectator in the front row? The main subject of general regret.

In our cooled consciousness, a sharp conviction of our own uselessness is born and settles. Friends we used to call the best put your stuff in boxes with ribbons of tape. A family that tears the remnants of your life apart, erasing your name from the family register with a sickeningly straight line of black ink. Acquaintances and colleagues, always smiling with an astringent sweetness that glues their teeth, easily remove your number from the contact list and open their palms in a welcoming gesture to those who came to take your place.

All of them, all these people close to us, express their false regrets about your untimely departure, putting a tick in front of the memorized phrase: “Ah, we are so sorry. She was young and beautiful.” Is that what they usually say?

That’s all; our race for popularity is over. The rules of good manners and standards of appearance no longer matter. Your thoughts, actions, and preferences belong only to you, and at this very moment, we feel freedom. Short time, but still freedom.

It is only a short moment until the lid of the coffin closes completely over us. And here we are, face to face with our past, alone.

As hard as it may be for us to admit it, it's true. All that remains for us after death is regret.

Each of us has our own. Someone feels regret for the love that he could not protect and the loved ones that he has lost forever. We regret the things we’ve done and the words we haven’t said, but most of all, we regret the time we’ll never get back.

The dead mourn more than the living.

Besides regrets, we’re taking flowers with us. Yes, these beautiful creatures are leaving with us to one day wrap around our bones, sever the grayish subtlety of our skin, and grow again above the ground, eating us like a parasite.

The flowers also symbolize the grand finale of our celebration. When the music dies down and the curtain falls, they will be the only ones who will stay side by side while the guests leave the lavishly decorated hall one by one.

Have you noticed how many bouquets are brought to cemeteries?

I like to think of it as a peculiar payment for our rest. Maybe death is as in love with these deliciously fragile things as we are, and that’s why they’re leaving with us. Silent companions who hold our hand as we go into the darkness.

The path to the origins of the great Sanzu River is paved with bloody lycoris and mournful lilies. Truly a magnificent sight. Ugly and beautiful are two sides of the same coin.

When I was little, Mina told me many different stories. Some warmed my cheeks and stretched my lips in a happy smile; others were gray, like days with incessant downpours. I wrapped myself in blankets and warmed my palms with warm cups of herbal tea, but there were other stories that I didn't want to remember until now.

They were sinister, like a spider hovering on a web waiting to be sacrificed. The words were sharp; they pierced the skin, leaving long, stinging wounds. Meaning has always been terrible; like a blade in the tongue, it could not be swallowed and understood. I was afraid. I was scared to death. I could not sleep in the light of a bright day or in the mist of a starry night; in the coziness of the blankets, there was no warmth or protection, and the mocking laughter of Mina made it worse.

My grandmother scolded her and assured me that all this was nonsense, empty words, and legends formed from idleness, but I knew better. There was truth in Mina's stories, and the realization of this only made them scarier.

The most terrible of them was the story of a young man in black silk robes. Beneath the black veil was a sensual smile, and the fox's heterochromic eyes were alluring and sparkling like stars.

Was he a nine-tailed kumiho? A black reaper holding death itself on a leash? He may have been a vampire, desperate and thirsty, but personally, I was sure he was a ghost. A past woven into a single canvas, thread by thread, stitch by stitch. I think I saw him once, during the Lunar Festival. He was the center of my little universe, the otherworldly and inexplicable, his long black clothes flowing to the ground like a waterfall, and the diffused light of the treacherous moon embraced his silhouette like a caring mother’s embrace.

I thought the world was dancing around him. The children were running around laughing and circling like butterflies in the round dance; the couple were whispering nicely, their palms intertwined tightly, as if it would save them from the inevitable parting; and the others were simply enjoying the festival time, waiting for the sheaves of colorful fireworks to explode in the sky.

His eyes pierced my figure so greedily and sharply. I saw hunger in them. A thirst. A goal.

And then I screamed. So loud and disgusting in a childish way. With a shrill screech, I rushed into the crowd, hoping to find Mina. The colorful ribbons in my hair rushed into the air, and the wind bore me the echoes of his sweet laughter.

He was mocking me. I could have run, but he could have caught me in a second if he wanted to. For a moment, I looked back to make sure that he was still standing there, covered with moonlight and a myriad of stars, but the long, flowing silk of his black robes melted like a mist in the night without leaving a trace.

Mina laughed mockingly as I clung to the lush skirts of her violaceous hanbok, sobbing, choking with tears, and pointing my finger in the direction where I saw the young man with the fox’s eyes.

After that incident, I didn’t sleep for days, couldn’t eat, and was afraid of every noise.

From that night on, I began to believe in ghosts. They are among us. We can see them, reach them, and hear their whispering voices. Science cannot explain them; they are not subject to it. They are mistakenly called fictions, twisted forms of memories that acquire real outlines and are indistinguishable from the real world.

Science calls it imagination; I call it another form of life. Ghosts exist. They’re always there.

The line between the dead and the living is thin and fragile. If you push it a little harder, it’ll shatter.

It’s true—life after death exists.

I was told once that death is like being submerged in water. First, the lungs start to burn from a lack of oxygen; the body gets heavier; the eyes are baking, but we’re still conscious; and the brain continues to function. Then comes the next step. Our body desperately clings to life, continuing to contract the heart muscle. Bam, bam, bam. Deaf blows on the rib. If you start acting now, there is little hope of salvation. No more than a minute. And then, after that, there’s the final stage. Clinical death. Smooth stripe on the monitor.

Our sinking is over. We have reached the bottom. We have met eternity in the muddy depths, blended with the muddy sand and pearls.

That may be true, but for me, death is no more than a moment—until the last flowers on the grave fade.

I never thought about dying. Until it happens to Mina.

The first time I met death, it was with my first breath. I was born with silence—too small, too fragile, and painfully quiet.

Then there were the piercing sounds of medical devices and the screams of doctors and assistants. I was taken away instantly and carried far into the sterile, transparent box. Death retreated, but it didn’t go away.

I was only three when my parents died. Mina was squeezing my hands and talking about a long journey. Grandma took us to her old country house, where secrets were hidden and hyacinths blossomed. At the time, the very concept of grief was not clear and tangible to me; rather, the feeling was like frostbite, when the skin was already dead, but the pain was absent.

So I knew death before I even knew it.

My grandmother died suddenly. Her life was cut short in an instant, like a thread brought to the flame. I knew it; it seemed long before it happened. That summer, I was going to be at a ballet camp, and Mina was the star of the school, and she was planning on spending time with her cheerleading friends. Just one call changed all our plans. Short skirts and ballet points replaced chrysanthemums and black ribbons. Mina was grieving, taking condolences, while I watched from the sidelines. Grandma's leaving seemed like a dull pain from an old injury rather than a sharp cut, and it was easier to deal with than I thought.

This was the third time I'd known death.

And then Mina happened.

The passionate, bloody, grandiose Mina's death. By closing my eyes, I could see her face again. White, sun-drenched, and blood roses, her long fluttering eyelashes, and scattered carmine strands of hair.

She was not at all afraid to die, as if this scenario had been memorized by her. Isn't it an innate instinct, a fear of the unknown, of death? We are frightened by monsters under the bed and horrors lurking in dark corners. We must be afraid of death. We are obliged to do this from the very moment we are born.

Mina was not afraid. She was never afraid of anything, unlike me.

Spiders, darkness, roses…

The list goes on.

When she died, I realized two things: one, nothing lasts forever, and two, I wanted to know what happened to my sister and what became her trigger. Big red button. At my request, an autopsy was conducted to rule out a drug-induced hypothesis that could have caused mental and emotional distress. Forensics found nothing in her lungs except rose petals. Mina literally breathed flowers. It sounded almost fantastical to me. Even her death was beautiful. Forever the first violin in the orchestra.

The case of her mysterious disappearance was closed. There was no point in looking for someone who was already dead. I asked the detectives to continue the investigation, but despite my desperate pleas, the police were adamant. My sister’s once-radiant life was packaged in a pair of cardboard boxes with a large-scale signature in black marker. “An Mina, case 117”. With each passing day, everything about Mina sank into darkness, but the mysteries and secrets around her only grew larger.

Once upon a time, I could call Mina an open book. It was easy to read—all the emotions, character traits, and habits—everything in it was exaggerated; there was no middle. Her love was never a simple hobby; it was always sharp, risky, and passionate.

Perhaps that is why she so easily fell into an obsession with roses; her feelings took a dangerous path.

I wanted to know who gave her these fabulous roses, who sent her candy and little sweet notes. There was something wrong with all of this, and not just the fact that the lush pink buds didn’t fade. No. It was a feeling, something very ominous, like a calm before a hurricane. A frightening, unnatural silence when all is silent and the air is gathering in front of the thunder's stunning storms.

There’s a long, unrequited tranquility on the other side of the phone line.

In the Japanese language, there is the expression “koi no yokan,” which literally means the feeling of inevitable love for the person you first met. This is not love at first sight, but a premonition of future love. So it was with these roses; they were not evil as such, but they were the inevitable omen of his coming.

True evil does not come in the form of a little red man with sharp horns and a long tail. Evil is beautiful—almost religiously magnificent. His appearance is divine and seductive, attracting the sweetness of the forbidden. Of course, the Devil himself was once an angel. And not just anyone; he was God’s favorite.

So are these flowers. I’ve never heard of people falling in love with soft petals and spiny stems. No one ever sings strange prayers for roses and dedicates his life to them without a trace. Those roses were bigger than they looked.

I think that Mina’s death was not accidental; it wasn’t suicide. Something broke her, violated her mind, and eventually destroyed her. Whether they were roses or people who gave them, that was my question. It was a secret hidden in the white folds of her lace dress, the dreamy smiles, and the names she spoke with such awe.

During Mina's funeral, I was approached by one of the lawyers who handled her legal affairs. I had to sort out the property rights and the lots of pages with numbers, dates, and places. Mina left me not only secrets but also a great legacy. As it turned out, in addition to our common apartment, she had several other assets in her possession, including her grandmother's mansion, which at one time she received as a sole inheritance, shares in various companies, and investments abroad.

I am now the sole owner of all this.

I had no idea where to start looking for answers or where to find the keys to the secret locks. Maybe I can find something in her files between the lines and the capital letters, or maybe it’s all dry formalities. So, going to the lawyer sounded like a good start to me.

How many can hide from those who command our last will?

Even so, I didn't want to be alone with Mina's secrets if I could find something in her belongings. I decided to call Soomin, who was once Mina’s best friend, the closest, to be exact. She was always there, having fun and crying with Mina, supporting and comforting when needed. Soomin was an integral part of her life. My life.

After the incident with the roses, they split up, not on the best of terms. Their conversation completely ended, but I still continued to spend time with her, and we often went to brunch at various gourmet cafés that Soomin loved so much. She was an elite restaurateur and had great taste, not only in the interior but also in food.

In a way, she completely replaced my sister. Soomin always told me, “No orgasm can ever match a stunningly cooked fondant au chocolat”. Yeah, I could totally agree with her on that.

After dialing her number, I waited for an answer. The wait was not too long, and after the second tone, I heard the melodic voice of Soomin on the other side. “Hello” “Soomin, I'm sorry to distract you from work; can you give me a few minutes?

“Sarang? I can’t believe you finally called me. How are you feeling, honey? I’ve been really worried about you, you haven’t spoken to any of us all this time.” In her voice, there was a sincere concern that resembled a mother's.

Soo has always been so caring and gentle. In her was the same fascinating brightness that Mina possessed, which brought them very close and became the strong foundation of their friendship, but unlike Mina, who resembled a raging forest fire, Soomin was a comforting flame of home. One was ready to destroy everything around her; the other collected ashes in beautiful vases and kept them as precious memories.

After Mina died, she was there for me when I especially needed support.

“Sorry, Soomin, I’m still trying to get over it." I sounded exhausted, even to myself. The days spent in voluntary isolation completely drained me emotionally and physically. I was the alarm of danger light for my friends. “You know, when she went missing, it was hard for me, but I was still hoping she’d come back. I convinced myself that Mina was fine and that she was enjoying life surrounded by her favorite roses.” It was the first time I had spoken openly about my feelings since Mina’s death. “I never imagined that my sister would slit her throat in front of me. I still have nightmares, Soomin, but I’m calling you for another reason, I have a little favor to ask you.”

“Sarang, you should feel like this; it’s okay. What happened to Mina traumatized you; damn it, it would have traumatized anyone if they were you. We agreed to give you time to get over it at your own pace, but when you didn’t answer our messages and calls, we started to worry. Eun Jung even offered to come to you several times; you know how she is.” She was anxious, and I understood why. “I’ll help with everything I need; just tell me how I can do it.”

“You agree too quickly, Soo.”

“Sarang, please stop. The only thing I can offer you now is my help. I can’t imagine how you’re handling all this, and if you need my help, I’ll be there for you. So stop denying me and tell me what you wanted to ask.”

“Do you remember Mina’s lawyer who approached me at the funeral? I think it’s time I met him. It’s all about inheritance and property, but there’s something else.” I started off insecure. “I want to find out who sent her those stupid roses.”

“Why?” in her voice sounded like sincere surprise. “If you were me, would you want to know how it all started?”

“Probably, but aren't you afraid? Judging by how it turned out for Mina,” she stammered for a second. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.”

“No, you’re right. Absolutely. I’m scared, and if things weren’t so messed up, maybe I would have done something different, but listen, Soomin, I have a strong feeling that I’m always missing something, and it’s bothering me.” “People don't change so dramatically, and certainly not because of the roses. You've been friends with her for so long, so you know her as well as I do, and we both understand that it's crazy to give up everything in your life for roses like that. Especially for Mina.” When I spoke my thoughts out loud, I was even more convinced that I needed answers. It really was crazy. “ She left so many secrets that I want to find a clue. I haven't told anyone, but the roses are still being sent. I received a call from the cemetery administration saying that her grave was littered with flowers, and they needed to figure out what to do with them. Not only that, but I also received several bouquets.” There was no point in hiding it anymore. If I want Soomin to help me, she needs to know about those roses that were sent to me.

“My God, Sarang, you should have told me right away. Did you talk to JiHo? This is an abnormal situation. What if you’re being chased, Sarang? I don’t know, it’s all so scary.”

“You have no idea, but I don’t think we should talk about stalking.”

“Why? Maybe it’s a stalker or serial killer; you should be careful. Please tell me JiHo is living with you now.” “First, I don’t think anyone in their right mind is going to come after me, and second, JiHo and I took a pause.”

“Did you break up?” she asked with an incredulous echo.

“I'm not sure if you can call it a breakup.”

“God, the bastard left you. I always told you he was a rare asshole and would run away at the first opportunity.”

“Soomin, let’s not talk about it, but if you want to hear it, yeah, you were right about him.” The memories of our conversation with my ex were still fresh and festering in my mind like a ball of worms.

It’s very convenient to hide behind phrases like “let’s take a break,” “you need time to figure things out,” “emotional vacation,” etcetera. No one wants to be a part of your grief. At this party, the cake belongs entirely to you.

“Okay, let’s close the JiHo thing. Tell me, do you know anything about who sent the roses? Any ideas?”

“Absolutely nothing; I’m stuck. There’s nothing that can help. No address, no sender’s name, Maybe we can find something in her files or stuff; I don’t know.”

“Yes, it’s possible. When do you want to go to a lawyer?”

“This Friday, if you’re free?”

“Give me a minute,” the papers rustled on the other side, Soomin clearly trying to find the day she needed in her diary. Knowing the nature of Soo, it was difficult to make out anything there; her records were always chaotic, and careful planning was not her forte. In this, too, she was similar to Mina.

“I’m totally free. How about going to brunch first and then to the lawyer?

You could use some fun, and I’ve always wanted to go to this new trending place. I hear they serve incredible fondant au chocolate, and the owner looks like God cut him out. How does that sound? “First, tell me, are we going there for the fondant or the owner?”

“You can’t judge me; everyone’s talking about how attractive this man is; I just want to see.” Soo softly dissipated.

“Have you betrayed your love of chocolate for a man? Kim Soomin is something new. Anyway, everything sounds great. Let’s go and see if those rumors are true, but if I were going there solely for the chocolate,” I smiled at that thought. I’ve really been lacking in communication lately. We should start coming back to the real world. “Do you know the address?” “Sure, I’ll pick you up at 11:00. Please wear something prettier than a black dress.” “It’s a classic, and thank you again, Soo.”

“You have nothing to thank me for, Sarang. Finally, I can call you like that, you know, Rosa, it doesn’t suit you. I’ll see you Friday, baby.”

“I think so, too. Until Friday.” I put the phone aside, taking a deep breath. The long stems of white roses had folded in half in the cramped bin. A luxurious wrapping in a rare shade of Solferino and embroidered topaz ribbons lay next to the bulky pile, and a small note was shrunk into a perfect ball that was also lying in the trash.

Whoever sent those flowers should have stopped doing that. I’m not Mina. I don’t like roses.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

How quickly does the waiting time pass? We count the days, the hours, and the minutes until the exciting event we’re expecting, circled by a thick red line in the calendar, but is it really worth our time, which life has measured for us?

It's so strange; the days are like bottles of sand thrown by a restless ocean onto a flickering glass bank. I remember this one, crystal blue—it smells like strawberry cheesecake and summer heat. And this one, made of gloss and pearls, is full to the brim with grave earth and chrysanthemum petals. I like the one that sparkles with diamonds from the royal frosted glass; it smells like a lover’s pillow, and there are memories of the first love. There is another, very ordinary, and therefore the most precious—empty and at the same time full. If you open it, you can hear the gentle wind whispering your name.

My life is all about memories now. I’m just trying to keep what’s left.

The rest of the week passed unnoticed by me. Time, like the rapid trains at the station, rushed by, and I kept waiting to see the stop I needed in this incessant turmoil.

Existing in space is very simple when it belongs only to you. I did actions that were memorized to the finest detail, simple mechanisms that gradually brought me back to my normal state. Feed the neighbor’s cat. Do the cleaning. Go for a walk. Check the mail. Cook dinner. Ordinary things to take your mind off the colorful bottles on the shelves of consciousness and the endless cycle of nightmares.

And I also noticed that at night, time flows more slowly. Second by second, replace the glowing dial until dawn. And so on until the ruthless rays of the sun insidiously penetrate between the tightly woven threads of heavy boudoir curtains, and the golden shadow spills over the pampered skin like boiling water.

I think I'm allergic to the sun and, therefore, to the stars.

Maybe the whole world.

Today I woke up earlier than usual. Somewhere below the horizon, the sun splashed in the golden ichor of the predawn twilight. Yoru stretched out at the foot of the bed, warmed by tiny drops of warm light that seeped into the room through the window. Last night, she refused to leave, stubbornly ignoring my presence and my tender pleas to return home to her mistress.

Yoru was my neighbor’s cat, perfectly embodying all its best features: a slightly aggressive, capricious, and having a little bit of arrogance. Despite this, she had a strange affection for me and often stayed at my house if she was in the mood.

Other tenants avoided Yoru, considering her a bad omen, and it was not only the polished glossiness of her black fur; she always appeared where death later came. I didn't care; I've always loved cats, and having one of them in my house was a bit of comfort. I wasn't alone.

Sensing my awakening, her almond-shaped eyes flashed with the sharp color of precious stones in the slits of the eyelids—a thick amber glow, not yet warmed by curiosity or playfulness. Yoru tossed and turned, clearly unhappy that someone had disturbed her sleep, arched her back and closed her eyes again.

We could lie like this all day long, in silence and some strange harmonization. I’m sure she’ll get close to me a little bit later, calculating her every move, until he presses on his heart with a peaceful, relaxed purr. Unfortunately, today was not the day I could afford it. Soomin will soon be here, and I need to get a little tidy.

Shower. Food. Simple things. Jars of creams and neatly arranged lipsticks Are there certain rules of appearance when you go to a lawyer? What dress should I wear—a deep neckline or open legs? How decent?

Should I still look mournful? Should I wear a veil? Two months have passed; are other colors acceptable? What will he think of me?

So many questions were spinning in my head while I was going, and it seems to me that whatever I choose, it will still be inappropriate. The story of Mina was not a passing affair; probably everyone in the city had fleetingly heard about her death. One of my friends told me she was called “Queen of Roses” because of the flowers in her hair, and I saw the headlines of the “exquisite death” articles.

The black color dripped venomously to the floor with the long hems of the dresses in my wardrobe; the gray, like a mist, settled in the loops of cardigans and oversized sweaters; and the ghostly white terrified me with thin transparent lace and ruffles, just like on Mina's dress. The choice was not too large.

A jacket dress on a naked body made of thick matte silk, a little pearl, and a high choker collar with long falling threads, It was one of the old jewels I bought in a small antique shop. Vintage trinket in the style of Queen Marie-Antoinette. I had a whole collection of such chokers—some studded with precious stones made of expensive jewelry metals, others woven with the finest threads, like a skillfully woven web. Hard made of steel and leather, and soft, like angelic kisses, made of organza and velour. JiHo once said I had a choke kink if I liked things like that; maybe I did, but my ex was too “vanilla” to close his hands around my neck.

After getting dressed and styling my hair, I sat down on the couch and waited for Soomin to arrive. What should I do now? I was lost. Turn on the TV or read a book? Look at the news feed on Instagram; be sure to look at JiHo's profile to see his new photo. Does he miss me or not? Is someone else warming up his bed now that I'm not around? Is JiHo still wearing the same perfume as before, or has he found something different?

Anyway, I never liked his perfume; it was salty like tears and distant ocean breezes and rancid like decaying wood in the dense Amazon. He called them gourmet; I could only agree if they were worn by someone else, say someone more dominant and powerful. Maybe I would even find this strange, gloomy mixture of aromas attractive, inhaling it from someone else's hot skin and feeling with the touch of my lips a steadily beating pulse in the swollen veins on a strong neck.

How long does love last? Three years or more? For me, it's a moment; for others, it's an eternity. I loved him. It's true. Very strong and very long ago. My love did not resemble the indomitable elements or the explosions of colored fireworks; rather, it was the fragrant bloom of wildflowers and the scattering of stars in the sky. She was comforting, not passionate, and I wanted to see someone like me, someone who could comfort my heart and give me tenderness.

Tenderness and comfort alone were enough for me, but deep inside, I wanted something dangerous, something forbidden. I was devout, one of those people who are called “good girls,” but was it really me or the role that Mina gave me?

Maybe in the far corners of my mind, my thoughts weren’t as good and right as they should be. I didn’t even want to admit it to myself, but sometimes when I woke up from another nightmare, I was glad she was dead. Dark, reckless emotions made their way through my cracks; they were moments of despair as my anger lifted its ugly head and oozed poison and blood. My cruelty and hatred had the color of roses and smelled like chocolate. She had fox eyes and a seductive smile; desire flowed in her veins, and strangled thirst was heard in her voice.

In my nightmares, I saw not only Mina and bloody roses; sometimes there was a young man in long silk robes and a veil hiding his face. He's just a ghost; I met mine years ago, but somehow he seems more real to me night by night when he comes into my dreams without permission. He crept into them like a serpent-tempter into the Garden of Eden, slipping away at dawn like the shadow of two moons, hiding behind a door I could never open.

Unreal in my reality.

I felt the arrival of Soomin even before her long nails methodically began to knock on my door. It was as if the spell had been removed and all the sounds of the world had rained down on me in an instant. Yoru shook off her sleep and whirled around at the front door, waiting for an unknown guest. The clatter of high heels echoed in my apartment, slipping through the cracks of the door locks, and the thick smell of ambergris and blooming jasmine at night walked ahead of her, warning every one of her approaches. If I didn’t know better, I could easily have mistaken her for Mina. That was my sister once.

The whole world was just a part of her life; she was not part of the world. To be ordinary—what a bad form!

“Sarang! Sarang, open up. I’m here.” and in fact, her long nails caught on the dark wood of my front door, causing Yoru to bristle and hiss.

I was absolutely sure they wouldn’t get along.

“Are you awfully loud? Someone told you this, Soo?” I opened the front door wide, smiling softly. “I missed you, Soomin.”

“Don’t tell me about it; I missed that pretty face.” She hugged me, which made Yoru hiss again, attracting Soo’s attention. “When did you get a cat?”

“That’s not my, Yoru cat, my neighbor from apartment 1366, that door.” I waved my hand to the far end of the corridor, where Mrs. Lee’s apartment was located. “I like her; I don’t mind having the baby stay with me sometimes.”

“I see.” There was an awkward pause between us until Soo broke it. “You want to talk about… you know what.” She was worried about this topic; I could see it from the way she shifted from foot to foot, or was it from high heels? In the light of the electric lamps, the steel studs glittered like sharpened spindles from the tale of The Sleeping Beauty.

“Not now. Better tell me about this restaurant we’re going to.” Soomin was easily distracted if you changed the topic of conversation in the direction of a subject of interest to her.

I walked out of the house, taking one last look at Yoru. The cat didn't even think about leaving my space; he was already ensconced in a pile of pillows on the sofa in the living room. If she wasn't going to leave, I wouldn't force her.

“Don’t you need to return the cat to the mistress? She looks expensive.” asked Soo

“She’s a purebred Persian cat, and no, Mrs. Lee won’t worry about it; Yoru can stay with me for weeks before she comes home. This has happened before.”

“All right, if you say so.”

I shut the front door and turned the key, permanently cutting off my escape routes. Today. I have to do this today or my resolve will wear thin, and I will once again voluntarily isolate myself in the comfort of blankets and tightly closed curtains.

"And so, the restaurant..." This was the beginning of a long story that interested no more than random passersby in a faceless crowd.

“You’re going to love this place, I promise. Everything I’ve seen on their Instagram profile is so fascinating, but you know what makes this place really attractive? It’s the owner. Eun Jung was there last week, and she couldn’t shut up about…”

For the next 30 minutes, I heard about this trending establishment. “ Angels' Share” is the most requested boutique café in the last 3 months on all search engines. A luxurious café with exquisite dishes and a magnificent concept.

But most importantly, it is, of course, divine, and Soomin, the owner, was absolutely sure of this. Hundreds of girls lined up in endless lines from dawn to dusk, hoping to see him, at least for a moment.

On your first visit, the owner of “Angels' Share” personally serves you throughout your interruption there. Your name is inscribed in the book of exclusive customers in gold ink. Their main specialty is gourmet desserts, and if you are not seduced by the angelic face of the magnificent man who runs this place, then the sweets melting on your lips will do it instantly.

Full berries of scarlet strawberries in white Belgian chocolate. Mille-feuille with fresh wild berries. The devil's food is the most chocolate of all chocolate cakes, and, of course, the angel cake has the most delicate silk cream of exotic fruits.

As Soomin told me about it, she was clearly having an emotional orgasm. Her arousal was obvious, but I could not understand what she craved more: exquisite desserts or the sweet kiss of the owner.

“I think he's a real angel,” Soo finished her rant after giving a fiery speech about the unique beauty of a man she had never met in her life.

“I'm not sure if it's all true, Soomin, but you'll be able to see for yourself when we get there. You should not trust everything they say. You're too impressionable and trusting.”

We spent the rest of the journey in peaceful silence. This is the type of silence when there are a lot of questions in the air, but each side is not sure when to start asking them. I know she wanted to ask me a lot of things, and in response, I wanted to finally share my experiences and feelings that I had been desperately hiding for the past two months. Nevertheless, each of us remained silent, as if afraid to destroy fragile comfort with uncomfortable words.

When the car stopped, Soomin smiled approvingly at me, as if to say, “Go ahead, my girl!” She was good at it because she was also a cheerleader like Mina.

“Angels' Share” was impressive at first sight, and not only because of the long line of girls lined up in a perfect line and dressed in intricate clothes like collectible dolls on the shelf.

A myriad of flowers, lace, and feathers, pastel shades, and delicate ruffles—all of them looked like animated sugar fantasies. Their cheeks were dusted with pink blush, and their inflated lips were accentuated by a thick layer of transparent sticky gloss with a fine sprinkle of glitter.

Perfectly well-groomed hair is arranged in children’s cute curls or intricate hairstyles with hundreds of sparkling hairpins and velvet bows. The variety of their images was amazing, as was the height of their heels. This place was definitely something special if the girls were willing to sacrifice their comfort for a couple of desserts.

Or it wasn’t about desserts.

At such moments, I especially understood how much we needed someone else's approval. The list of items seems endless: he likes cute girls, girls with an athletic figure, pale skin, and big eyes; she should not be boring; my friends like her; she has long legs and a thin waist; and she is a certain height. I wonder if he'll use a ruler to measure me. Big boobs or a nice ass—which turns him on more? What will our first date be like? That's right; should I call him Oppa or not? Tell me what you want, and I will fulfill whatever you want. I will fulfill every one of your fantasies. Tell me about your desires.

Seduce me. Surprise me. Love me!

I don’t want to live like this. I want to be who I really am, with all my flaws and imperfections. I want to be sharp and rude; I want to be cruel and honest; I want to look as I want, without colorful tinsel and layers of makeup, with cellulite, stretch marks, and a little overweight. That may be so, but it will be me. Just me.

The voice of Soomin ripped me out of my mind.

“I told you so,” said Soo smugly, purposefully heading for the entrance, circumventing a string of discharged girls. She was a lioness on a hunt, while they were stranded in colorful piles like scared rabbits.

If you do not pay attention to the girls, the exterior is fascinating. Gold, flowers, and crystal resembled the frame of a precious box. “Angels' Share” was positioned in such a way that the sun flooded it from all sides, creating around it a mysterious golden haze of sunlight and a dazzling iridescent play of crystals.

Everything was so beautiful, I won't deny it, but didn't the gingerbread house beckon the children deep into the dark forest where the wicked witch lived? Everything beautiful always has a downside, and someone knows how to mask it better than others.

While I was looking at the details, Soomin dragged me inside and was already talking to the host girl, who was checking the records for a long list of names. She also, like the girls on the street, looked like a doll. Her hair was long and shiny, tucked away from her face with an embroidered rim with Swarovski crystals, and her eyelashes were so lush that they touched her cheeks when she blinked. I would call her beautiful; she licked to perfection, which made it almost unnatural. She had a sweet, high-pitched voice and an overly friendly smile. Annoyingly friendly.

“Please follow me; I'll show you your table. Since you have visited us for the first time, Mr. Yoon will personally take care of you today. Please enjoy your stay at “Angels' Share.”

YooA—that was the name of this girl—led us up the spiral staircase to the second floor. It seemed that everything around was carved from pale golden marble, with the addition of luxurious interior items and thousands of flowers—or, to be more precise, thousands of roses. Snow-white, cream, pastel pink, and soft peach—the whole space breathed rose buds that stood in tall transparent vases.

The sight took my breath away, and I was inwardly tense. It's okay; it's just a café, not Mina's apartment. You need to relax and not start panicking; it will not benefit anyone.

As if sensing my growing panic, Soomin squeezed my palm.

“Are you all right? You look pale.”

“Yes, it’s all right; there are too many roses for my taste; you know, it brings back memories.” I smiled tortuously in response to her words. I didn’t want to ruin her day; she was so excited and happy when we came here.

“We can leave if you are not comfortable, Sarang.” Soo still held my hand, gently walking her thumb over my palm in a comforting circular motion. “If you want to go somewhere else, this is fine. I can always come back here later.”

“No!” came out too loud. “No, I’m fine. I can’t wait to try their chocolate fondant. You know I’m here only for chocolate.” She said the last part with me in one voice.

YooA showed us our table, although it was more like a small loggia separated by airy chiffon tulle and pearl threads from the common room. I could easily fall in love with this place if not for the languid, enveloping smell of roses and the beauty of their lush, perfect buds.

“Do you think the rumors are true, and we'll see an angel appearance today?” Soomin leaned across the table to talk about the owner, not so obviously?

“I think you'll find out about it now, anyway.” I couldn't finish my thoughts, interrupted by Soo's enthusiastic sigh. It was a sound of undisguised admiration that she couldn't hold back, even if she tried.

The reason for her excitement was right behind me, and I had to look back a little to see what it could have been.

Of course, all the sounds of delight belonged to none other than Mr. Yoon. In part, I could understand why he was called angel-like. His beauty was painfully perfect, to the point where it became almost terrible. His face was beautiful—almost obsessively beautiful, like the face of a stone goddess on a grave. Surreal. The skin seemed to glow from the inside, like molten silver flowing through the veins. He had long hair—ashes, platinum, mother-of-pearl—everything mixed on a diamond cloth. One silvery strand fell delicately over his face.

Are the melodies of an angelic choir in the air, or does it just seem that way to me?

The more I looked at him, the more his appearance disgusted me.

I felt flawed and unsuitable, like a puzzle that did not fit the picture; my heart did not beat faster with excitement or sweet agony; I did not burn and did not desire it as it should. Between us, it was possible to draw thousands of parallels in a myriad of universes, and none of them ever intersected. Beauty is deceptive, like a serpent promising forgiveness. It’s the pain of a bittersweet injection entering our nervous tissue.

What do we know about them—angels? White-winged light bearers, without flaws and ignorant of evil and vicious desires, are submissive and faithful to their ideals and purposes. Silent watchers who look after our virtue. But there are those who are chained and silken, whose wings are torn out with bloody flesh, for they are sinners.

Their name is the fallen. Unforgiven.

He was not an angel. He was one of them who traded the vaults of heaven for the flames and steel of the nine circles.

His presence was heavy, stifling, and sharp. Goosebumps ran through my skin as an omen of the imminent end.

I could have sworn that the second our eyes met in his eyes, the color of dark bitter chocolate, anger, and disgust thickened. So everything that is perfect collapses, falls, beats, and crumbles like the great walls of Babylon, kissing the transcendental peak of heaven. Like a Venus flytrap, his appearance was a clever disguise of vice and rot in a velvet cage of flesh, and this place is the very gingerbread house that beckons to certain death.

“Welcome to “Angels' Share”. My name is Yoon Sung Hoon; I own this place, and today I will make sure your stay here is unforgettable.” The voice flowed like honey smoothly and gently, I could melt at this tone.

“I am Soomin, and this is Sarang; we have heard a lot about this place.” Soo’s cheeks were pink from a shy blush, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was embarrassed. This man was clearly something special, if he could make Soomin behave like a schoolgirl in love with just his presence.

His eyes rested on my figure for a second, and I wanted to shrink into a ball under this appraising gaze, as if he was trying to probe me and understand how dangerous I could be. It was only a moment, and then a smile shone again on his angelic face.

“I hope you’ve only heard nice things about us. What do you want today?” I wonder what he is used to hearing in response. I want you and your love, and I will accept everything you would not give me. Will you be my boyfriend? My husband? Will you give me eternal love? Judging by the expression on Soomin's face, this is exactly what she wanted to ask him, but she pulled herself up in time.

“I want to taste your best dessert.” As they say, kill them with your sweetness. Where has my self-sufficiency and t.” As they say, “kill them with your sweetness.” Where has my self-sufficient and confident self gone? Soo, this blushing mess was nothing like hers.

“Of course, only the best is for you. And what do you want?” All his attention was now drawn to me, and I had no pleasure. Yoon Sung Hoon is clearly not used to girls not falling at his feet like moths hitting the glass. Our dislike was mutual. Our dislike was mutual. “What do you want, Sarang? I would recommend one of our most special desserts: a white chocolate soufflé with candied scarlet roses.” Sung Hoon was smiling, but not at all benevolent; there was something mocking in the exquisite curve of his lips, as if he were challenging me: “Come on, try me.”

Roses. Those damn roses again. It always came down to these flowers. Were they my path leading away from the dark forest, or would they lead me straight to the crystal coffin in the tallest tower of the castle?

Instead of politely refusing, as a true lady should, I have given a crude, hoarse, and utterly evil speech:

“I hate roses.”

For me, flowers are as beautiful as the pain of a broken heart. You can call me a heartbreaker. What will your heart taste like? I'm so eager to try it.

“My apologies.” Sung Hoon bowed his head, hiding his gaze in the lace of fluttering eyelashes and platinum bangs. With this simple action, Soomin once again made a barely audible, enthusiastic sound. “In this case, I offer you our signature chocolate fondant with raspberry jam and glass caramel glaze. Our clients say that he has a heavenly taste, so celestial that he can be sinful.”

Sung Hoon—there was something about him that disgusted me. His way of speaking, his appearance, his behavior—in general, every detail of it The most beautiful apple on the branch will always be wormy. I couldn't understand how he could charm girls in a split second, without any effort, as if it were in his blood—to cause desire and awe.

During our short conversation, Soo did not look at me once, inseparably studying every detail of the angelic man. If I make an incision in his skin, will the gold pour as befits angels, or will it be the viscous and black acid that Pandora once shed from her eyes?

I didn’t like it here. I didn’t like Yoon Sung Hoon, and he probably didn’t like me. How was I in his eyes—insignificant, puny, ordinary? Our dislike was mutual but totally unfounded; I just knew I didn’t want to be in the same space with him. I can’t breathe.

Guests always leave after dessert. I didn't want to linger, so I agreed to fondant. “Okay, I'll take fondant and cappuccino.” I looked at Soomin again; her thoughts were clearly elsewhere, judging by the bitten lower lip and flushed cheeks. “And matcha latte, please.”

“Of course, ladies…” With this phrase, he finally left us, and I sighed deeply.

“I think I'm in love, Sarang.” Apparently, with his passing, Soo’s brain has resumed active activity. “He absolutely justifies all the rumors about him.”

“Yeah, I can agree with that; he’s definitely something very special.”

After Sung Hoon served desserts and another 10 minutes of heated discussion of his appearance, our conversation took its normal course. It’s like ping-pong; the rules are very simple: move from one question to another, follow the theme, and don’t miss your turn. “How's the work?” “Everything is fine.” “How’s your boyfriend?” “You remember I told you we broke up?” “What have you been doing lately?” “Too much to do; I can’t remember, but recently I came back from Japan”, “Did you like it there?” “Great seats and great cuisine.” “How do you feel, Sarang?” Say it again; I didn’t hear you.

“How do you feel, Sarang?” Once again, you speak unclearly.

“How do you feel, Sarang?” It's so loud here, I can't hear you.

“Sarang?!” Can I skip my turn? I’m tired of this game.

I took a deep, slow breath.

“What do you want me to say, Soo? Something that will calm you down or something that should comfort me? ”

“Truth, Sarang. I want to hear the truth from you.” Soomin looked at me so carefully that it seemed as though she was looking straight into my soul.

My mind moved from one thought to another, not knowing what it would focus on. Truth. What is it like, this truth? She is like a beautiful, spiritually disheveled monster with a lesbian couple of black widows in an aquarium; she exists in an endless eternity of joyful decadence and an ecstatic nightmare.

It’s no big deal to tell someone the truth, but are you ready to see your own reflection in someone else’s eyes? They say alcohol is a liquid truth, but I think it's nothing more than a road strewn with bread crumbs, straight into a dense, dark forest. The more you drink, the deeper you go. Sometimes, through the intricately woven stems of condemnation and bitterness, subtle rays of understanding break through, like the light shed by the dual face of the moon. But this happens so rarely that the eyes themselves become accustomed to the surrounding darkness.

I’m still afraid of the dark and, therefore, of the truth. Now I’m sure I’m allergic to the world.

When I looked at the café, I noticed that there were many more people. Bunny girls with colorful barrettes occupied small transparent tables filled with all sorts of desserts; others, similar to porcelain dolls, put their palms to their cheeks, flushed with embarrassment, and laughed loudly, sitting in the same loggias as ours. The sounds of clicks from selfies and aesthetic Instagram photos did not subside for a second, as did the high play of voices merging with soft background music.

This probably wasn’t the best place for such a serious conversation, but was it ever the perfect place to have a heart-to-heart?

“Honestly, I don't know. Really?” I began, stirring the thick, fragrant foam from the cappuccino. It tasted like a first kiss—a little bitter, a little sweet—something that I would like to repeat again and again. “Secrets, secrets, and more secrets—everywhere I look, no matter what I ask, they only get bigger. Everything is as usual: Mina died, and the world is still spinning around her. Remember, I told you that they still send roses? I can say that soon the cemetery will start selling bouquets because there is simply nowhere to put them. Every day there are fresh flowers on the grave.” Maybe I sounded a little petty and annoyed, but I didn't care. “I may not seem like the best person on this planet, but sometimes I feel absolutely happy that I finally managed to bury her in the ground.” Yes, this is exactly the right moment; you are not mistaken. That was my truth, like salt and pepper, like ashes, like burned dreams.

Soomin shook her head negatively.

“You shouldn't talk about yourself like that, Sarang; you're not a bad person, and we both know it; everyone around you knows it; and even that bastard JiHo knows it. You have gone through a lot, and if I were you, I would have gone crazy long ago, but look at yourself: you are here with me, in the noise of the metropolis, and you have your whole life ahead of you.” She put her hand on top of mine, and the warmth of her body penetrated mine. “Mina was who she was, and neither you nor me nor anyone else could change her. So don't let her ghost poison your life. I'm not a fan of this entire Nancy Drew thing, but I won't dissuade you. If you want my help, I'm on board.”

I laughed bitterly, taking a sip of the coffee that had already cooled. There was something special about it—sweet, ice-cold coffee, like long-cooled love.

“Yeah, you’re right; she was who she was, but I guess we were wrong about that because those flowers broke her in half. In fact, that’s the whole point of the question: where did the roses come from? She was interested in nothing but flowers and some strange prayers. She frightened me. You know, at first it looked like another love of hers; everything was as usual—she talked incessantly about flowers and admired them, but the more roses they sent us, the less she was interested in the rest of the world. Mina withered and languished while the roses bloomed. I've never seen anyone come to our house or meet someone. Nothing, just roses—hundreds of roses. You just can't imagine how many there were.”

“You know, I don’t really want to imagine it. Okay, let’s say you find something in her files. What’s next? You really need this? Maybe we should just let go, you know, scatter the ashes to the wind.” Breaking off a slice of angel cake, Soo mooed in satisfaction as the dessert was in her mouth. “Mmm, I love sweets. Who handled her legal affairs? If this is one of the free lawyers, we should hurry; the queues in these cantors are worse than here.”

“No, no, we're not going to a free advocacy team. Wait a minute.” I pulled out of my purse a small card from a thick black cardboard and handed it to Soomin. Transparent gloss on a soft matt surface looked refined and very expensive, just like the business card itself. “Silver & Black LTD” was the name of the law firm that handled Mina’s affairs.

“You’re kidding me!” She exclaimed, almost burying her face in her business card. “That’s “Silver and Black.” How did she manage to work with them? They’re one of the most elite law practitioners in all of Seoul, and I’d say across Asia. Their lawyers are real sharks in their cases; for the existence of their practice, they have not lost a single case, and the bills for their services are simply cosmic. How does she have so much money? Sarang, did you inherit her sugar daddy too? If that's the case, ask for more; you're much more expensive than a cheerleader, and nerds are always sexier and more desirable.”

“Stop saying that like I’m a whore. I don’t know where she got the money, but are their services so expensive?” My surprise was obvious. Our family was not poor, but we were not rich; we occupied that golden layer in the class hierarchy where we could just live without any worries about tomorrow. Mina and I were well provided for, but judging by Soomin’s reaction, “Silver and Black” could afford only filthy rich and influential people.

“If I were to be offered the opportunity to trade my virginity for cooperation with them, I would have done it without hesitation. Are you sure we have an appointment with them?”

“Soomin!” Frankness was always such a simple thing for her that I felt awkward at such moments. “Of course, I called them yesterday to confirm the details.”

“What? The cult of virginity is overrated anyway, but now I'm much more interested in it.”

“Let me think, more amazing men?” “How did you guess?” Soo smiled sweetly, shoving another piece of dessert into her mouth. I snorted; I couldn’t help it. "Hey, don’t laugh! You should also consider new options, since you and JiHo have broken up. Listen to me, little Sarang, nothing will warm your bed better than a hot big boy."

"Ew, Soomin." She just laughed back.

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